Who am I looking for?
What am I looking for?

The tick of the clock with the speed of a rabbit
who heard a hum and trembled?
The woman painted on the Wall of Wails…?
there is no tenderness in painted picture,
it is a feeling of a constant thwack.

I am amid the cold, vacant garden,
spotted glasses and broken mirrors.
thrown in the dirt, into the murky water
wormy from piss, filthy from mud

(The world can be horrible, but not dirty. And all that disgust, I kept my good taste.)

Though petty illusions were bringing short term relief,
I yawningly hit the little drums while walking the streets of same dark city
beneath the clouds who are like bulletproof vests.


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