Back Hoe and a Cigarette

he walked with hat down, arms raised high
holding aloft his life, his soul, his indulgence.
a back hoe in one hand, held vertical, gripping
him like a machine pumps life into a vegetable,
an umbilical cord, all he knew wanting it back
with a Marlboro in the other hand and a green
lighter to set fire to the world, to find god down
that crowded street so alone. spat upon like this,
he walked down Santa Clara. none saw the
man, visible as he was, wanting the world to
give it all back! the dirt, the simplicity before,
now blind and ready to return with as much as
when he arrived. and I often wonder what it
would feel like to have a 50. Cal rip through my
bodily organs, and ponder how that woman’s
tight ass would feel as she bends over the
counter they way she always does, and to tread
the dangerous grounds of power and control, the
feeling of firing a revolver point blank at innocence.
at least he had something to lose.
I think I will mourn his loss.