The Poor

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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

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About Author

Jackson Burgess studies Creative Writing and Narrative Studies at the University of Southern California. He also tutors at LA Southwest College and edits for Red Sky: A Literary Journal and Fractal Literary Magazine.

He’s recently placed writing in Circa Review, Vector Press, Phantom Kangaroo, Rufous City Review, and elsewhere.

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