We begin making things up by six or seven,
minds of hummingbirds we sip from wells of illusion.
We can take you with us
to the eddy of an ever prodding muse
dip our wings in her breathtaking colors.
I Leave as though I am going to work. Instead I walk downtown and meld with the chaotic masses, searching eyes that are infused with survival. As the morning wears on relentless chatter becomes an undercurrent of whispers fading with the crowd, a form of stasis, sweat and coffee stinging the nostrils, clinging to skin. Alien faces etched behind my eyes.
Making my way to the metro I must pass the warehouse district. The young addict is still propped against the graffiti covered wall that turns golden in the sunset. Unkempt, her arms are folded around her knees. Jarred by the boot of her pimp she glances upward from her…
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