insomnia.

"compelled by calamity's magnet

they loiter and stare as if the house

burnt-out were theirs, or as if they thought

some scandal might any minute ooze

from a smoke-choked closet into light;

no deaths, no prodigious injuries

glut these hunters after an old meat,

blood-spot of the austere tragedies.

Mother Medea in a green smock

moves humbly as any housewife through

her ruined apartments, taking stock

of charred shoes, the sodden upholstery:

cheated of the pyre and the rack,

the crowd sucks her last tear and turns away."-s.p.

it's getting harder and harder for me by the minute to live in this city. this small town city that i've grown to love. 

awake at 5 am. listening to handsome, trying to glean some knowledge from drug addled rock. wanting to punch something. or scream. but instead choosing to laugh at the absurdity of all this nonsense that has come to light in the past few hours. 

post script...

i used to walk by that piece of art every day for years. guilty? or not guilty? we'll never know...