10 am Saturday His legs take turns, propelling him through clouded crystalline barriers, Inky black thoughts clasped in his left hand. The toasted man takes his place among the Meager masses on his chafing pleather throne
240 seconds, a cup of tar, and 6 white cubes Reveal the foot prints of spectral crows as they Perch at opposite occipital with talons that scratch at his temples.
The toasted man is old. Garfield chats with The Peanuts as he fingers the classifieds and fondles the sports page, tiptoeing past the implicit cautions that make their home in the obituary.
Salt and pepper dreads down the back from the head of the olive toned stranger compliment the freckles and dots that speckle his exposed hands like six kix in a box of cocoa puffs,
Hands, that wear scars from careless mistakes made in days of old, cradle a mug with the delicacy of a mind honed by patience.
The toasted man is my best friend, But we’ve never met
Back in the Summer of eighty five thank God I was still alive music was filling the streets as I chilled by the strip here’s the trip many girls were dressed with flames both were not ashamed the innocence of
Tears of Man You have the right to remain silent. Do you make the choice or remain violent? Do you evolve and become more civilized? Or do you choose to stay belligerent? You choose to be healthy, like you are
The bones are brittle as are the thoughts they crumble events of yesterdays that never happened things that happened not remembered today becomes another time faces and events mingle become a crazy quilt He sits and stares unaware of a
Who said that dawn doesn’t know him? Yes … Who has said that? He is secreting night when the sunset flows to poem end ; the flute, which surrendered stealthily to the day song, it runs away from the maze
The pressure in his head at times was unbearable like a vice clamped around his forehead having it twisted a 1/4 –turn at a time and when he finally thinks it can’t get anymore painful then bad timing comes around