I am from the gutter.
Dime bags and broken beer bottles adorn the concrete paradise of my iron jungle.
I’m from broken-down boxes
and squeezed lime rims. Their use have been fully served and they now return to the dark drown abyss of the sewage system.
I’m from the guilty waft of missed desires and salty demands of recalling the past.
I’m from the voice of a thousand men,
wailing for their happiness to enchant them again, drinking potions of time magic to evoke their ancient, visceral emotions that society has deemed inappropriate for t men to exhibit.
I’m from the cold stare of the outliers of society,
angels who have fallen out of grace with their maker and have been banished to the outskirts of the outer realm of the edge of the universe.
I’m from the father who poured his soul in the plaster
and pulverized his bones into the concrete of the steps and dripped his sweat and tears into every soup, every mixed drink, every daily special on his menu. Until he had become one with it. And would be forever lost without it.
I’m from the rebellion against everything I am.
I’m from the crack in the foundation,
the inner ramblings of restlessness, the circled marks of tar and fliers of missed opportunities and reaffirming values.
I’m from the one bottle of Corona in a case of Modello’s.
the shattered glass of wood and the broken splinters of windows, the debris left behind after the storm. The putrid smell of rotten meat and aged cow intestines.
I’m from the product of procrastination and worry,
the final gulp of solace before last call.