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rabble

Patrick fealey

    the edges of our dreams if we had them are worn smooth as the cobblestones at our stinking feet, flat as our asses on the only bench they gave us . . . here comes a green jaguar, british racing green, to adjust my perceived material security: got $4 in my wallet, half a pack of camels, and eight rolling rocks in the tiny fridge . . . tomorrow's hustle is distant and i am lifted strong by the morphine pulsing through my head. i live in a cell upstairs so they think they can give me their diseases. they strangle one another and the cops interrogate me; they think i am one of them. i have fallen and they have never imagined a phoenix boy. to them, i am never getting out of here because nobody does. i am one of them. they see me at the soup kitchen with my mouth shut. they believe my stupidity brought me to the world they own. i am less than one of them. they beat one another with hammers and overdose and rot like any old liars . . . the jaguar eases down farewell street . . . tomorrow's suicide asks me for a cigarette. i say yes.

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