Author: Michael Angelo

—despite everything, I suppose a beautiful day
is a beautiful day.

The ol’heads on the block are playing music,
no doubt memories enshrined in notes.

There are good kids scootin’-jumpin’-runnin’
‘round mothers in nice dresses.

Even the garbage men, rough like crumbled cans,
seem to be shining
under this sun.

The problems aren’t gone,
home still hangs by a thread,
and the night waits in the corner, hungry,

but right now—
This moment of this day—

Things aren’t so bad.

I wonder if this is what it means to seize the day—except
I haven’t dared to seize it,
the day has simply reached into me;

it has pulled out the pain into the light,
and somehow
it doesn’t look so bad, there,

in the sun.

Winter morning rise,
and already an avalanche of life
collapses into my lungs and settles within the folds
of my feet; they are numb, from sleep, from what waits—

Face the day.
It’s time. The bills have arrived with the crows,
black and cawing, demanding ones goes,
shaves up, wraps tie around heart, and zips up faith.

Outside the air is colder than hell,
but the sun is magnanimous with grace.
I feel its gold drapery along my face,
see the amber of starlit blood
through the folded layers of my eyes…

It’s a blue and demanding sky,
but with the sun,
one has more than enough warmth to give.

Take a step. Let’s begin.

The struggle to remain alive

beats the hell out of a person,

leaves ‘em bruised

like the burnt end of a cigarette.

There’s nothing in the fridge,

but a man needs more than rice—

the worst thing

is choosing between eating and life.