this city’s broken sidewalks,
pothole-ridden roads, too crowded
somnambulist, it is because, I see
into an immaculate alphabet.
on the lamp-post, the murky water
that fills the rust-heavy bucket
to whip-open the stench
of his unwashed hair
but memories of immediate trespass —
in the unread lines of an obscure poet.
can avoid, leaving intact
dragging the paint-brush
along the city’s walls – how
tearing the tongue out of the tiger’s mouth.
the sound of writing poems
of the prison-yard, the emptiness
that inevitably follows the vernal scarlet –
form this landscape of hollow eyeholes, I
must first chronicle the serenity of this obsolescence.
of this city’s riots in the lines
of obscure poets, it is because,
that holds this book’s spine together.