They've painted over my graffiti in the bathroom at the coffee shop. That's too bad.
The third floor of the rotting victorian is simmering, sticky still at 1130 pm, clinging to the afternoon's long gone heat.
If i open the window, it smells like evaporating stale piss.
I can't finish my work. I want only to listen to songs:
I want to be a tattooed lady
dedicated, as I am, to art
Characters bold, complex and shady
will write my memoirs
across my heart
Two roosters I slew
and with all of my might
I prayed, hard, for you
in Haiti at night
Your skin has turned blue
and your hair has turned white
Must be the voodoo
of this Haitian moonlight
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