The city sleeps with the lights on.
The insomniac wants it to be morning.

I wear a suicide belt I detonate
And make my City of Light 
A coprophagic tomb. 

I turn into the man they photograph.
I think I’ll ask him for his autograph.

You wonder who in the world are the people who actually use stool cards.
They’re the very same scum who sell drugs to little kids in school yards.
The doctor tells you do this, do that.

Putting my lenses in, I see No Man’s Land in the mirror—
Which makes me think of times in Tokyo so long ago 
When, on some subway station platform, in a crowd,

I was walking down Roupell Street,
Avoiding all the drunks.
I live in a little house 

Snow is falling on Broadway 
Through weeping willows of fog.
I know that my Redeemer liveth  

You’re born that way—or else you’re not.
It’s snowing—or else it’s hot.
It’s like the strangeness, that’s also natural,

Excuse me a minute.
The angel is black as a crow.

And says huskily, “Don’t tell anybody
I said that your carotid is extraordinary.”