poem: angels of disrepair

1 Oct

and still the whispers echo
long after the rope’s been cut,
bodies removed,
sinners and saints retired from the town square,
the center of the world,
the center of life,
the very core of it all –


a gray skinned woman collapse’s upon dirt,
her tears become mud,
fingertips torn red,
bones snapped, gnarled and twisted,
and the sounds of the big top sing up toward angels of disrepair –

shadows against a wall splay out in a delicate dance
of fickle fancy and simple play –
two bodies join by way of currency transaction –

i await the night’s deepest ink –
silver blade clenched in trembling hand –
paths of no glory lead me closer –
the heart beat sings a magnificent melody –
intoxicated by this heated rhythm,
i move so slow, each step deliberate, each step
an utter delight –

a trolley man greets me with a simple smile –
i pay my fare and travel the steep hill sides of
San Francisco –

and through this looking glass i spy
a moon in simple defeat –
vainglorious me –
vainglorious me –

my decent complete
into the black set lust
of a wicked truth held so dear –


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