Day Five: ‘Kurdt At 19’

April 5, 2013

The babysitter’s gum falls from her mouth

as the television oozes stale reports

of lost war, deficits and fallen idols.

Baggy sweaters hide the raised hair

on our little twig arms,

feeling real fear for the first time.

 

Across the latitude, Mister Heroin

mingles with the kids under the bridge.

He sleeps in cars, on floors, and pawns his strings

for cash to turn out another shaky night.

General industry resides in his blood.

 

Smoke in circles, talk of the Clinton decade

fondly, like the multiple choice history

it is. In a New York tunnel tonight,

a violinist sprays your leaky melodies

across subway walls, and young mall punks

buy ragged t-shirts reeking of your face.

 

But they know not what it means

know not what it means

know not what it means

know not what it means

when I say ah.

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