Bundles clustered in the flickering head,
in the light-weight feathered-skull they multiply.
In this he saw hope for the hair-twirlers,
for muttering mad shufflers in day-lit hallways
shaking (his) tethered, floppy long-sleeved hands.
Once, in the green, when the graffiti was different,
once, under a hundred or so brushed layers of paint,
from The City in brick red and from the lost boys
in green and gold and rainbows spilling over,
daddy died looking for the caves under Manhattan.
Where the Indians once lived
where the junkies shot up and the cars rusted
or burst into flames as he ran from a million voices
where the birds always will sing and fly it turned out
father was right, not paranoid
Demons in the dark do multiply.