September 2015

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...