There's no pilot light the singer said,nbut nights like these still burn. I laidnacross newspapers ripped and spreadnand stabbed like signposts through my bednuntil a symphony of laughter spednup to sound like violinsnlured me to the open window.nnI stared through buildings painted bluenand bathed in buttermilk. The moonnhovered like an empty roomnI could have spent a lifetime in.nBut even stronger was the cobblestonenchorus, like a siren's moanncrying give the street your skin, kid.nnBut my smokestack eyes withholding rain, opposenanother burning wheatfield full of crows.nnThe magnifying glass is lost or misplaced,nso take this portrait from outer space.nSee how the monument swallows the speck of dustnwhile the weathervane powders the roof with rust,nuntil the whole junkyard's riddled ruinnand the story of the heart's communionnis like the leaf of dew that tried to drink the typhoon?nnA bullet backed out of a gunna ray of light pierces the sun.nRewind the film and see the frightened runnstraight into the den of the crouching lion,nholding hands and smiling. Oncenyou're there you pray for lightning.nLazarus, you are free now to die again.nnAnd cassocks flowing from head to toe, concealnthe bruises and the burns from where we kneel.nnA match scratching a wall devoursnthe darkness for a moment and tiresnor so many past flickering futuresnand has the decency to disappear,nwhile thieves and aimless gypsy bandsnkeep and polish the queen's silver handsnsaying the life we cannot touch, we choose to feel.nnWar is the horror Peace anesthetized,nthe oracle's iron lungs decried.nThe slings and stones we keep asleep inside.nMeanwhile headless corpses take no sides,nspastic banners carve up the skies,nand the translator's gifted tongue decidesnjust where the difference between two opposites lies.nIs it in the pocket mirror where every tear is rehearsednor in the soaring bird's eye view of the scorched earth?nnI thought if I could curl into a ball and rollnout of my skin I'd discover a soulninstead of a scaffold around an impulse.nI looked for a target but found a scarecrownwhich swallowed anything I fet it wholenuntil I had nothing left but vestigalnmemories, redolent and rainsoaked.nnAnd that's when I finally reached the eggnwhere I couldn't think or feel or begnto be reformed or reborn. InsteadnI pecked, lurched, cracked, clawed, and blednand emerged blind and raw to feed once morenon a mystery unfulfillednwhere every answer waves within a sea of riddles.nnAnd the cicadas forever throb on the fringes of the lensnwhile I dance upon this shifting pile of skeletons.