Two Thousand and Seventeen

bum-sleeping-by-blek

 Starving street rats bicker o’er crumbs of bread,
In gutters flooded with a pestilence,
The promise of the morrow in the wind fled.

Listen as men of no consequence said,
As golden tongues lick in malevolence,
Starving street rats bicker o’er crumbs of bread.

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City of Trees

by-the-river

And if nimble fingers could penetrate the dappled canopy

I could touch light itself.

Or to even brush the fingers of giants,

tracing their palms with my fingers.

I feel an understanding, a knowing.

I too sway;

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To A Miss

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I, dancing in my own bitter disgrace,
Washed and hung out and my mind unaligned,
And with my memory I did erase.

Unable to maintain a fitful pace,
Body and soul so utterly resigned,
I, dancing in my own disgrace.

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Ten Pills

1

One pill;
For my merciless and raging tempest.

Two pills;
For the voices acknowledged as my own.

Three pills;
For howling dogs stalking my promenade.

Four pills;
For forgetting what was to become of me.

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