The Mission

It's cold
As cold as it gets on these wet streets
feces decaying in front of murals rain washing
the refuse of the unforgiven into sewers marked by stecils of dolphins
Heels click click hurried past spanish swearing
stopping only to admire a feathered cap
in the translucent mirror of a cell phone store.

The bar is a safe house
We drink and laugh and tell dirty jokes
the bartender yells the price with a wink
a good deal tonight
We chit chat and booty shake and talk shit
about the people we're texting,
easier this way,
they might hear it in our voice if we called,
the contact may vibrate through our subconcious,
though each syllable uttered positively,
the usual to and fro of polite conversation,
as we hang up we feel something, quick to ignore, like shame,
and we are afraid to speak again.

Perhaps I spend too much time trying to figure out that which has no equation; not a straight line of logic, but a collage of actions that spin and collapse upon themselves,
a social kalidasope, trapped in a pyramid that never changes structure.

All you can change is the light thru which you view it.