Dead girl, gone eyes.
Where does your death begin?
Sudan? Syria? Soweto?
I can only hope you are an alike spirit,
They take pity on a bleeding migrant,
Dense with pipe dreams,
Existing now in this glorious lottery.
Sweetwater Flower Girl,
If death keeps you alive come another tragedy,
The bleachers on Old Packard don’t stay wet long.
The Bleu Cabana café flings bread at 10PM sharp.
Freshly emptied, very vigilant,
She is all that, with such feline gravitas,
And the unmistakable sloth of the poor,
Nymphetic, Lolitic, Humberic.
Her dirty hair is a nest with empty cribs.
Adversity will ripen those little breasts.
Dead girls find love come wintertime,
In the thighs of a hooligan or a pontiff,
Then birth blue-eyed bastards in Summer.
They find butterfly wings in the Spring air,
Stow those in breast pockets,
They mentor vigorous testicles,
With pubs older than they are.
Befriend white college lads and half poets.
Inspiration becomes you,
But avoid the black ones from old infections,
The rumors be true,
Viruses already known, swollen lessons become.
Allow thyself fit into special galaxies,
Soon you will grow into your edges,
And steal blankets at night.
You will tick checkboxes,
Dodge the welfare Madame in alleyways.
You will groom your cancers,
Supply to the willful suicide of self,
Befriend this Americanish travesty.
Of half-smiling, of half-worrying,
Of closed-thinking, of open-being,
Of silent fading.
We have come to be put together,
To color olden stories,
To escape the necromancer’s curse,
To elude the black jinx,
To listen to the one-arm pianist play for dimes.
To be and not to be.
Nobody would know that back home,
In chest-high elephant grass prairies,
Where the fruits pinched tongues,
And toothless wiccans told barking tales,
In places where the earth was forever blood and bald,
We were worse so,
Little roaming nothings,
And we were excellent at nothing.