The man on the corner trying on new
Faces like schemes and artifice.
The whole damn city is his hand grenade.
The myth catches an errant lilt out his
Gun shop mouth.

The sky is kind of like a reunion
The lightning, a kind of rambling
Slave holder.
And what of the holster and its
Emptiness?
And the corner man, blankly his stare,
Into it?

I be loving how slow motion this
Overarching funeral is,
These words tumbled, as an aside,
From a boy already 9 and a half years
Into his funeral journey.

God sings a Drifter’s song, hoping to
Make everyone more at ease.

“Under the boardwalk, down by the sea…”

The God song only sprinkled down
Morosely and was heard as rites
The last ones
The rites that cause riotous actions
Like those rites in symphonic spring
Spring when the bunnies, no strong
Rabbits,
Do the majority of their fucking.

Man, on the corner, pint of gin in
Black plastic bag
Look at him lapping up the rainbows.

Lord, let this motherless passage,
Make this vessel safe until it can burst
Bloom like weeds in the vacant lot, where

50 years ago, a house once sat, where a
Few iterations of families once suckled at
Their sentient constitution.