I love a good gulag now and then
as much as the next guy
Sitting at the bar
at the Tuscon Inn
with a chilled vodka shot
watching out the window as each snowflake
falls into its own shadow
the streets of Kaisertown are lost in snow
the streets of Kaisertown no longer exist
The businessmen's banter recedes besides me
now there is absolutely nothing

Not far from Clinton Street
The landlord keeps the heat so low
it's like living in a beer fridge
Everything is either cold or its dying
there are no sunsets, there are no flowers
not even ones made from plastic;
There was a rusted grain elevator
along the highway a few hours ago
that rose majestically like a pyramid
before it too was lost in the snow

Stretched out in the tomb must have been
the king of the dispossessed
for Kaisertown and from far beyond

Snow covers me up to my waist as I walk home
from the Tuscon Inn;
how many vodka shots it takes to fill
the Kaisertown gulag
I will leave it to the experts to discern;
I feel like I've been shot in the back
from the wind
As each frozen word, each frozen breath
each nightfall upon nightfall
with no mornings that intercede
Locates me sculpting with fine moonlight
with shards from broken bottles

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