Thursday, December 4, 2008

in the Center (1)

The subway vultures circle

but three more stops until they

pick the bones off empty space.

Once the chastiser, food poison keeps head down

and eyes off the wrinkled limping farm

and that fat young belly-house.

To stand is agony, white becomes pale,

both become beauty in the night,

pale glows ghostly, when the neon

girls see, they fall in love with the

furnished thought of wealth.

Two stops until the incessant leech

attempts to trade seats and information.

No blood for them, I speak their

language, spitting it into the gaping

holes of ethnocentric infallibility.

Leech eats his surprise and it grows

faceward. Farm and belly-house leave and

one stop remains until cramped quarters.

Left, unfilled emptiness wants for

attention, but when love and fear mingle

the balance tips my favor. Set

shoulders make paths and expert

eyes unfocus umbrellas and scarves.

Down and out, through narrow straits,

the cool night air still reeks of filth.

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