of Boston hacking away
at the air, hatchet voices
rebounding off of metal.
we mutter
"this fucking city" under
our breaths as if it were
a prayer that would
keep our stomachs full.
we buy little else besides
food, still, it's a hunger
issue, it's a matter of the 99%,
the 99% are hungry, dammit,
make a few sandwiches,
pass them out like confetti.
something to celebrate
would be good for all of us,
since we're surrounded by the sinister
in Boston tonight, ego tripping around.
confusion is a weakness that I
do not intend to let swallow me.
standing on this forgetful piece of land
I can anticipate the movements of the moon,
and when exactly the light screams green.
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