Where lives are controlled thru threats
Drugs and violence. The audience
hold crosses. Its ignorance holds
Down the universe twisting fingers. At night
My arms hold multi colored crystals. My black
Gloves like a symbol of God holds the addicts.
My friend’s think I’m a painter.
My name is Sunday. I survived
Being a movie star. I felt pain too much
To be embarrassed. I’ve been the unemployed
Friend. Quiet dark and wrinkled. On
My stomach to soften my hunger. Good bye
Not the final word. If you believe that.
Breaking into sunrise. I came crying.
I repeated all that happened. I was
In back seat when the car pulled over.
An explosive human stampede
Happening on my ribs and head
Police stripped me out two grams
And dragged along the empty street
My lips wet with blood, I thought,
This my murder.
Dying is an ancient disgrace like painting
Poetry art literature. It’s dumb. When I wake
Up. Tell me you will reach. Tell me you will
Recognize. Tell me you will take
me to bed instead of your husband.
The faint sound of sirens connects me
To this place. It’s a place that reminds us
Of Egypt. The children chew tobacco weed
And marshmallows produce a sap
Used to heal wounds. Everyone watching
Sunday Fall, 1990, lives in NYC. 'I' m interested in chance, collage, the ordinary, extraordinary, flowers, insects, documentary photography, legends, media, technology, Tracey Emin. I hate irony , allusions and double meanings.'