Symbiosis?
Down the empty Cleveland streets
bereft of music shadowed by the glass and plastic hall
the ghost of Alan Freed
hurries to rendezvouz with bag men of time
while I wrestle with my soulless self
in sterile clamor of now
searching in vain the visored eyes
for life some shred of poetry some liquid fire
to ignite the sky
but the dark remains
swallows every flash faint echo of real music
and Cleveland slumbers deep in rhythm
I awake to a hollow shell of artifacts
my ghost trembling to return.
