Block 6100

Written on 10-29-08

I

As you picked apart my
eyes today dead birds
dropped from backyard
trees, and war torn cats
stumbled beneath each
fender and hood, too
hungry to beg, too dead
to listen to our calls.
I could not stop you
from claiming me as men
in rags down the street
begged mute for change and
change kept staying back.

II

Cold is a dust that goes
in through the pores,
locking the joints, making
it difficult to read
their letters. The leaflets
on the ground crisp away,
each edge slowly being
filed down toward the stem.

This stirring flora decay
will never know what it is
to be read; all those sneakers
smacking the pavement instead,
hands staying tucked in,
the heat of each pocket
like gold or wax, not like
holding a leaf up to the
white sunless sky, picking
at its grainy veins with
brittle fingers, brittle ideas.

III

Old boy dreaming. Saw and
named the White Devil last
night. No sign of the Road
Warrior. Maybe I saw its
child though. Too early to
say. It all happened while
smoking a cigarette with Todd.
After I heard his tales, we
moved inside, leaving the
starved to wait and starve.
I watched forgotten horror
films despite malfunctions,
viral plagues to my PC.
We set ourselves up for
them. We are smart but
ignorant, knowing but blind.
We are addictions. Blood but
only machine. Our bodies:
a pulley or two. Our souls:
invisible whispers without
steaming breaths. At night
this entire block slowly
drains us, 100 addresses
forming an ebony hole,
dead alley for the strays.