stumbling bowlegged through the last subway car,
loose-fit black rags bandaging frail limbs,
face twisted in a permanent scowl,
matted grey hair jutting from a flaky scalp,
she jangles her paper cup of coins
each flail of the arm a sharp crescendo;
I flinch.

She extends her hand with a gaze that says: pity me;
I cannot look. I don’t want anything to stir in me,
my own pain is already too heavy,

but --

here they are: spoiled thoughts wafting over me like the waves
of her robust stench: warmth
between my thighs,
tattoos
bounding up thick muscular arms that aim at me in such earnest that my disillusionment melts away, and I am paralyzed
by the lure of pheromones and the smell of skin
which doesn’t quite leave you after you leave him.

And then truth clangs hard in my chest:

but her bones are made of steel!
So who am I to look away?
Maybe if something were to crash into me,
I’d pulverize
into
dust.

Me beneath the zenith's sun
The light she gave to Abbadon
Shadows genuflect and none
Could bear the dark's dissatisfaction

But me,
Beneath the zenith's sun
Is life in God's light bastion.

fire in her lungs
dust in her mouth
keep going,
keep going
run
to the south

yellow
and tan
footprints
in the sand
her red
converse
leave
trails

an imperfect daughter
looking for water
disappointment
follows
each step.

sand in clothes
in her hair
twixt her toes
she runs
with her red converse.

will she ever come across
an oasis, lost
or will her bones
stay hidden,
in the sand.

The dust of our creation is from Africa;
The place of our creation is Africa;
The blood beneath our skin has a rhythm.
The bond between our bones and Africa is forever.
Some people shout for queens and country,
While others shout for land and blood.
But we will trample the earth and raise its dust
As we march for the glory of Africa.
Africa produces the dust of our creation.
The dust, that makes the baobab tree lives forever
Africa produces the dust of our creation.
The dust, that produces the finest diamonds and gold.
The dust of our creation is from Africa,
That continent that is like the Garden of God: Eden

Philip K. What The ****.
It's here. Has been. In a fad.
I sit in a slit.

The calm of industrial evenings.
Back to the industry?
I never left.

You get clean. I get stuck.
Not that I never did want.
Cracks exist in everything.
Brief gaps in taken space.

Every crack leads from toe to head.
Every crack feeds on dusty crumbs.