I am just here
Scrolling through all my friend’s poems
They don’t know
No one knows
Except one

I scroll through the poems
I feel the pain
See the pain
They ALL go through
Maybe not all
But some

I badly want to help her
Yet
I know I shouldn’t probe so much
I want to leave her alone
Yet
I am afraid she can’t handle all these
Overwhelming emotions
By herself

But what can I do?
Sit here and watch?
Try to understand her better?

But…
She is just so good at covering up her emotions
He told us before we are acting all the time
And I finally understand what he means…

No one will ever replace this person
He was the one that made me swing from
Hating lit
To liking lit
To kind of loving it.

Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread