he lives on death row
his retinas are the shaking fissure of tectonic plateshe is colliding earthquakes in his joints
as he quivers and fidgets
he is an inside crumbling so fast
you can see it in the exterior
like an avalanche of his desires vomited through his voice
as he asks me
if i have any money
that currency
that spare change
he feels it against his flesh and scratches his dreams off the dead skin
holds out his city ridden hands
exposing the short tracks of the lines on his palms
and the long trails of the scars against his wrists
the splintered pot holes pock marking the streets of his arms
still looking fresh as the night we pause under
the moon cannot light the gray of this face
the black bubbling from this iris
as he asks me again
the rabid dog in him growling from his teeth
the murderous hunger seeping from his lips
the grim reaper in him asks for that currency
to take his soul to its death
