Every night weíre subjected to

the cardboard sound of the helicopters

roughly slapping the air

the dangerous citizenry

looking hard for criminals or just weak lost persons

unable to see or adequately get around.


You may try and space oneís eyes up

through between the buzz of wires on poles

the yesterday hurt and marred appearance of the buildings

built in a way for somebody else, the passed away once cars.


I cannot turns out always secure sleep rest at night

the sky glowing the unpleasant warm purple gray here

the color of discarded menís suits

left out in the wash too long, the sun.


The helicopter grinding beater mulling hums

at night, not the splendorous evenings Iíd

thought of or wished for, thereís

in these shanty, shack, days, dark ends, no you

to explain to me how

itíll all be all right