blue light special

i have arrived on a strange planet

where decrepit, graffitied phone booths

flank intersections like miniature, yawning graves

strobing, azure lights refract on

shattered bottles and the sides of needles

names are etched in cement squares and

warm bodies zipped up tight for sleep

train whistles and sirens like church bells echo

over blocks, each a one-way saucerful of secrets

a blue canopied folding chair

lives on the porch

where the girl with dyed hair overdosed—

to protect her from the midnight sun

coconut water salesmen share the pavement

with Spanish preachers

and liquor store squatters

and rental scooters

and laundromat patrons,

the scent of urine and refuse coating the air like nail varnish

the neighbor who vomits

on the sidewalk each morning

has an infant girl

with jet black hair

she will grow up to play

on rusted rock walls

and springed see-saws listing beside

sleeping bags, deflated balloons and birdseed scatterers

noon is a microwaved conglomeration of

psychedelic, spinning CBD signs

and pride flags

and palmistry ads

and shaved iced trucks

and jewelry stores blaring gospel songs,

mobility link buses and cigarette ash on marble steps

children chalk up the cement names

in the pink light

before the street sweepers and the new father

eradicate their colors

night falls, strips flare to life—

collections of neon portals

promising oblivion in six modes

fuck, screams the wannabe Walgreens thief in withdrawal

the hopeful and the damned,

canopied in blue,

lulled by bass and

canned surveillance recordings protecting paper towel rolls,

until even the midnight motorcycles

succumb to sleep

the last vestige of sound

is the tinkling of the side mirror glass

as it coats the chalk,

refracting rainbows into the black