a. the soles of lost souls leave prints that won’t rinse
across the tracks to broken backs and underage heart attacks
a dj gets bored and melts up his wax while some developer
counts his latest contracts in gentrified stacks.
subtle mexican landscapers dream of a day they can relax.
the needle marks up a nubian spine look like pinpricks of cheap wine
a liquor store looms like the quiet before an execution
-ghetto moonshine smells like the final solution.
stiletto eyed baby mothers sit and make an ablution
in the form of prostitution for some avenue’s sex drive
our stores have all been captured and skinned alive
so white boys can make another parking lot thrive.
b. the soles of lost souls leave trails that somersault metro rails
and ride comet tails through alleys strewn with jewels of decay.
the worst thing for a youngster is to dream a better day
to stay away from armadas of hustlers
old school pig-thwarting tusslers
and golden-toothed crackhead rustlers.
c. the soles of lost souls ignore a maze of potholes
and savor corn rolls that won’t be voted on in polls.
a lobbyist cajoles with a chiseled heart of stone
saintly privileged activists put their conscience on loan
to the highest bitter reality is just a pinch hitter for hope
as cherry blossoms grope and let their flabby trunks elope
to another kind of sunrise in a place that shadows fear
a place that is not far
or near
where the souls of lost souls
can take cover and hover over the ashes
of a discarded lover.
