Brian Wilson Poem by Uriah Hamilton

At dusk
we held a ceremony
for the ancient dead
and the currently bewildered
and offered incense
in the back poverty alleys
of despair.

I'm a legend
of lost dreams,
pointless schemes,
and empty prayers,
and I've attended
the temple
of the permanently sad.

There's a community of tears
that weep beneath streetlights
in lonely cities dusted with moon
and littered with broken stars.

I've tried to describe God
with my disbelieving bent
as the last straggler
among the homeless
giving thanks for a crust of bread.

I've got to get out,
the poetry books
have all been read,
I have to cruise
down any avenue
the radio will lead me.

If I can find Brian Wilson,
I know I'll survive till dawn.