What up? My brain doesn't want to work today, so here's a poem, I think:
seven months an orphan
beneath and oak park bridge
And I'm still dreaming the dream
Where I'm in an elevator
And there's a man beside me
with a suitcase full of photographs
and he lays them on the floor as the weight shifts
And I pick one up and its nice
A house, a kid, a wife,
I tell him its nice
He tells me he needs it back
I tell him I didn't want it
He tells me he needs it back
and slugs me in the arm
But I keep holding it
Until I wake up and roll over
to face the iron and rivets
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