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Sunday, September 28, 2014

Your Street

I remember King Street, age 15
My new home
I remember the payphone...
the black, cold and heartless handle
that I buried in its bracket
when Mother cursed and confirmed
my new residence

But your street, my love,
is a darker place
than that cocaine jungle
full of fun-houses and faggots
and cold nights
and cops cars
I'd ask them to arrest me
that I may defrost in a heated room
and find retreat
from the rats that gnawed at my feet

I once promised them a rock through the window of
Canada Trust
if I must

Your street holds no room
for even a cell
in which to survive another night

I always told myself
that I'd find the morning
if I walked far enough
that there would be Manna
spread out on a dewy lawn
I grew cat's eyes
overnight

Your street, my love,
holds no such hope for me
Your street is a maze
drawn up in darkness
maintained by misery
and I, in a corner now
as you close in at last
Though I must remind you
that surely my bones
will not be enough
to line your crooked path
to pave your perfect plan
You will need to find another
when I am gone


Let not blind hatred guide us. The forbidden fruit, though sweet it may taste, will choke us in the end.






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