Notes from a Solitary Drunk on Halloween


I stare at my feet as I walk
It is the small things
The fallen things
That interest me most
The squares of dead clay form
A network of oases
The kindest we could do is
Dig up the concrete


A crow circles above the freeway
Does he see a river of dead
Or dying?


I let the old man push the crosswalk button.
He’s earned it.


The children come out before dark now
And I know they aren’t afraid, because
Their world is without spirites.
Their parents, however,
Know the perilousness of a world
Without neighbors.


Costumes were once made
And worn to banish the devil
Now they are bought
And worn to beckon the customer


Do not drink if you do not become a font
Of words
A continuously broken fall
Of left feet and more senses
Than we have fingers
To count them with


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