hungry could use help
no pretense of will work
just matter of fact
black on limp cardboard

his clothes the color of earth
some stains as fresh as today
some as old as his eyes

his skeletal form sways
head hung
round shoulders and concave chest
like an S on the side of the road
a man trying to fold into himself

maybe it was his face
etched by brutal squint of sun
the shadow of  brow
acrosss broken eyes
the scratch of callous
as one finger slid along
the contour of my hand
intimate, familiar

maybe it was his voice
too sane, too spotless
as he softly said
el sueño de la razón
produce monstruos
that made me understand

we are all as lost as he 

Tasha Speaks

the worst part is it's never quiet
the sounds get inside your head
they rattle from lobe to lobe
forming patterns and circles and chains

last night we slept beneath the freeway
tightly tucked in the narrow place
between vibrating concrete
and dry coughing dirt

i hate the whoosh rush of cars
the rolling cooooorrrrrr of pigeons
asleep in the steel above our heads
Ole Boy says it sounds like a lullaby
to me it sounds like a song about sinners
played by the hands of a disappointed god