the city that fit oddly

i did, once, walk through a part of it
more than once; all the time would be a better fit.

see:
the electric blue electric mumble of the tv actor in the darkened room
his voice’s
sound crackles; walkie-talkie, it could be.

terrified piece of plastic
tumbles down the abandoned cobblestones
dances
flutters
(shrieks)
and tumbles on, abandoned in the street,
like a lover in the rain
looking
for what cannot be.

cigarette butts guide the way around the corner.
the one that sneaks toward the main road
where the neon vultures crawl, unsettling
the poet into hiding
in the abandoned alley.

the industrious student cycles by.
he’s on his way to his whiskey, and to his books.
the vultures, they scare him too; with their claws
and their squawk! squawk!
evil eyes! picking at carrion are their flashing, painted,
wicked
sickle beaks.

the promises of pleasure - but where?
the artist looks around - where does he go?
in the darkened alley, a storyteller
weaves the crowd of four a verbal tapestry,
lit up by his candles. the artists sees the minstrel’s
fiery
(eyes)
flash in the dark, reflecting the candle light, looking at the poet, calling
- the madman!- the poet looks away and moves on.

it is quiet, quiet as death, but less certain.
there is a movement somewhere, a-
thrum. the bowels of the city
churn
in the silence of their deed.
the poet feels sadness flow into him, coupled
with malaise’s thick cloud making him a cloak to wear in the city’s cool night.
he trudges into the dark night
back to the dark placebo of safety
that his little room offers him.

the world closes, like a masturbation fantasy.

-AN