Senile Corridors

                               I had all of my limbs once in a day. Laboring in the canyons luminous circles. Shadows graced moonlit perimeters down upon the granite carpet. My arms went completely numb in the afternoon (although I could see them). Sweat circled around my childish brow. My elbows bent and wrinkled in the obtuse year of the pilgrim. Boulders capsized my youth onto present anguish. Awakening in painful realities, a frustrated tormented existence. Walked upon dry cement pavements leading closer to elimination arenas.
                              He, the gladiator that flourished bloom, pervading the boys vision in senile corridors. The ghost that inhabits Sundays lacquered candles and pillared walls that bend through psychedelic delusion. Young angels sweep their loveliness under adorned rugs of cough syrup lingo. The saloon at the bowling alley, the middle aged barmaid, the Jersey whore with too much make up winks her black mascara feline eyelids at me, yielding the assumption that I understand her signal. I do, but I am afraid. I am petrified of her in the daytime womb. Her daily afternoon saga of showers and rubbing alcohol.
                             It is the threatening morning that wounds me into relentless submission. My death is timely and sudden in atrophied timelines and boring melting pots. Poets in the rainy street season will shrug their slumping shoulders, bewildered at free money and newspaper headlines, below the running facet skies of Brooklyn. My soul emerges downward through bathtub drainpipes. Shingles on the roof grow sharp at the corners, then sleeping at midnight with relief, their work is done. The staggering drunks at  streetlight intersections, the meaty cops that want to go home to their refrigerated beer and television, they want to pump their penis into well furnished bathroom aromas.
                              We'd sit on her aunts sofa amidst the mid 80's, in a southern Philly row-home.Watching soap operas in sultry afternoons, sipping Diet Pepsi through bendy straws. I played hooky one too many times. I pay the price later on, dreaming fantasies of suburban housewives that I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.