In the faith salons they do your nails for fifteen dimes a
bottle, where
someone in the darkness waits for your arrival. In the Faith
Salons the
deals are struck, making heroes out of dust and clay. The man
gives you
sixty seconds on the dollar, and walks away. In the middle of
your book
of ages you write your dreams down to the letter. Tired of
second
chances and singles dances. Her robes were purple velvet
feeling like
the king of Cairo. Prisoners to fools and slaves to paper gods.
In the
faith salons....The books of massacres and natural disasters,
beguiled by
belligerence learned from the dancing masters. The child on the
train
was a mimic mime of babble. The mother knitted sweaters that
the child
would unravel. In the faith salons....They have medicines for
madness,
madness caused by drugs, something for your headache and a spray
to kill
the bugs. You walk the catwalk of polyphony, And your charades
of
destiny. To whose myth of creation will you finally fall upon
your knees
and cry for forgiveness denied. In the faith salons....She'd
appear like
a belligerrent ghost in my dreams, in my living room, all torn
apart and
blue, where the ribbons flew and the sky tore like a sheet of
rain, of
dust. Peace is a distant mirage where the only truth is the
path and
chance the only landmark in the desert. Sleeping in doorways.
Underneath the falling frescoes, She'd say, It's your pain. In
the faith
salons....
