Hey, Fenway

Tell me about Tangier.

Tell me about the darkness and the dirt on the floor where you smoked. Tell me about that smell, the incense, that rotting flesh and sweating flesh and dripping sex that seeped between the floorboards. Tell me when the wind dies down and the smoke has curled away for nighttime and

maybe

I will join you.

Ink

Words, haphazardly splotched

Or meticulously written,

They all amount to the same thing.

They are phantoms of inspiration,

Relics of thought and fixation,

Fossils of poets and kings.

People reduced to ashes,

Their voices now dust in the wind-

Their shadows and ghosts are now written-

Conciousness transferred to ink.