2001-09-30 - 5:09 a.m. - this isn't a poem, really.

buckling from the inside out

the pressure of plates shifting and rocks

melting. sich a macbre dance

of concrete and crooked

teeth, tracing toes in ash

and sand, holding hands

like children and grandparents

we watched a crossing guard guide

shoes over parkways

to sidewalks made of flesh

cemented in blocks and cracked

like leaves, digging his heel

into the snow and staggering, alone

unaswered in prayer save for the birds

that fly between buildings and their songs

that bounce echoes between glass

and steel, caulked and sealed,

thick with the taste of that after-

shave mouthwash and an indescribable

predilection toward the abject smell

of cigar smoke and sweat.

there was a girl selling

flowers, pin and wilting already

i thought about buying one just to drop

on the people beneath us.

fuck that.

just another wasted dollar.

we don't need beauty.

xoxo

listen to: godspeed you black emperor.

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