Dear King Street of Alexandria VA,
I looked after you like a cop,
I swept your gutters as if they were my own,
Never mind my body ,I sold my soul on your corners,
Remember that time the filthy light shined down on that guy outside of McDonalds and I thought he was an angel,
Unlike the street sweeper that comes around when the driver isn't
drunk, I pay attention. I feel your needs because I am also alone
I cut myself and drain into you like some kind of sacrament, I think I
have it all figured out because I watch but you continue to surprise,
Just let me rest under your awnings for one more minute
Don't fall asleep first, it makes me lonley

If I could only touch you to convince you that none of this is real.

locked in place, on my soiled sheets, I never thought it would come to this, reliving the moments that I shared with you on the streets. I remember the time I sat with you in front of the old magazine shop, the one that sold the copies of The Anarchist's Cookbook, it was 3:32am, the pedophiles, willing to pay, circling the bock over and over like some kind of ritualistic dance, over and again. Where do these people get their energy? It was the time you drove me home only i had you drop me off a block away to keep you from finding out where i was living. In my mind i trace the corner of the street where you and Matt Monson got assaulted by black guys. To scare them you chanted witchcraft spells in spanish to them, it didn't work. I wish i could be there for you i wish i could sleep and then i could some how help you but i can't.