poems

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the things that pass through the space of your body, leave their parts intact, while luxury's maintenance hovers dull in the air

and across the highway an american flag droops, swaying over a half built condo building, while the broadcast station next door leaks static

new buds ripple down manicured hedgerows, promising something fresh and holy, but the bloody tipped, consoling fingers rifle through your charts, the news isn't good

and the moment the streetlights flip on something crawls into your veins, you can feel it pooling in your rib cage, soft and rancid

you're not getting out of this one, but the trash keeps piling up by overflowing bins, dead money is our only solvent, and all we can do is dissolve