“I hope you can read this”
The overpass said with a smile of smeared paint.
Fire engine red shielding crude prefixes,
in artistic sprays of that gutter life.
Territory marked, here in the grinder.
“Hustle until I die”
The derelict corner store spat as people walked by.
A smog of black and gray,
proclamations of the Lions and Tigers,
hapless become meat, here in the grinder.
The collapsed elementary whispered to the children.
Orange hue of rotten bricks or bread,
trapped in false ambition of knowledge gained,
just lies from the Lord of Flies, here in the grinder.