the streets of lost souls


on the street of lost souls we all play checkers or chicken; think of refuges, war crimes and holidays, but mostly checkers. on the street of lost souls someone took the key and threw it away leaving only two options; newspaper blankets or obsessive optimism, but mostly it was checkers or playing chicken. at the corner of lost souls and a street never marked, memory is a funeral kept in secret in dull tones of the universe; most are fashionably androgynous, there is no way to tell the people from the background. on the corner of lost souls, everyone moves like darts hoping to stick somewhere; at the other corner across the street everything is the same, disgust hides undercover under the under brush, and everyone looks like cardboard boxes. all the while, all the taboos stand there day in and day out mumbling, *shit happens like words.* at midnight, after the chickens have gone home, names appear and write personalities on the walls of DNA; that changes, then everyone goes back to playing checkers.