auras, haloes and

The place is right here.
Or maybe there, I don’t know.
Extraterrestrial midgets stroll down the street,
if you may call it a street and them midgets,
stroll and babble their heads off,
babble about insanity, freedom, compassion,
garage sales, taxi fares and fake IDs,
scattering around burning antiquated mailboxes,
cracked iPhones, worn-out sneakers,
their own nail parings and hair,
If you may call them nail parings and hair,
and mild radiation. And on their way
they bless warehouses, liquor stores,
auto repair shops and empty parking lots.
Policemen and the homeless follow them reverently,
gibbering about auras, haloes and shit.
A woman wearing a black homely bra and matching panties
pops out of the door of a dome-shaped building
with an unlit cigarette in her mouth and asks where they are going.
She might as well ask about their sex and race.
You’ve been told that the show is going to begin soon,
still not sure, though, about the exact time and location.
You know the password. You have a drum kit,
but have never learned to play, which is fine with them.
It is a warm evening. Okay, maybe cold. Does it matter?
The eyes we inherit don’t fit well anyway.

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