Donte in Detroit

I have seen him on every street corner
Stiffened Carhartt somehow crooked on his hollow frame
Ungloved hand wipes back his hair as if
in vanity
Each spire of breath desiccates–
Pushes away hands which offer coins or bills

It is eyes
Eyes he wants

Today he is on Division
Next week, Gratiot Avenue
The crisis of his plea no less shrill
Words deafened on headphones

Ears
Ears he needs

At dusk he hangs his head
Chastised by no one; waves his arm
A woman in Burberry crosses the street

     . . . .

The next icy morning finds him on Russell
Turns away bagels
Bitter the taste of another’s bread

Hawks verse like prophecy

Addendum: Canto 26

Here’s my statement on Martin Shkreli: I
would (still) rather eat my own organs. So
much as you touch me, and I’ll gladly chop off one
of yours.
–@LaurenDuca

Martin Shkreli, surely that is not your flame
I see emerging from the ditch of souls
America’s man who most to blame

Must now walk on vermilion coals.
If it ‘twere you, I would partake
With blade from tip unto arse hole:

Your pockets drained, my passion slaked.
‘For I’d suffer a touch of yours
My liver’d serve me well as cake.

Three I’s in Search of an Author

Are these my words, Francesca,
Which so tumult the flesh
That we suffer ever in verse?

I look to you, sorella,
A thirst for Lethe only
Expunge who I’ve become

I am yours, divine Muse,
In not thirst but fire
May the ink be erased
And I