Friday, October 28, 2011


A week ago yesterday, uniformed toughs
copped Gene off Broadway.
Two teenage boys snickered and rode off,
one on the bicycle’s handlebars.
A small, wired haired mutt pissed on a bench.

“Gene never did nothin’ ta nobody!
Except fight in a war that was given to him,”
echoed throughout the tiny valley.

Lazy day sharply came to an end.
Tonight we toast and drink to him.
We think things are unnecessarily
unprofessional in critical times.

We cut off our pant legs to encounter longer
nails in plates of bacon and eggs. Broken arms
use hitchhikers thumbs to their advantage.

When will Gene join us? It’s been thirty
pounds of aluminum cans and still no sign.

Whores who don’t feel safer still walk around
after their naps. Detox centers are filled up
and Gene never returned.

Another example stolen from the streets.


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