May 19, 2004
Singularity
I am a slippery loose cannon character,
overwhelming like the kiss my neighbour blew
the day before: caught with nimble fingers
and as I licked the edges, it tasted tingly,
a pickled too-sweet syrup blend.
The bodies fell around me as hostaged puppets, bullet-
holes looking unreal and as I watched, black and white
death walked around the field, frowning at skinny pick.
I tend to push my way out of crowds,
climb on pink graffiti-covered walls and hang
from fragile ceilings that’ve soaked in liquor,
old piss and ambition placed at awkward heights.
Reality avoids direct light projection.
I photograph the homeless to capture shadows,
skin-soft with occasional harsh spots that
scrape my arm or cheek but I don’t mind.
The dead still walk around me in packs: empty
stares of accusing eyes, they talk all at once in slow
humming murmur as I drink the air, swallow bites of life
and let the rain envelop me in salty chill. I shake
my head and laugh at passing complainers who frown,
displeased at the disgrace when
I am screaming at streetlights
in graphic display of eccentricity.