Walking: For Eriel
She treads in the dust,
the billowing sand,
that stretches on for miles
into the distance.
This horizon, she wishes,
would carry her away,
until she is a mere brown dot
against the never ending blue.
Forever waiting for the day,
she can find herself in this wasteland,
where nothing really grows,
and the only rain falls
from the clouds in her mind.
A Conversation PieceI said, "if you could have anything at all right now,
what would it be?"
he said (while laughing), "huh... A tall blonde in white panties, I think."
I said, "yeah?"
he said, "yeah... it helps when I'm lonely,"
and had another sip of his coke.
I said, "do you ever feel like you have a giant
inside you that won't go away?"
he said nothing for a while.
Then he said, "...Nah...
...do you like me?"
I said, "Nah.
...Seen any good movies lately?"
Making conversation gets difficult sometimes.
Justice is Out to Lunch
When a man goes to court,
he's tried in front of a jury of his peers,
in front of a statue of the justice system;
a blindfolded woman holding a scale and a sword
in each of her outstretched palms.
Like the blind leading the blind in faith.
A homeless man is brought in,
on the charge of stabbing another bum
during a fight over the last bottle of wine.
His face is rubbed raw,
not used to a good washing;
and he's got a gash just under his chin
from where he slipped shaving that morning
with one of the prison's disposable razors.
It's itching and driving him crazy.
In front of him sits a jury
of "honest" men and woman. (Too honest he thinks)
All wearing the finest clothes,
he could never afford to buy,
not even on a good day.
He nervously fingers some change in his pocket;
a dime and three pennies he found on the floor.
These honest citizens glare down at him
like disapproving schoolteachers,
like every person who walks past in the rain
and stares at anything but his face.
Angerhis Pain is something you can't measure in sound
his Anger is sharp and cuts like a knife
this tongue made of fire slices words in half
and throws them at your feet like a pair of dead birds
Hatred is sour and curdles his Rage
this fist meets with the flesh and the bone of your face
he will play the song of his Hurt on your skin
and then run until he is so Numb he can't move at all.
just tell him to stop so I can get him to breath.