In the hand that only asks, wants and takes
There is little room for gifts
So I expect none.

In the mind filled overflowing with self,
Pleasure and the moment
There isn’t space for gratefulness
So I won’t look for any.

In the heart that sees itself abused in the midst of cosseting
There is no quarter for love returned
So I’ll not hope for that.  
              
In the soul that locks itself away, a willing alien,
There is no inclination to give
So I go empty-hearted.
                

grainy screens, box televisions
animated dreams, analog missions
black fingers, fixing antennas
blasphemous winners, street fighter bandannas
tiger knee, tiger knee
finish him, 2003
brush cut years, empty front teeth
peanut butter sandwiches, green backyards
fingers in the soil, counting each white star
lights by the gate, daddys black car
mommys macaroni, dinner by the black box.

- t.m