RENT PARTY BLUES

I have seen
The Hollow Men
standing in The
Wasteland. Evidence entombed
like mute men
profoundly silent with
everything to say.
Vacant eyes and
toothless grins, punctured
cans and voices
in the hallway.
Fat cats and
alley rats, slaughter
nights and suicide
suites. Melting pots
is what we are.
How do
we live here?
Urgent existentialist, it
will not matter
when I wrap
my hands around
your throat. Choking
is such good
therapy. God and
Indians is what
he meant.