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In the Shadow of an Empire’s Throne | Easy Street

Thank you everyone who’s keeping up with my column. Good Behavior’s latest installment went live today. Read it, and find out why this angel cries.


Poetry: Eye of the Watchman

Eye of the Watchman
By Emile DeWeaver

This city is gray
in the sky and on the asphalt.
It’s acid air eats
whores and antelopes, leaving bones in desert slums
where the thirsty drink each other
and the hungry eat the drunk.

We made this city from sand and sound.
Beyond your eyes, children’s laughter
swims with splashes in the surf
and the waves warm the sun before it

rises. Before our eyes
this city is steel and stone,
where worse men rule the wrong
and war drums beat a black-flame song.

Light years distant, cities crackle
with tires chewed bare
by fault-lined pavements.
A bridge that breaks pathways casts
No shadow on the sea.

An addict plays needles that prickle his arms, and pulls his last breath, and plunges to dark.
An addict squalls emerging
from a crackhead’s womb,
and blows his first breath,
and ascends through the bright.