iStart-the-Violence

The Dead Man and the Homeless Man Parks aren't for the dead. I'm a skeleton watching old crooning bags stuff pigeons with seeds and small children fall into bushes from red shiny  new bikes. The cigarette smoke I exhale like it someday could be actual oxygen seems to melt past me like everyone with an alive spirit. Isn't that ironic? A stick of cancer, more alive then me. The sun slowly melts away and I feel sick again. I ignore it some more when a bald man walks up. He looks sixty, and he's probably younger. He walks up and returns my cynical confusion with a gummy smile of six teeth. He sits on my bench and his sten

Today the earth splits in half- skyscrapers and mountains become ash and hot rock crawls down the streets of New York where the drunken gamblers used to throw empty glass bottles at the sides of buildings. On one half of the planet businessmen -especially accountants- and managers line the streets in tattered three-pieced suits sobbing. Men who wouldn't protect the families with cripples or men mugged in back alleyways are clutching soggy cardboard to their chests and moaning for relief. One one half of the planet, sirens flip on dryer land next to the liars with tears running down their faces, still burning the evidence.

Drabble and drip around your first love- she's that girl with the wide ass that you love your arms around and you love to lick around all the shallows of her neck And you love it when she says I love you too Even though when you said it You had a shit-faced grin. Because love back then, is just working around the system of her conscience. Die on your last love. You're seventy three and all that old lust looks new from so far away. Lying on the bed you'll die in with a wrinkled little fragile woman beside you, who once cheated on you with the cable man about thirty three years ago. You'll say I Love You and mean it while

All the nonbelievers, they get to eat dirt, And the believers get to spit in their graves Baby Jesus, Regina Spektor ________________ The day he was late and her car hit his, his head throbbed and his i.d- Guy Fitzgerald, Accountant- hung loose around his neck, a patient noose. His '02 Camry's front bumper kissed and crumpled, melodramatic, around the rear of an oldie-but-a-goodie station wagon. And warm Starbucks spreads on the lap of his pants suit It smelled like gas and for a second, Fitzgerald wondered if the thing was gonna blow and then remembered the  little insurance in his pocket and groaned And the car d

 The day you were born- you had a soul no matter what they said as you tossed on their blue suede shoes and they grimaced at your soft round head. Now, a million moons later- You're 53 and crying over your wife's old photograph it's white and black birthday cake and it's too sweet to bare- And your family- grandchildren who never call- are all telling you stories about their blues you nod and smile                                 always sincere candles go out - 47 on

A midnight with no light- and everything glowed A silent grown stander with long, wise limbs and a wrinkled face that shined and smiled    and asked me not to go   Thick ropes with no moon to guide the waves to guide the boat to guide the precious cargo and   love only glows with th moon and somebody else to hold it up wrapped tight around my hand- the thick moon guider wrapped red revolutions around where I once held his hand and around where countours lead to collarbone near slowed heart I forget- and the moon rose in the morning.

The Mohawk man might strut down this-that street Where everyone is and nobody isn't And those spikes might bob- or might stay erect- That damned music might be too loud- oh well. You've donated your body to life but he'll be a living canvas The graffiti mindset Life as a liar, though- his hair was never that grass-stain-green, and techno is clipped robots, set to a tune and art will always be art.

Elliot Deidrick was on a caffeine high as she entered the bucket-seat of her speedy little car with a dark cup of unbranded yours truly  in one hand and a large file brimmed with documents in the other. After cranking the car and letting it hum (throwing all of the papers into the passenger and slamming her coffee in the cup holder) she leaned back and sighed. Another long day of work. Dim light shined through her windows and the glowing digital clock in her car blinked 7:30. But she was just leaving in the little car with the bucket seats. The car only her dead husband could remember the name of.  But that was two and a half years ago. Eve

Dancing alone in a room made of salt and sometimes- tripping to your toes cause they glow. You'll never get your foot out of your mouth so stay here and dance     stumble over people who don't wanna be there, and kick some salt in their eyes. Don't step on the dying flowers don't believe your own worth. Drown in a bath on top of the mortuary, and remember salty, salty eyed friends. Don't tell him shit, about thing's you've forgotten. Did you hear? Behind tears of salt she told you she'd die for her friends. Ka Me Me Ka- Ka Me Me Ka May and August have more in common then they deserve- And so do April and December. O