Trash Can

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.

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