The world is just out of reach.  Eccentric minds are treated like crazy people.  Who are the crazy people?  Someone who does not communicate in a socially acceptable sense?  So they are ignored, never sent an invitation, banished to talking to the trees and gutters on the streets.  Blankets of trash warm the landscape and so does a toothless smile.  Subjected to blame, discussing topic sentences of the same, sleeping off of Main St., bedding in untraveled ways.  When the time is right and conditions good, you can hear the bum's no-junk hackin blues, filled with death and spit, waiting for a reprieve from God, or a reprieve in the form of cough syrup, cigarette, a joint, a drop of junk, morphine, pills, red wine, sleep.  Sleep with the face of a tortured prisoner, contorted into the body of a broken bird, sagging from melting innards into the dirt, rising from the dead to walk again, praying for an end to the aching, while searching out human contact for debate.  They eat their own brains and snack on cigarettes and candy.

                    April 2011

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