City of Dogs (a poem)

Stray dogs rule this town

on other sides of rusted tracks

where train-cars no longer run by,

and broken needles litter roads of

utter urban hell –

hear dogs howl at nasty nightfalls

under black canvases of iron skies,

smell my rotten soul,

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Ten-Dollar Bill (a poem)

The woman asks me for ten dollars – she demands it

I’m reluctant, standing in a pock-marked city,

but feeling pity for her, as she frantically talks

her eyes yellow like harvest moons

her voice shrieks like an urban banshee –

the realities of poverty and addiction,

the rich getting fatter off broken backs.

I reach into my wallet, hand her a ten-dollar bill

she hugs me + hurries away, vanishing into the night,

and as I walk home, I wonder if I’ll ever need to

ask for my ten dollars back

(Photo by Vitaly Taranov on Unsplash)

Soul Snatcher

The soul-snatcher glared at me from the dusty street corner with fiery orange eyes, his hands cupped over his mouth because of the early morning cold.

I had been out late that night, and I was returning home a little tipsy.

“Hello there,” he said. “Looking for your fix?”

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The Monk in the City at Midnight

The monks say that without an absolute zeal for God, religion becomes just another opiate. This is referring to Marx’s famous statement, that religion is “the opiate of the people.” Who’s correct – Marx or the monks?

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