This Illness
I watch the cars
up and town Broadway
across from Cag’s bicycles
I wonder how many drive
idle with heavy hearts?
How many drift aimless
home from work with
grease burned into their arms
with tears scarred into the
corners of their eyes?
You can scrub the dirt from
your skin but you can’t clean
this illness from your bones.
I am sick and she is sick
and we were born into this sick world.
The medicine men on the corners
hold our dreams and aspirations,
We’ve traded Californian vistas
and white fences for landscapes
of death and urban rot.
Tonight I say I am going to kill myself
I’ve said this every night for months
and with each haunted evening
I tiptoe closer to oblivion
with the faith of a preacher.
Horror Sleaze Trash 