And all that razzmatazz. Thanks for reading. Here's the final poem in my memory-tastic series of Charleston Times.
music on the pavement and all I ever
the ability to hate it.
was it palm trees or beaches?
makeup running down
the revamp of
such humble dirty
tricks and dangers.
I had a crummy apartment with
a good girl in
the heart of a ghetto puking its guts out.
and the city was mud, it was cobblestone,
it was the horses marching around
for tourists and their
wedded happy cousins.
I had nothing,
knew, and I was going to die there,
and school was a fluke,
and I was just a kid, and the street
was brazen, and the only friends I ever
made sat there on the beach lighting
fireworks, and yes
of course I fell in love there
all the time
so I left. so I left
and it told me to leave
and it said no southern son and it waved palm fronds
and I left in a beat up truck just in time
before all heaven set with the sun
on the last