It’s one hundred twenty degrees
in the mind of a lunatic, no shade,
no occasional breeze, only
beads of sweat pouring
down foreheads, stinging
mind’s-eye, I hear yelling in the night;
detritus words launched
at God.

Panhandled change is counted, over and over
at the bus stop, rapid-fire blinks
too numerous to count
must stir-up mini vortexes
in another dimension,
a meth mother huddled in a doorway
brushes her daughter’s silky hair;
mother tweaks to her
own tune.

Outward beauty is only skin-deep
just as winter ice can hide dead fish and
worse jetsam beneath an urban pond,
a needle in a haystack has become
a stack of bloody syringes,
no play on words there, just a dirty
ditty sung in most any
modern city, heroin zombies lurk
behind dumpsters, everyone wears their
holier-than-thou blinders.

I see it all, thirty-somethings screaming in the streets,
fighting themselves more than anyone else.
There will be blackeyes and
pounding headaches in the morning,
mascara will run like soul shattering fault-lines.
It’ll all repeat next Saturday night
as Satan picks his teeth
and laughs.

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