jupitersterrain four

bolt from below 

brother burns fingers singeing
around the blackened foil
in his old oiled smack jacket
my face is soaked and stinging
he was the core of social liquor
the place where everyone let loose
the only master of ceremonies
the toons dripped from his strings
memory warped and distorted
like hot wax on an old 45
empty chairs in the kitchen
where he used to sing
nobody seems to remember
when you're out'n'down
yesterday's clown
sitting out in the dirty rain
it relieves his pain
and might shorten his life
days spend befriending
the chosen dealers now
I stand on the other shore
recall a childhood nightmare
my hearth is cold

November 2005
why would they alter that one