By Sonam Kaloti, Arts Editor
crack pot.
little whispers,
“did you see her
blowin’ dust, coughin’ windpipes.”
so slow
all these shadows seem to move,
are you scared that I’m not your type?
oh, go fast.
bloody fingers,
death wish lingers.
clutching glass,
reflecting downtown.
gunshots
echoing all through the city.
do these ladies want a piece of me?
I’ve got shorts on at three degrees.
they’re telling me to leave,
get used to a little knee.
