MACEDON IS NOT WORTHY OF THEE

I am a suffering colossus in a guilty world, deep-

strider, following the fever of forgotten shadows.

“Re-deem that motherfuck like a bottle—fiiiiiive cents”

Dr. Teeth said that. He was always talking shit. A

devotee of the backslang, reading dailies from

the doomy sky. “Easy money    make for dirty pussy.”

That was the last I heard before the instant canter,

dormant eyeballs in unadorned fixation, same as those

junkies on the Path train two a.m., with their paint-

spattered jeans and dandelion heads, ground-grazing,

like devout Muslims anguishing after prayer bumps.

Sacred illumination. The barbarous rape of an endless

fury. Demiurge of bloodrush veins, mind gone clashing

along cliffsides. Better than the ear bent to meaningless

meander, following the slave-strobe of the workaday

world. It’s why Maritza soft-sucks with missing teeth.

It’s why we take your life, when we could let you live.