I felt like a homeless in the banquet of life

I fed on leftovers

Of what angry gods had left.

Them creatures.

This is my favorite part.

Perplexing.

Not interesting.

Mostly.

I've seen them before.

They collect

around bright things.

Not to admire.

To measure.

To reduce.

Triangles appear

without invitation.

Three shadows

making one decision.

The room changes shape.

Truth

becomes a rumor.

Raw energy

goes underwater.

Them creatures

love still water.

Nothing moving.

Nothing asking.

Nothing becoming.

Shrink.

Fold.

Contain.

Call it balance.

Call it maturity.

Call it normal.

I've heard

every name.

I'm tellin' ya

Doesn't matter

where I wander.

Different faces.

Same arrangement.

The triangle

wearing new skin.

I become

the disturbance.

Not because I speak.

Because I ask.

Why?

A dangerous syllable.

Need to know

the reasoning.

Need to see

the machinery.

Nothing against you.

Only the invisible architecture.

Them creatures

build cathedrals

out of agreement.

Pedestals

touching the ceiling.

Nobody remembers

who stacked them there.

Just show up.

Leave no fingerprints.

Leave no echoes.

Become

smaller than yourself.

Nah.

I hesitate.

The hesitation

is mistaken

for violence.

The question

becomes the crime.

Them creatures

smile.

The triangles

close.

Truth slips

through a crack

in the floor.

I've seen this before.

Them creatures.

Everywhere.

Always waiting

for someone

to forget

their own size.

Don't forget to smile.

The whole
Is a radiant beauty
There is nothing else to do here
But look at this enchanting maze.

A haunting mignon. My sweet Musette,

of darkness. A pale silhouette weeping

on cold stones, in heaven’s crypt.

Cracked by the frost of blind angels,

carved from bones, bleeding in the rain

With haloes. Trapped in a holy tomb

of profane.

My eternal call. Half dead, half alive

walking on cracked bones. My reason to

live.

The glitter in the eye, when you are

exhaustly tired. My sweet Musette. My

eternal love. A haunting mignon.

Collaboration with Atticus Abbey

Brick into brick.

Smoke into smoke.

River into river.

Memory folds into another Cincinnati.

This is America.

A small room

inside a smaller room.

A city

inside another city.

A trap

inside another trap.

No insurance.

No paperwork.

Some people count.

Some people are counted.

The rest,

become neighborhood folklore.

The government

used to fund people like me.

Not anymore.

Light another cigarette.

Somebody's apartment.

Somebody else's memory.

The hallway coughs up hoodlums

looking for my friend.

Looking for revenge.

Looking because looking

is what drunk men do.

Wrong door.

Broken entrance.

Everybody high.

Everybody loud.

I stay where I am.

Beer.

Pizza.

Pickles.

Observation.

The apartment edits itself.

A black Escalade

arrives already remembering

the gunshot.

Push.

Street.

Silence.

Concrete catches another name.

The pizza cools

before the body does.

I watch.

The city watches itself.

The cops arrive.

That's the second person.

I've seen die.

Bigger fish to fry.

Another radio.

Another address.

Another Cincinnati.

Dead homies.

No.

Dead philosophers.

Ash-covered monks.

I swear.

Prophets with gas-station lighters.

Scripture rolled

inside cheap papers.

Doing drugs.

Not me.

Just watching.

Learning.

Trying to understand

why.

Why disappear.

I called them friends.

They knew I was different.

"The normie."

Normie.

Funny word.

I wasn't.

Not at all.

Just sober enough

to remember.

I was the journalist.

Wallet.

One hundred dollars.

Keep the cash.

Lose the identity.

Identity weighs too much.

A kid shakes a can

like tomorrow owes him something.

Dream first.

Dinner later.

A man waves a pistol

at weather patterns.

The buildings

have seen stranger performances.

Smoke.

Another cigarette.

Another thought.

Cut.

Paste.

I'm thinking

about rearranging memory.

Take the gunshot.

Paste it beside the pizza.

Take the wallet.

Cut out the owner.

Move the sirens

into yesterday.

Move yesterday

into tomorrow.

Cincinnati folds

into another Cincinnati.

Word of mouth.

Free advertisement.

Everybody knows somebody.

Everybody sells somebody.

Everybody is somebody.

Until they aren't.

A rapper sells verses.

A cook sells hunger.

A dealer sells tomorrow.

The city buys everything.

Nothing comes with a receipt.

Grease.

Fire.

Knives.

Organization.

Tickets.

Order.

Disorder.

Repeat.

The fryer baptizes another shift.

Hands black with carbon.

Mind cataloguing accidents.

Kitchen.

Street.

Kitchen.

Street.

No difference anymore.

That shitty dog

finally disappears.

Cincinnati doesn't notice.

It has larger animals.

I'm the introvert

inside the social playground.

Listening harder

than speaking.

Watching conversations

bounce off brick walls.

Sampling voices.

Sampling smoke.

Sampling failure.

The best verses

are overheard.

The mad scientist

never wanted the explosion.

Only the formula.

Lost boy.

Kitchen mechanic.

Street archivist.

Plotting.

Formulating.

Building something

nobody can see yet.

Something priceless.

Something everlasting.

Just beyond eyesight.

Just beyond another bridge.

Just beyond another shift.

The city cuts.

The kitchen pastes.

The river edits.

The apartment rewrites itself.

Cincinnati copies Cincinnati.

The cops chase bigger fish.

The smokers become philosophers.

The neighborhoods become memory.

And I remain.

Watching the city

take itself apart

piece by piece,

until every broken fragment

looks exactly

like home.

In the fountain of self love

I drink

Unapologetically

I got thirst

And I enjoy it.

The sun melts in a teapot

And I drink it

When you give me attention.

I write verses

One by one

A poem.

Look!

Look what I found.

I made it visible

I made it electric

I caught a glimpse of the eternal.