Words lost in language, left in memory, in skin,
in dust. All the world a ghost town; how can
you not believe?
Every sound is not the wind,
every movement not living.
Their speech rises through foundations, calling to open ears.
Listen to the wind.
Learn its voice.
Hold her chords:
hear when the dust speaks.
Come when dirt calls; when land
needs tilling for building,
to fall; when man needs helpless
for rebels, to fall. They are donning
armor, they are leaving homes in piles.
Who is the housing
Why are they so
So merciless, eager to own homes unneeded?
Private prisons owned by former FBI owned by government owned by convictions that buried millions.
Over a billion served, today.
How many haunted
McDonald’s are there?
Vagabonds: scouts for ghosts,
fast food joints like farm funerals,
repast in the dump where
all the dust wants to be,
the VIP of a land where lives
lie in the grave, waiting.
So much time spent being heavy. Where is the lift? So much time bearing down to earth. Where is the enlightenment? Why are we fighting it? Or finding it, or why
won’t the ghosts just give us answers; won’t our history teach? Why
don’t we listen when the homeless speak?
clothing hints at
worth their work.
Hats with more history
than some young boys,
Coalitions of bums congregate on corners and remember, and forget, and are freed.
Eyes that mutate
the mind in every
thoughts different in
every plant, every synthesis
of sensory detail.
A druggie told
me to keep my
head up, a homeless
man asked why
Those without are those with all, safe from standards, gold or other.
Brands because they sear our thoughts; Goodwill, a prayer-karma in cloth.