JUST TOO MUCH GRIME
A holster for a wallet filled with
nothing, that's the spiritual gift for
this upcoming season. I want a priest
hat in corduroy the color of blood,
and a set of knives from Nigeria,
hatchets and mallets, the whole
range of whatever that guy sells.
I'll need an elephant-skin washcloth
too; there's just too much grime in
this city, and nothing else will do.
I wash my face fifteen times a day, a
few moments each, my skin is red-raw.
I'm clean but not pretty, and strange
lumps grow now on my face : old man
things and I can no longer care. Death
is in a race with me, winning.