A sample of a poetic work in progress. More to come.
It was a quarter to one in the morning in early July,
and she was a Cincinnati seven smoking Maui Wowie
in the orange haze of the alley behind the house
where she rented a room in west Anaheim,
freeway adjacent and below the poverty line.
The sort of place where the grass is dead
and dreams are strung up and forgotten
on the buzzing web of criss-crossing powerlines,
fifteen feet above uncomfortably warm concrete.
Cable-ready, dog-friendly. Five-hundred a month.