Mines is a mind that fears
that he's one them who disappears,
one of those walking talking ghosts
that's there then not heres.
The one that boasts
no claim to glitz-banging fame
but for the mosts
is dusted under the rug
of social-undercurrent tug
and lands, crashes
under the banyan tree in the sun.
there where memory doesn't travel,
standing on the grit and well-worn gravel
where the other wraiths roam ravenously
seeking your attention. And yours as well.

The homeless' eyes are not met.
The mentally ill are shirked and shrugged and danced away
as if neon had the power to zap you to the reality of your choice,
and away from theirs.
Their stories are told only
within the context of NBC's schmaltz factory.
The smells of faeces and laborious sweat,
the panting of the adrift obese, sweating under the larger weight of derision,
the immigrant stereotype show in pantomime. A joke that's funny because it's well meaning
in your suburban homes on Tuesday nights.
I don't know when the beetle of anger crawled up inside mine herrfungstrung
but its thrashing about like it wants me turn around and look at the shadowed figure who hungrily eyes my lot
who thirsts for the privileges I have
who would take better care of their sisters and brothers.
I have failed in my own idiom.
and so I fall by the wayside,
and join the shadows,
I dance in the moonlight when no one is around.