The life is in the blood. It pulses there in the eyes– soul windows clouded but alive– deep-black, watery pools, red-rimmed distant orbs. Back alley homes, newspaper blankets, city heat vents, street’s grating. Wearing everything he owns on his decaying body. Shopping cart collection of what-knot necessities, and what’s in the brown paper bag in his hand? Park benches make…
April 1, 2016 Read more