when I pissed
the cure it
landed in
spittoons meant
for beer and
‘backy
there it steamed —
it smelled like
lottery
failure stubs —
I ordered
Round Two.
when I pissed
the cure it
landed in
spittoons meant
for beer and
‘backy
there it steamed —
it smelled like
lottery
failure stubs —
I ordered
Round Two.
they floated as wraiths
and itched like saints
they scanned for tourists
and horked cheap smokes
they hacked at honor
and licked old bones
they puked the pavement
and smiled at stairs
they wanted money
and all I had
were words
I may not
have pushed
myself
toward
being
alone
I may not
have plumbed
the waste
of heck
had I
not seen
the stars
gleam atop
mountains
cold and
so blue
She was tired and lonely, perhaps—on’ry of course. It of course being summer and the
coarse air and heavy breathing coincided with coarser catcalls, scenes, more pressing
immediate bullshit—the when and where, the how—the
why
she made her way along cracked bricks slathered in heavy air, proud and not turning
back, not wavering, never—ever—saying “not never,” never ever asking, only telling us
the way it is and the way it will be
forever
the only sound the stuffle of Crocs on bricks and the crinkle of plastic in sweaty palms
— her sweaty palms & —
The way it is and the way it should be.
Backdrop: brown on some
wackiness purple some
Dre 3000 of
the MLK brickwalk…
birdpoo sidewalks, exhaust,
sweaty smack of ozone,
bullshitter hoot-hollers —
no matter
my sway so resolute
so polyester hot
in heat unending
uncaring
sufficient in self —
see?
there’s a coin right there
and I don’t
even
need it.