(original poem & song)
She had just finished her coffee
she had just finished super-gluing
the iron-on patches to
her black jeans
Shamelessly
when the BBC
reported her city
the night before
The scandalous
yet predictable situations
played out on the streets when
certain dice were cast
Rolled and bounced into
a combination of numbers
when added
together spelled trouble
She could coherently
put herself together for you
on a gray cloud
with a silver-stained lining
Halloween behind the ears
like a cool whip of
winter winds on
the nape of your neck
When someone in any given room
in any given west-side victorian
half-rehabbed three story apartment
had mind to meet
The fullness of her face
the fullness of her hot stare
the depth of her purpose
you can believe
Just like you buy
the street talk on the east side
in a slurpee swishersweet rhetoric
ghetto to the bone
Descended from
the self-made madness
of your home
