I am a poet,

cursed,

leisurely on the line;

not the exception.

I’ve been both good and bad,

left and right,

in a world that is

fucking upside down.

 

In the barrel,

hidden inside life,

by myself.

 

Down by the water,

desperation ornaments the sidewalks.

The damp ground,

the scent of pine needles,

masks some of the sick smells:

urine;

wet cardboard;

bottles of empty spirits.

 

Ghosts.

The Deadline.

Kill the beast.

 

The metro-dites pass by,

catching the river’s ambiance.

The smell,

the smell.

 

The other day,

one of the volunteer workers

brought out a sandwich.

It tasted like shit.

The dam—

I turned and saw

the green and purple beast

(anger)

in its cage, smiling at me.

I just had to laugh.