Parking Lot Poem by Jeffrey Quattlebaum

Dirty twisted mouth
dry and sticky
smuggling
and implying
something of a destiny
a disciple of
nothing
A harvester
of nothing

At night we can hear
engines on retard
sub-sonic ghouls
gun shots and sweet nothing
shouting and instructions
the end of a play

at dawn we can see
police tape
and bloody feelings
Ghosts of the third act
out here we are free
to express our culture
dance the grinding Dog
feel our hot lead
and listen
to our language
right here we
are popular
right now under surveillance
right now it is fashion