And so the book opened

I'm crossing street corners, and I'm crossing passersby, and mentally concrete dreams melt in skulls as I wash away from the hard top, and a drunken man stumbles in the lush black night's sidewalk with a beer hat clasped over his head. There are ghosts having sex on my wall and I pry the words from a bleeding socket. I can't see everything, but this is enough, this is enough to make each rain drop turn to an ambulance. It's raining help outside. No longer will you see ads portraying their detergent as spring fresh, no, but aid-fresh. Keeping it together may just save you. Putting it to paper may conquer the messiah.