Friday, October 07, 2016

nearby

i prefer to live in this imaginary city where homelessness is not a sin
because out here a pale boy plasters himself on the sidewalk 
begging for another life 
with his limbs stretching out the hunger from his bowels and you smell hell breathe from his intestines
a dry poster almost stripped off by hangover hands
and one floor just above his stare
a century old pair of knuckles droop into the streets and fling grains to a curious set of pigeons 
crumbles fall into the orbits of his eyes, this young man
a yarn soaked in pus and suicidal throes of pumped voices evoking lumps of toxins 
you taste hopeless vomit from his empty options
his fingertips- the cuspidate forms of mountaintops, his belly- the voluminous valleys 
but nature around him is not for the innocent and righteous
there in the lonesome farmiliar gorge-
a psychological gymnasium with urban tower blocks breaking shoulder blades
nose tickling the floor 
groped with smoke with a candid feel as if joseph stiglitz echoed his idea about saving the planet here
he reads me the arcane trade laws negotiating pain
exclaims that a newspaper spread covers his head but in the newspapers his painful story is not shared
lugging emotional bags of grafted memory
this stain of dying community-
and his sister- almost photocopies herself from him and creeps out from his slippery shadow 
with elephantine legs and a special kind of madness
her heart whispers to me: 
"when we have no more power over the issue than we have issues over power, we lose the power"
she says to me; 
"the world is silent"
but it feels noisy all around me and the irony lies in how all our souls are invaded by this quiet violence
looking for a loud license to clog the undertakers of our conscience
onlookers are divided over visual pain killers
as these kids endure persistent police diagnosis and doctors tazing with cold stethoscopes
when all they need is a taste of the normal life 
the same poverty the system creates scares them 
their frizzled hair and rotten teeth scare them
their rumble under rum turns out their guts
the fingers numb, demeanor strung skunk sunk scares them
in the corridor bound with six feet tape and basement rape
caged in cries as tombstones replace neck stones
descendants of chains and pendants i greet you
he says his name is smith hers is wesson
they grow into guns because that's the only shot they've had
their parents od'ed because government proceeds only afforded them rooms made of drugs

what do you see when you look into a homeless person's face?
a nomad? the nickel in your pocket? a psych ward? a mole? an abandoned human?
nonetheless, survivors of the streets these be 
maybe you've seen their voices haunt each leftover space?

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