It's three in the morning.

Angels of.....

Angels don't come in flopping wings,
Or covered in eyes.

They came sitting on the driver's seat
of red Chevrolet convertibles.

With dangerously good sight,
They picked you up a mile away.
And drive you to the promised land of
peak lapel and wine and piano and a well reaching down to the 5th ring of Inferno for observation.

It was made just for you,
and thousands like you.

They'll teach you how to dance,
Bleach your hair platinum.
Tattoo your arm full of, blood red Latins.

They'll read poetry and have long sex with you. Not that you'd remember in the next morning.

There's a library by the parking lot.
You won't find the Bible there,
But you sure as xxxx can find La Nausée.

Here,
you can dance and stomp on flowers.
you can build a pretty house of your own.
you can find things that you lost long ago,
in the indigo sunlight.

Here the sun always shines.
The moon is for the outcasts.
Like you,
before being picked up off the endless highway.

The life here is the best kind of imagination,
Some can't even comprehend it.
Few tried to map it,
And put the maps in emptied bottles of Chateauneuf Du Pape.
Or tied to a pale pigeon's left claw.
Or send a message to the things outside by tuning the radio through the fifty thousand songs of Frank Sinatra and loud jazz.
Hoping some other traveler's listening.

It's a message.
A warning.
A letter.
Joint obituary of a few good friends. 
A cry,
A laugh,
A taunt.

Those who taunt will soon relearn how to drive.
And being given a Corvette C3.