ninety degrees in
brooklyn
with writer’s block
on my way
to work
a wasted morning of no words
a sweating
blob of pasty
white privilege flesh
with no discernible talent
dying in the dog days
feeling
like a hard turd
stuck up
a rank and festering
hemorrhoid ass
oh how
this city stinks
come july
my balls itching
my soul floundering
and ready
to burst purple
i watch
a thin
stray tabby cat
licking open
garbage bags
spilling rice
and rancid meat
onto the wet pavement
like he’s found
a pot of gold
like he’s
the goddamned king
of brooklyn
this hazy
ugly morning
with all the answers kept
locked and away from us slaves
in his wide
and almond
eyes.
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