I stare at this page
for what seems like hours. I try to write
about nature, earthen beauty,
descriptive imagery and all that
other shit. Nothing materializes.
Everything is black
like the inside of an unlit cave.
You know the kind:
reeking of moisture and time,
wrapped in a shawl of frigid memories.
Full of bugs.
People and the mundane have always been
my strong suit, my Suicide King.
Bleak thoughts, shared experiences,
road trips up and down the psyche.
On the corner of a stained sidewalk,
a vagrant in tattered rags brings a can
of Olde English to his weathered lips.
His arms are acned with scabs,
the stench of poverty
engulfs him like putrid cologne.
With a sigh, he takes a powerful swig
and forgets the day.
Thoughts of shelter have been quelled
for the remainder of yet another cold
and drunken Monday.
Across the street, they are all eager
to line up at your table and buy
the bullshit you peddle,
like a dirt merchant at a flea market.
There are stacks of an autographed book
about pornographic passion
titled The Last Man,
which makes about as much sense as
astrology and the Great Flood.
Nothing but two-dollar word salad
with mediocre binding,
yet it sold out in less
than an hour.
You crack the whip of tears as they dance
in a circle of sympathy,
stuck in a roundabout
going nowhere but back
to the beginning.
A man reaches into a dirty box
and pulls out a small blanket.
He presses the soft fabric to his face
and inhales
the scent of laundry detergent and deceit.
With a dry, outstretched palm,
you graciously accept
a rolled-up five dollar bill
dusted with heroin
and watch in sadistic delight
as he lights the blanket on fire.
A familiar dead grin cracks
across your damaged face
as I watch you
applaud this jester of the streets.
The Follies of a Postmodern Xennial 