Sunday, July 17, 2016


Having traveled all this way
just to love you dearly, it all now
seems so anti-climactic. The favor
you did by bringing me here no
longer keeps favor with princes
or kings, and I am an exile in
my own land. There is no way
you can understand me, or anything
I say. In turn, though I see and hear
you, it is hard for me to fathom what
your meanings are. I have been long
kidnapped by swarms of dreams,
and now I must sing alone.
Why is that, I wonder. Down Union
street, everything runs off in one
big direction. Along Joe Louis
Boulevard, I see four girls in skin
tight clothes, those stretchy things
the yoga mats yield. They are
sitting and standing along the
edge of a Quik-Stop porch, with
cigarettes, and ice cream, while 
two Spanish guys approach.
I never know what's up, and only 
can surmise. Like the little windows
in a cartoon kingdom, flip by
flip, things pass me by.

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