that sweet city man.

the stories of approach i could tell you.
i could amuse you.

but their compliments only leave me with almost-certain-emptiness.

so i leave ‘em
with the varying colours of male-suitors askin’ what i ain’t buyin’
on the front door mat.

smoke signal vowels to France.

i don’t know if that big city man is good for me.

don’t think i ever gave a damn bout bein’ good.

let’s face almost-certain-damnation for that sweet city man
and those thievin beautiful eyes i do love.