If these city blocks could talk, would you hear the hollow echo
of my soul’s soles,
edging around the lonely buildings,
thru the twisted and deformed night?
The streetlamp spotlight,
and a little slice of neon –
The slanted, pale red brick,
now crumbling and blackened by fire.
The stiff, blue mechanics of alleyway night,
crooked neighborhoods, dividing tracks, and road.
Masked by the golden Sunday sunlight,
this town is as pure of an example as anything,
Superficial, sing-song birds pilfer thru car washes,
and seek salvation on power lines and in other bird-way terminals
The halls, shops, liquor stores, institutions etc.
all have twisted paths that lead to
The hills have eyes
but so do the streets,
with their piercing stop lights, headlights,
bright lights, night lights –
This town stabs my soul with the pitiful remembrance of a strangled youth