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Sleepless nights
between the sheets
all the curse
between us

futile fights
stranger meets
make it worse
because
This is absolutely terrible.

This is for posterity and a laugh.
I hear the cry,
Across the wasteland
Of capitalism’s failures
The dearth
Of vacant commercial space
Zoned for business
Vacant
People with no place
To live
Or die
Just a security
Guard
To remind people
“You can’t sleep here”
This unused space
Is for something better
Than your need

Shoot up on the bus
Take it to the light rail

This private property
Is for real estate investors

The public spaces are saturated

"Do you have an extra. Cigarette?"

"No, every pack comes with just twenty”
The signs said,
“Stop.”
A defunct traffic light
beating red —
Danger,
Pinocchio abandon:
that amateur drunk
with the crimson nose,
lost keys in hand.

My problem now:

White collar.
Uniform standard.
I feel the blues,
sweat scrubbed invisible —
because it’s not brand standard
to perspire.
“We love everyone.”

Silent grime.
Immaculate shoes.
Serving forty hours,
paying back dues.

There is no prize
in this cereal box.
And we all know:
we don’t even try
to fake the show.

No.

I am a decrepit puppet,
unfinished in craft,
neglected in intent —
a marionette,
suspended by strings
of a predator,
nested above me,
thriving on futility.

They animate me
when they are hungry.
The spider’s web jerks,
a feast of a fly
caught systematically.

And they call this movement
“Living.”

I envy the fly
Perception
Conception
Deception
Six
Tragic accident
No survivors
Identities unconfirmed.
For Sale:
Baby Shoes,
Never Worn
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/For_sale:_baby_shoes,_never_worn
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