Old scriptures dog-eared in the register of infrared
news dailies, the chipped SIM cards of this street’s history
become the wings of the citizens’ fast-abiding method
to whatever is psychologically fit bulimic of cash and class:
I remain blinkered yet inspired of the bubble gum sticking out
a taste of this and that. Hip as tradition strays on slippered,
coal-skinned memory, a visionary glued
on the accrued philosophy of Marty’s Hamburger, a bystander
becalmed by postmodern hair fashion like Son Goku
by way of super faith. Being a bum for 2 hours
beside the ATM booth, I start to cave in over the secrecy
of life entered instantly into a card hole, this mouth-contoured
abysmal slit, what’s in there? People queued up,
patience steeplechased, as if for quick pleasure, as if
recharging a tired body or a ravaged soul, as if
inside you will meet the Devil painting his nails
Mexican pink with the struggle of a toothless trident,
or maybe encounter Mr. ATM himself doing you
a favor to steal a line from a song that says,
“What if God was one of us?” Chewing bubble gum
under the sun, smitten by the rasp and rattle of holy
heat, is sweet, and this so true madam. For I’m
a bum, yes sir, I’m a bum.