After Neruda
R. Nikolas Macioci
​

I kid you not, living
leaves me cold That’s
how it is. All those stores
lit up with their junk
make me puke. I’m tired
of farting around. I’d like
to hit the street with
a blade in my hand
mugging and stealing
till I die of the shivers
in some godforsaken gutter.
That would be better
than sitting on my ass
feeding and sleeping
day after day like
a root in the muck
with nobody watching.
That’s better than walking
streets paved with teeth
watching them lower
suicides out windows.
What choice have I got
but to get the hell out
of this hard rain and find
a dry place to sleep
in some dank corner
of some subway?