a punk band,
some folky shit, too,
downloading the lights
that paint the sky.
time ticks away...
at the unhealthy angle
of walking pianos
and incredulous best shots.
I threw away
eleven cents,
because of the nickles
and the stars that shine on which.
a bench?
on a dark rainy night
in December in White Harlem,
I went looking for written survival,
finally found some.
in a sense,
it don't come easy.
in a sense,
it never will...
until you are killed.
Lexington to forgive.
my way is lighted
by the twinkling
flames of burning hearts.
the color of your eyes:
good enough to eat.
why can't we still play?
these are the worries of children.