there is fucking on the streets
there is fucking behind closed doors
there is fucking on the sidewalks,
where the condom wrappers are left
bedraggled in the breeze,
swept up by the wind's gyration.
i walk down the sidewalk
in the neighborhood
where fried chicken seeps thru the fried chicken building
and onto the sidewalk where
a night or day before
some people where fucking
never to be caught,
but never to be seen again.
it oozes from every pore of my soul
until i walk by
and the breeze's gyration sweeps it away.
i keep my crazy with me all the while
like middle class white women elsewhere keep purses,
neatly tucked away,
and what does my vegitarian ass think
when i smell rotted meat so clearly
seeping thru my pores
in a city alley
beside the old meat factory
where the stuff oozes
from the factory's pores
the way chicken oozes
from the fried chicken place.
there is not much to think or do,
but only to smell.
the bricks glint sideways,
and the dumpsters offer possibilities
and friendly offerings
for those of us
nearly too squallid in situation
is not a glamourization
of the poverty of my friends and i and my neighbors too
nor of the destitution of the parts of our city
where people still dare to live,
merely a self-evident statement
that it all, we all, still breathe here somehow.