Mantra: I Will Create As I Speak

Seventh, In the taxi, The driver's arms fan out like a praying mantis, ready for the kill. Old thin arms. In the backseat: the prey. Seventh, Today is mist. Dark blue buildings grow high. But disappear into the sky. Their heavy secrets swim, incognito, in me. Seventh: I wear layers And I was born ready To show off a crop top cover Over my thin pale skin. Freakshow for fans; I'm me. Seventh: I'm the killer, Killing time with poems. Just like Salem hangs its witches. I wait for my trial My justice served Too cold. Seventh And it could be Eight or ninth after me. Life lived, waiting on a park bench. Tall, slender ghosts and I Moan across time: Judgment. Seventh: White picket fence Limit my lime green grass Of home. I await my return, Spiritual, Cosmic. Seventh This is my last True American line. Dear Boston, please don't rain for me. Grow your Fenway leaves and Kenmore brick tiles, I'm gone.