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I’ve slipped into a place
of dark figures.
Blue and purple tubes are the guardians of life,
they are tormented by sharp gods,
They are tired of protecting.

Two flies batter a window
for hours.
I’ll find them in the spring.
I’ll find them with the dark figures,
a calm definite thud amongst the carcasses
and cobwebs.
Years of debris in dark places,
don’t they know they’ll never get out?

I’m too lazy to open the window.
Time will tire their little wings
and the many versions of what’s outside
will blur.
I wish I could help, but I don’t care
about two little flies and corners piling up.

I just want to listen to their wings and
the sound of never giving up.

J. bal


In the Morgue
I’m packed in here with the others.
The port authority and the border patrol
have no jurisdiction here.

We don’t pay attention to new arrivals,
we don’t pay rent,
our pockets have all been picked.

Nobody’s on anyone’s side,
there are no sides. (except)

Nobody cares about:
who I prayed to,
or what color I am.
Nobody says anything about my weight
or my outfit.
Nobody asks who I loved
or who I voted for.
I’m not afraid of someone trying
to jump my bones. (Although
it’s not impossible)

The only divides are the cold-packed boxes
in which we now reside.

We’re in line for answers and operations;
planting or incinerating.
Stuff we don’t care about anymore.

The biggest complaint is about the tag
(it makes the big toe itch like crazy!)

J. Bal