The colored houses

color was thrown around like an ecstatic lie to cover up the dark quiet that bleak situations bleed. Orange. Like careless finger paints splattered around on the floor. Purple silk scattered bathrobes tied tight to the morning. Yellow sun. Move just a little slower.

Late night hope still clings on to fun. A few pocket dollars and a rude hour. No one will see. Color drains. From the bath tub to their faces. The night still sucks sweet.

A jungle of houses depart from the ground. Lifting up, up, and away like a pigeon trying to fly. The stoop is still planted and the vertical apartment houses sway with the wind. Almost. Railings throw their arms up to the red city sky. Begging or praying for something above. Windows gasp and cough to breathe the fresh air. Hoagies. Stumped cigarettes. Plastic bags mistaken for tumble weeds.Everything keeps rolling in a  siren silence. Drifting down broken streets with thoughtful names.

The large woman across the street escapes from her children with white, wild, eyes. Laughing loud and shrill. Frantic and alone, but not for long. The moments can barely be counted when stray cats are the only company. Her hair strings out like wire on an electrocuted sound. She looks fast with darting eyes. Wider. Wider! Wild!

Traveling down empty power lines, every lonesome window can be heard. Howling. Crazy laughter from somewhere off in the distance. Houses roll by in a slow dilopidated depression far from the screaming children of fire orange and silk purple stuck in between a licourice mood.

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