Fireplace rages, like my cigarettes,
And the ashes fall like snow, like snow,
Mixing with my tears to make this ink
And I, not being one to waste,
Scratch out words in the moving dust.

I’ve got this invitation to the Resurrection;
It says, “RSVP,” but I’m not a man
Who answers mail, especially when
It just looks like another bill,
So I add it to the sacrificial fire

Another thing gone, another thing gone.

She dances, face grave, and waves
Her graceful tattooed arms over her head
In rhythm to the rushing rivers of the guitars;
There’s a rose in her hair as old as Delta Dawn’s
And it catches the light as her heavy heels
Stomp up the dust from off the tavern
Table; hands are clapping, clap-clapping, clapping
Syncopated beats like the pistons
Of some doomed machine,
Like the last moments of the Sacred Heart of the world
Just before, just before, just before…

They’re mailing out invitations
To the fine quicksilver Apocalypse –
It’s coming quickly, quickly to a side street near you,
Somewhere near where the woman with the face so grave
Bashes out Morse Code secret messages on a tabletop,
All the world’s sad history inked into her skin,
Waving for all to see or flee.
And the guitars play into the night, into the night
And the clapping hands say, “Never, never, never,”
And I write what I have to say in the shifting dust,
Waiting on my take-out order of Holy Communion blood,
But I’m going to have to settle for stale water
In a white Styrofoam cup.

“Another thing gone,” the Spanish lady whispers,
“Another thing gone.”

The Outer Darkness is darker than I thought it’d be,
The End of the World is lonelier than advertized;
No one here but me and the gypsies dancing
And the fireplace’s rage waiting for its turn,
Waiting to consume the tavern table, the tavern floor,
The tavern, consume, consume and spread
Like the rushing wind in the autumn trees,
Bringing the sound of clicking high heels
In the crackling of the embers of the world,
And then, and then, and then
What will be left, dear Lady?  What will remain
When the fire consumes itself (what then?)
And God goes silent (what then?)
And His holy gypsy angels put away their instruments
And move on up the road?

Another thing gone, my love. Another thing gone.