the spilling of my brain upon lettered buttons
Leaves reflected the reds and yellows of neons and traffic lights while they plummeted upon hooded craniums.
In nearby blocks, business suites smoked and sped-walked through half-hour breaks. Ties waved at everyone from behind jumbles of tense shoulders, arms, hands, and fingers who didn't have the time to do so themselves. Through blood stains and fecal smells, he was a coyote or a wild dingo, applying for a job. Nobody knows where the want to place oneself under the tendencies of a land where 100 miles are required per minute comes from in an ex-mental patient, homeless, music man.
Still, his whispering wasn't faint when he stopped to name a dog.
A vivacious proclamation unburied itself: "Pookie, you've gotta start somewhere."
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