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My friend is tracking his personal ratio of humanity to the divineIt's held steady at infinity for a month or two now, in spite of all his tryingTo suppress it, or correct it, with those temporary tattoosThe prayers keep falling off his skin, the wolves just eat the moonsHe has to try and amputate, that'll do it, he remembersYou seeming to imply that course when you saw him in NovemberThere's a panther crooning Virgil at the gates of the Emerald CityHe'd kill the guards and storm the place but his singing is too prettyWe're in Sonora sitting around a napkin holder in the Serbian Christmas CafeListening to the broadcast beamed through the glowy desert rainWe're waiting for him to trail off, to hear the city burned to embers,To hear that messenger manifest his heavenly NovemberPhilomene sits and dreams of holodecks filled with nightingales in flightElectrons on their tongues their voices banded through with lightShe is lovely, sweet and stranded, like a balsam in the snowA revolver in her off hand like a silhouetted gullI love her but she talks too much, so I'm flying home to DenverI have to drink out all the things I heard about your trip there in November From Letras Mania