we walk in a small area of naked anger.
we are hard assed against a wall looking towards passerbys as
one more element to deal with.
obstacle to overcome.
target to hit on.
we talk with quick cuts
and gravel syllables.
we intend to remain here, cats under a stairwell.
there are ghost hovering near here.
mean faced immigrant spirits.
we try to shout them down but
in silence they shiver us cold.
they live in the cracks of the sidewalk.
maybe they are the reason that we look constantly behind us.
we protect our backs and display our fronts.
ugly as this place is, we will not
give it up like prowling helpless dogs,
snapping and crazy with biting and itching.
we chase the *******
and make this place smell like us.
we love and will remember the shredded
newspapers and fight over
the cans and the cracks and the *******
until
rising from the seams of the street
come the images of austere immigrants
and we stop our baying, the hair on our necks
standing on end.
we can’t grow old and talk to ourselves
alone and crooked.
we won’t stand by while
age and grey streak our hair and we
hit on younger and younger women.
holes and blemishes creep over our smooth skin like
rust on our wheels.
we will never leave this street and settle
on other frozen alleys.
and combing our hair in the chrome
of a parked car we look and see
and each of us becomes alone.
i have slept old man as you have slept.
and i dreamed of your hot breath on my neck
as we locked ourselves in sweaty struggle.
and we fought
because we wanted the same sleep and same dreams.
and the wet streets played the tunes of cold
until it shook me hard out of sleep
hard ’til i couldn’t control my body and i awoke
at your feet in this parking lot, looking up at you old man.
asking only to sleep again.
Apr 14
Apr 14, 2026 at 5:15 AM UTC
we walk in a small area of naked anger.
we are hard assed against a wall looking towards passerbys as
one more element to deal with.
obstacle to overcome.
target to hit on.
we talk with quick cuts
and gravel syllables.
we intend to remain here, cats under a stairwell.
there are ghost hovering near here.
mean faced immigrant spirits.
we try to shout them down but
in silence they shiver us cold.
they live in the cracks of the sidewalk.
maybe they are the reason that we look constantly behind us.
we protect our backs and display our fronts.
ugly as this place is, we will not
give it up like prowling helpless dogs,
snapping and crazy with biting and itching.
we chase the *******
and make this place smell like us.
we love and will remember the shredded
newspapers and fight over
the cans and the cracks and the *******
until
rising from the seams of the street
come the images of austere immigrants
and we stop our baying, the hair on our necks
standing on end.
we can’t grow old and talk to ourselves
alone and crooked.
we won’t stand by while
age and grey streak our hair and we
hit on younger and younger women.
holes and blemishes creep over our smooth skin like
rust on our wheels.
we will never leave this street and settle
on other frozen alleys.
and combing our hair in the chrome
of a parked car we look and see
and each of us becomes alone.
i have slept old man as you have slept.
and i dreamed of your hot breath on my neck
as we locked ourselves in sweaty struggle.
and we fought
because we wanted the same sleep and same dreams.
and the wet streets played the tunes of cold
until it shook me hard out of sleep
hard ’til i couldn’t control my body and i awoke
at your feet in this parking lot, looking up at you old man.
asking only to sleep again.