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an old red fire
and the face of an old red man
like empty cigarette cartons left on the sidewalk
Krishna lived under an old city streetlight and when little boys or little girls passed he would turn his great eyes to their small pale faces
Joshu met a wild dog on a mountain
A woman met the devil down in hell
he was an old meth man, hunting for cans and bottles
bull faced pale red boys
like gasoline and lime
everyone called him bones he was old old as old he told me once half drunk and bawdy about the beginning of the world blue bright eyes like gasoline fires dripping out of his face in the dim I chuckled at his stupid drunken jokes I took him home I put him to his old man’s sleep and before I left him he told me it was like some bright flower in the dark - one hundred seventy one
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Posted on March 27th, a grand Thursday, Common Era 2008 at 8:17 pm.
Category: worthless
Tags: Joshu, Krishna, poem, poetry, prose, writing
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