to the left or right
you’re not really on our side
where do butterflies
go when they die on fire
hey Joe i heard you were gonna shoot your own country down
deep
breath
eyes
closed
before this moment
i remind me that i’m not enough
it
is
there
tucked
in
the
breath
under
the
waves
disconnection although i never knew what she really felt then the Pantry floats about memories of standing in line on Figueroa at the mouth of downtown when downtown was a city
meadows i see on the packages in the lady business aisle of my regular supermarket
Los Angeles breeze
weary leaves heavy with dust
nails of my fingers
chewed down to bloody chipped stubs
agony and mind control
Diego the flowers
indigenous majesty
from a time before
the conquest of Silicon
with barcodes on their petals
i not ever one to stay settled
not in a chair nor a desk or a flipped car in the middle of the highway
my roots never grew
i stayed for a little while
then climbed on the first wind
that blew through this soul of sand
my grains turned pale gray
tumbling through this earthen hourglass
i write this to myself
at an angle framed by brick weeds and piss the King Eddy has closed
window and door a silent rigor mortis
no more free drinks or musty teamster gropes
skid row catches the eye
twilight lives here day or night
but at times it shimmers
the network of your arms
strong like a cedar tree
fingers from both of our hands
connecting transporting us
they ask why do i cover it
wandering around town
a million thoughts
abstract in their reality
answers but then the questions haunt
im not a fitter in the jigsaw of today
just a wanderer a sorceress with a spray paint can
strayed under the bridges
archangel seal on finger broken twice
between 3 and sunrise shift
my eyes stay wide open
aches of muscle and moments passed
regrets are very minimal

*all lines of this cento are from other works written by mb