The neon-lighted night glitters--the price of gold also soars---let me juxapose to flowers--I think of Joanie an artist/bar maid I loved. A suicide, she fell on a heart I was trying to sew up. I wrote of her as if she was skating on glass. She never loved me-I was just sex--she was fixated on an older man, as old as the father she never knew. She had a breakdown and the meds they gave her destroyed her sense of proportions. So no more art, no more love, no more Joanie. I was way gone by then.Juxapose. In broken bar room toilets the hot house tulips are up. The neon-lighted night. Let the clouds shine with their little scars.