Friday

I'm driving through a neighborhood
in a city
I can't understand,
in a city like
any other,
so full of
hunger.

I'm driving through this neighborhood
and see two
plump white punks,
they are
imagining themselves
broken.

The boy is lying
in the grass
wearing a cool smile
while the girl
begs on the corner
bulging out of ripped jeans
underneath gelled hair.

Her cardboard sign looks,
cute
HOMELESS
BROKE
HUNGRY
each word its own
color.

It's not romantic
to be poor
insane
lost
hungry
dying
filthy
afraid.

It hurts.

Wednesday

I read a poem in ArtVoice the other day.
The poem said
"Buffalo smells like cheerios".
I disagree.
Buffalo smells like
locked doors and flooded
basement floors.

Buffalo looks like
a beautiful billboard
above an abandoned building.

And it doesn't feel
like anything.