The liquid filth rushed out
Of the drain-pipe like the waters
Of Grand Rapids, except only
Here the fish are dead.
And condom wrappers drag along
The middle school parking lot
As the wind blows violently,
But the smog is still there,
The green is not on the grass,
But in the air that suffocates me.
One time I found an empty bullet shell
Lying defeated on the floor of
A church--Even heaven has its trash.

I lock myself up in the dim-lit
Fortress made of paper mache
I call my apartment,
But acid came in the form
Of stinging water-drops
From red tinted clouds.
And everything pure seems to
Melt and drain into drainages
--The destination of our course.

Open the window Albert, so I can
Hear the Exhaust Pipe Symphony
Lull me into a coma.

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