rejection can kill you.
it can force you to park outside neon-lit
liquor stores and finger the steel of
your contemplation. It can even make you
rob yourself.
(when does the veteran of one war fail to appreciate the vet of another?)
the ragged scarecrow lusts in the midst of
a fallow field.
and the lover who prances in circles envies me
my moves/has designs on my gizzard/ kicks shit.
this is the city we've come to
all the lights are red all the poets are dead
and there are no norths.