And I couldn’t make them understand. I drew it on napkins,
I carved it in the air. They looked through me and saw
nothing at all. I’ve been angry for a long time. I can’t describe
the taste of dust under the overpasses. I can’t explain
the sound of a schizophrenic’s laugh. The mothers picking at
puncture wounds. The lunatics nursing dogs. The bums out
masturbating in public under shredded bags and sheets.
Some days the temple quivers and some days it is firm.
I stand in puddles of grease and relish the scent.
Photo by Sima Dimitric