Nostro

He stays up late
with his crystal ball of theories
while I fall off to sleep.
The music, still creeping,
feeds him with one hand
as it closes my eyes
with another.  Mad America
hurt him into prophesy.
He shakes with the grip
of an all-night king,
All Night and Every Night
his swirling, yellow motto.
He’s read my palms,
dealt my cards, and
taken my confession—
I pray thee, Nostro,
lead me on a joint venture
through the halls of four a.m.;
Ring this rufous mind
with your crepuscular glassen echo;
Predict my rise in the west
despite the smoke and mirrors;
Help me to politicize
the last dollar spent on blood-shot war.
And give of your wisdom after Christmas.
Especially after Christmas.