Grey blue oxidized steel crumpled against an electrical pole. A nice soft memory. Cold steel and concrete floors. Measurements of a drunk tank. One blanket for each of the five men.Wasting. The pounding could not stop. The eyes remain. Fixed. Hopeless. 16 hours. Pine Sol. Disappointment. Bend over. Look up. Spread em. Show us your left arm then right. All of your tattoos. What do they mean?
The indistinguishable places
between yourself
and the world
Your soul becomes pavement
hardened by the world
The eyes of men look
Down when you pass
Your reflection is only
In other people’s
glares
The world is now your enemy
And you have no where to go
The ringing doesn’t stop
And the world breeds
Contempt for your kind
About the Creator
Dakota Pederson
I started when I felt I could not reach any lower but searched for truth. Instead I found poetry in a thrift store on Sprague Avenue. Poetry is my truth.
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El Raval
Christmas vomit remains in a bucket as a stray dog wanders by. I follow him. His fur is matted by the days and nights wandering the streets of El Raval. I carry the bucket to a fountain to wash it. The vomit mixes in the fountains water. I walk back through the streets in the morning light the dog no longer remains with me. Only the homeless and muslims linger outside their shops. The brain of the streets narrow and bend; cavernous and silent on this Christmas morning. The Christmas stupor has set in.
By Dakota Pederson5 years ago in Poets
Draft Deleting? Don't Do It!
Today, I had a little time. I decided that I would have a look at the drafts that I have on Vocal. This is part of a long-term wish to have everything I've written on paper rather than virtually. I've not looked at them for weeks and something drew me to them, just to browse and see what was there.
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