You are an angel
straight from the city of light.
I am a sinner
but when I'm with you,
I strive to be
a saint.

Deafening noise in waves
Glinting light blinding off mirrors
A circle turns red, steel at a standstill
The quiet lingers for just a brief second

if these streetlights could speak,
they'd narrate stories that would
keep you awake at night

and if these corners could scream,
they would never stop screaming

and if these streetlights could speak,
and these corners could scream,
would you listen?

are you listening?

Under the night—there’s a lake
beneath whose serene, silvery strands
blooms a city so filled with buzz
folks chock on it—
In the coal-coated sky, planes flutter;
billboards shine over gleaming malls
reeking of marbles and crystals and wealth
and little kings and queens prowl about—
ants dressed in facies—
and balloons breathe freedom
as children’s distracted fingers let them go;
blues and yellows—neons and pinks
and greys.

and overflowing pavements cuddle into the hysteric roads
winking cars, cursing vans—
honking and screeching and scratching
and laughing and—
Screaming? Shrieking!
Crying blood! Crunching metal!
A mother covers her toddler’s eyes
as pieces of flesh scatter around like confetti
A crowd gathers about what’s left of the—
human.

—ants before a rotten grape.
kings and queens with their buggies and guards
tiaras and lockets— arrows and darts
and the lights still smile, adds still run
and so does the blood—
and so does the dog with a missing limb
and so does the car that never stopped
Nothing remains of the flower, nothing of the bee
Statures jump out of ringing vans
men in suits— men too late.
They collect the pieces of steaks and the dog’s leg
and take them away.

and a slim lady cries, melting her smooth skin
A child, gawking, lets go his balloon,
A teen chocks on her wine—
footprints engrave in the clotting blood
Through the clouds, flies up the balloon
carrying the first scream, the first screech,
the panic of the driver who vanished,
the frenzy of city still as a corpse—
up, up into the breathing water —

another prince screams under his trembling crown
and in a wounded street far away,
whimper crawls out of a ravaged girl,
grubby boy weeps for his stollen rug
a woman curses, a girl trembles, a guy laughs,
a man sleeps, a lady paints herself, a cat dies, a trigger is pulled,
a cigarette is lit, a bottle breaks open a leg, a wolf howls,
a boy weeps in his bed
—a little whimper for each.

and little bubbles wade in her delicate waves,
the air pops those pomegranates open as
tongueless stories disperse around—
silent on her glossy lips.

and over her, the night sky yawns
as I crawl under her layers, and close my eyes,
listening to the sloshing waters, the owls far away—
begging for the bubbles to stop the screaming.

there used to be a shy, young man
living four doors down from mine.
he never seemed too hurt to me,
and he told me he was fine.

I shouldn't have believed him
but I didn't have a choice.
you can't listen to cries for help
if the crier has no voice.

he was from the south side
where bullets fly like stars,
painting the skies red every night
through windows, skin, and cars.

a girl lived on the north side
slightly to the west.
I had never met her,
but he said she was the best.

when he talked about this girl,
she was his rock, his moon, his sun.
she was all he'd ever dreamed of
and their romance had begun.

I saw him outside all the time
daydreaming down the block.
his story was a timebomb
and I wish I saw the clock.

I never saw this girl of his,
but she made him someone new.
he smiled, happy and in love
and I knew she loved him too.

he finally seemed eager
to learn, to live, to leave.
kids don't make it out of here
but I let him believe.

city kids are city kids.
they never travel far.
they will never see a garden,
just concrete, blood, and tar.

city kids don't breathe fresh air.
they smoke ****, cigs, cigars.
I wish that things were different
but this is how they are.

I wish that the boy four doors down
was able to be freed,
but just like all the other boys,
he had to stay and bleed.

that boy would sneak out late at night,
walking alone in silence.
he'd travel to the northwest side
with no fear of the violence.

every night, he'd stay awake.
his eyelids felt weighed down.
he didn't seem to notice.
I never saw him frown.

every day, he could be seen
doing what he always did.
with deals and deaths and drive-bys,
he didn't get to be a kid.

but none of that mattered
as soon as nighttime came.
he saw his girl when it got dark.
every night, it was the same.

until one night, the boy got stopped
and told to stay away.
the northwest side was not his side,
but he could not obey.

their romance turned to horror
and their love turned into fear.
I wish it didn't go this way,
but the end was clearly near.

city boys and city girls
never see what we call "fame."
they don't show up in newspapers,
and no one asks their names.

city boys die every day,
with bullets in their brains.
no one hears their cries for help.
no one feels their pain.

the young man living on my block
fell in love and saw no danger.
on the south side, he was sweet and shy.
away from home, he was a stranger.

he never made it out of here.
he didn't get to finish growing.
he went to see his perfect girl
but never got where he was going.

the next morning, his girl was told
how they found him on the ground.
she took a rope and went to bed
and that's where she was found.

******, pain, and gunshots
and a girl hung from her ceiling.
this city saw it all and more
and still, we aren't healing.

I think about him often now,
that boy from four doors down.
I wonder where he'd be today
if he had left this town.

two graves dug in the dirt too soon
are all that's left of them today.
you won't ever hear their stories
now that they've gone away.

a boy with hope still in his eyes
and dreams still in his mind
was stolen so abruptly
before it was his time.

a girl with love still in her heart
and faith still in her smile
was punished with a death sentence
but never had a trial.

he was a modern Romeo
and she was Juliet.
they fell in love and lost their lives
not even grown up yet.

a tragedy with pain and loss,
a true Shakespearean drama.
this is the kind of story
that leaves us all with trauma.

once, there was a boy and girl
who ended when they bled,
like characters inside a play
that they had never read.

they were taught how to survive,
who would hurt them, where to look.
they knew of pain and grief and death
but never learned to read a book.

the walls here are thin
because we can't afford
to build them any stronger.

we can't afford to spend money
to test smoke detectors,
or to build new fire escapes.

if this building
goes up in flames,
we have accepted that
we will all burn with it.

we can't afford to
spend money on
our children's safety.

but even if we could,
would it matter?

money can buy teddy bears
and pretty flower bouquets.

money can beautify
our roadside memorials,

but lit candles and
decorated street corners
can't bring back the
children who died there.

every night, I hear the sirens
of an ambulance speeding
through our streets.

sirens are the lullaby
that this city sings to our children,
and to our children's children.

if I didn't hear them
when I close my eyes,
I would be afraid.

because no sirens
does not mean that
there is no crime.

no sirens means only
that no one has come
to clean up the scene.

someone told me once,
that in suburbia,

in the neighborhoods
where the houses are
built with thick walls
and strong foundations,

and the neighbors fight
over who can buy
the fanciest car,

and those fights end
with snarky comments
instead of gunshots,

their children
fall asleep listening
to the sound of crickets
instead of sirens.

in those neighborhoods,
they do not raise their children
to be afraid of drugs
and death and violence.

they raise their children
to be afraid of our children.

our children are buried
six feet beneath the ground,

before their children
even learn the meaning
of the word "death."

The ominous call
as the crow caw
A humming to my left
fills my eardrum with a crisp autumn night