Each morning,
wake up with a heavy mind,
full of stillborn words and ragged stones,
with a heart that weighs a couple tons,
the silence rings, I opens doors
and lets the lifeless air out.

Nothing left to do at home, but settle at the bottom,
give roots into pine veneer and vegetate to the
refrigerator drone.

I leave the lights on, leave quiet walls,
leaking faucets, empty cupboards,
rust on the radiator ribs,
dust and mold on the ceiling and floors.

Outside, instant sniffles
and shivering spasms,
hands burrow deeper into pockets,
I walk between high-rise bodies of
dead concrete.
Flickering beads of lights
weave around the neck, the roadsides
and the streets.
Paper labels litter wet pavement,
smeared and ripped.

Alloy air,
garbage mixed with a wingspan of spring.
I inhale and hold it in.

not bubble wrapped, not safe,
but ugly, gritty, pretty.
Natural man-made decay
mirrors the way that we were
and the way that we are,
and still continue to be,
still we survive.

I don't believe in a single god,
not for the fashion but because
Ive seen many gods
in the old, in every stranger and homeless
or the overworked hurrying home,
in the listless faces of mothers,
tired, humble and strong.
Its not spiritual or supernatural,
but rather mundane
it's all about having a backbone
when the forces of human nature
take over and ignorance reigns.

It's when there is constant defeat,
but there is hope in spite of
complete absence of hope
coming not from above
but from the inner reserves of all.

I have witnessed that
we survive on our own.