Residual Ink
I build this edge of night against sharp blades of white static, stoic and bleeding death.
New Orleans 4:38 am
The serpent sits vexed upon the moon as I fight against the raging echoes of autism. This hour in particular seems to bounce off my walls and dark shadow people roam the halls, pitching a fixed deck into the fireplace.
My lost dreams glow obsidian and I remember all of the musicians are dead.
Shot in the head by God.
This city.
She is a gris gris vortex.
Bullets and bourbon sting the bare legs of her children.
Sparrows fight crows to build their nests in vacant streets.
White horses race into the gulf with black feathered plumes foaming at the mouth and
echoing apocalypse.
A dark symphony of blues bleed against cemetery walls and I am slowly going blind.
This city.
She is a hurricane harlot overdosing on fentanyl.
Even the dead have deserted her.
Or more likely it’s me, with my growing disdain for homicide and hookers. or the gentle realization that I am like the city, wasted and alone.