The killer in me
stared diligently
at the latest
human oddity.

Little man
suffering
the sickness
of addiction,
spitting
spastic rage
as his energy faded.

The anger gave way
to admitting the pain
of living
prevented him
from quitting
cause existing
just wasn't enough
to maintain
a healthy mental state.

This was said
in his own slurring way
but I must paraphrase
because
I was too distracted
by the way he lay
quivering.

Eyes dimming
but reflecting
a past worth inspecting,
one of parents rejecting
and hitting him,
of ****** abuse
at the whim
of some predatory kin.

But,
even at the edge
he was still scheming,
thinking, and dreaming
about the next fix,
the one that would
heal or dull this
bad moment
for a bit.

Until,
his last breath
noted
the time of death.

He had a name
but no one will
remember it,
and tomorrow
he will be
less than a blip
in the local obits.

On the level
the devil
is holding fast
to the last
of his
disciples who insist
he is just
the coolest
rebel
to ever exist.

She is a foreign delicacy,
delicious mind
I find
in lines of poetry.

A definite reality,
but I imagine she
scribbles out verses
veraciously,

places each of these
in this internet society,
exchanging altered perceptions
for artificial digital connections;

Full fruit flesh
rich with juicy wetness,
deep thoughts
of deliciousness
as I wonder
about the wonder
of such a creative being.

The plate is mine,
a porcelain palate
open to dine
on one delicate
verb at a time.

To dance and unwind
in the way the words
unroll themselves,
unthreaded yarn
ready to re-roll
and then unfold
once more.

I am a friendly
interloper
there
where
I go to explore
weird worlds
I have never seen before,

and this is
a rough draft
of gratitude
to that fact.