bony trees
and cold air
and the sun
a smoldering
cigarette.
i don’t mind
the cold or
the empty
street.
there’s
comfort in
loneliness
in my white
breath among
dark closed
windows.
i think of
the sun
going down
of the hare
and the
frightened
mouse
of sparrows
chirping on
a quiet ledge.
working as a temp
light assembly
$6 an hour
no rights, no benefits
hated the job
but couldn’t afford
to get fired
imagine boredom
as a kind of death
like drowning
in a bathtub in
the suburbs
if i had a soul
i’d say it was
like an opium poppy
turning to stone
there was one boss
i wanted to punch
in the face but never
did
i kept on working
doing the same shit
day after day
my soul scattering
like dust
to the universe.
red flower wilting
in a glass
sunlight
on the white walls.
i remember
my confusion,
my rediscovery
of the beauty of nature.
the demons
sometimes they growl
at me in my sleep
i turn them off
i think of Penelope Cruz
of hippie chicks in 1969
before i was born.
the demons are quiet
now
biding their time
hiding somewhere
in the back of my head
like a tumor.
Rusty Truck 