#9: Zoned For Concrete

Swing low, sweet crane
in spirit and truth, sci-fi named.

Bring the machines, the last two years
they've pushed so much dirt.

Hollow out the city,
fill it with rubble,
pound that into paste.

I'll recall days under the bridge, watching out
keeping my hood tight to my hair, soaked
through to my socks. I'll recall the
eyesores replaced with eyesores.

I will not try to stop you,
growth or death, growth or death

but will tell the stories to my sons
of the growth and death of corners.

January 8th, half finished, in eight lines.

you will live and die in front of a computer, by choice or pay.
time spent summoning the angels will outlast the help they give.

mongolian names are harder than ethiopian, welsh, or chinese.
working girls/smirking churls/lurking hurls.

the habit of putting off hard decisions just long enough for someone else to make them.
have a good time at the funeral; you know what I mean.

you will live and die and this mist will feel the same either way.
you know what I mean. obviously, I'm being dramatic.