Hello all, here is the third audio poem in the series of the O'Hare poems. Technical difficulties be damned. Also, fuck the McDonald's in that airport. We all wanted the breakfast so bad and we were all just five minutes late.
3.
I am trying my best
to obtain information
about the death
of our lord.
was he around when I was born?
was he a sandal-faced
gypsy?
I sit in an airport
surrounded by
two million refugees
with hanged mouths
and circled eyes.
they tell me
about the void in
the tarmac.
we’ll sink;
you can't be saved.
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