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)
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?”
This gothic cathedral was once a spiritual home.
Priests dabbed foreheads with holy water and
incense wafted to high ceilings and
parishioners chewed on wafers and said:
“Peace be with you.”
Why does this city feel like a living thing?
It’s like the people teeming from buildings are all
part of an organism, and the endless concrete breathes
and coughs up dust that suspends in hot air.
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?
Rows of cars jammed at traffic lights
grind over asphalt – horns bleat like sheep
we’re all sheep, choking on exhaust.
The Drabble recently published a piece of micro-fiction I wrote called, “Doomsday Playlist.” The very short story is about the feelings I had while spending some time in South Philly when my girlfriend lived there. In particular, it’s about gentrification and how I could feel tension in the neighborhood.