Can it be true that stories only birth from grime?
I don't see any dirt on bodies here except the residue of mountains.
The homeless huddled under the
curve of open sky
anyone can look into it and see generations.
There's one man, he looks over me glazing
blurry streets to my body,
and his blue eyes ask me for booze money.
I wonder if he could get me some too?
The next time, and the next after that he doesn't remember me.
But I tell him each time hoping he'll get it.
That's the difference there between bums here and bums
in baltimore.
Those at home aren't stuck on booze. They were either broken or
moved onto harder drugs.
I'm drawing images of a drunk in my
mind,
seeing a foster mother in a dirty kitchen,
slipping on liquid ice
made for soothing ear drums.