skirting the center of the street,
rows of tired yellow lookers preached monotonously at us,
as we waited for the bad brown taxis to pass us by
inside my head
i was trying to recall
the last time I went hungry
over something physical,
and as I continued
picking her teeth
with broken sparrow branches,
I grappled with some obscene laughter
coming from the hole in my eye
what happened to the colors?
who is left except my obscuring reflection?
communication thrives on open air to breathe,
but here (in this dream) there might just be too much veracity
11/2/69
Philadelphia