SANTA’S PAUSE If you are not Pushing The night To a Cherry-Xmas
Graveyard of Dead Numbers Come here Here, see This is Mr 754 shot dead in head
I shut down sense screaming wounded to know him.
I am a rain that nobody wants. Even the streets don’t understand me.
A pregnant fish revolves round my head When I want its flesh and chase after it On and on…
Few here of their kind; Orphaned souls No parents find.
I chose to exalt the pale skinned skeletons And colored my inferiority with a darker shade.
Dyed, dull blonde, roots showing, hunched over, more than middle age.
They sit in silence staring straight ahead between honking cars,
When I woke up that morning, it seemed like any other day. If I had known, perhaps I would have done things a little differently. Perhaps I would have spent less effort on trying to scrub the blackened grease off the cooking pots,