Just East of Here

Most will live and die here, helpless in a hopeless place.

There’s nothing to fear here,
not if you steer clear,
if you understand the sheer need for cheap beer,
cheap liquor;
There aren’t any yuppies,
no one’s lucky
to be pulling in a sixth figure.

Lines are drawn here.
You flex your brawn here.
You’re left ponder why your father left your mom here.
Get strung along here,
adopted, dropped off,
and left alone to rot here.
It’s not fair,
but I get it.

I’ve said it
a thousand different ways now;
I have explained how
I’d go for broke by flipping dope
in hopes that I could leave it behind,
and I find
myself wishing I was leaving here,
looking through the rear-view mirror.

You’d be choking on the smoke of my tires;
pawn shops, policemen and thugs:
More authority
forcing the block
to form monopolies improperly
on hookers and drugs.

The crows are watching us.
Corvids are mocking us.
They’re already dressed in black,
and they laugh
at the ash and the dust,
at the lead and the rust,
at the broken little girls,
and the justice from the end of a gun.

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