Zelle: [email protected]
Almost no one
reads
The itinerant literature
Passing through the
road fields; no
one
Eats the screaming
fruit
Thrown from the open
windows
Of the passing
stars...
I hate playing on
the street; the
street
Is my library, not
my stage,
but
As a street poem,
I can tell
you:
The road to artless
hell is always
wider
Than the narrow path
to something
true;
The street is a song
writer;
You can always bum a
lighter from the
muse.
So sing the bruise.
The best songs are always used.
November 2026
