8-10-05
i didn't know the pizza was yours, ma'am...
but if it was any consolation
i enjoyed it.
And, forgive me for my hesitation,
But i'm not sorry.
i hold that no one should be sorry for being hungry
hungry
hungry because of sacrifice to tiny plump fingers clutching to skirts and breadcrusts on a dirty street
hungry because of dark closet corners all too familiar
hungry because i had tasted poetry.
Poetry that had melted from angst and selfish loveand shifted to the greater things
demons and nymphs (how cliche)
gathering under the boughs of every facade and color of humanity on stage-dreams pulsing out from under the floorboards pulsing so high so strong
you can taste it dripping from your tongue and sailing up through the ceiling and soar left alone in the great wide expanse of the empty dumpster searching for something more / night silence shattered by sirens and screams heads lift high senses snap / am i the only one who can't write a fucking poem? Because the wails are echoing off the chambers of my suddenly finite mind Dissected slowly by daggers flying friendly from my own kind
The kind that pastes the loving pisces on the back of their minivan and passes the tired girls thumbing their way home from the monotony of mortality, Becasue only creeps don't drive cars
Only creeps pick up girls with tattered homemade wings waving at the stars hidden behind a cyan curtain / Waving at the cyan curtain dropped to paint the night sky over a sad cracked sidewalk of a street where three little boys pause and lift their chins to connect to their darl existance.
No--no, not "dark"..because you forget, darkness isn't inferior, it isn't sinfully cunning filled with criminals and backbiters whispering about streetfighters fighting the fight of drugs and revenge -
i'll give you a fight to fight, mr president. i present hunger, i present homocide, i present rape, theft, and hate (god i hate those bike theives) it's poverty it's terrorism it's the terror of hunger, homicide, rape, and hate and lines drawn across the sky at dawn 100,000 miles from where the fight really is. or, where it should be. What do you mean we belong over there? What do you mean America is doing the right thing using fear- cold and stainless steel pressed against our heads silence screaming at our words and so much left unsaid because no one wanted to hear her, his, their story...

Now thats sick, as in, like, disgusting.