september evening by Steve Calamars

raging bull muted on

the television set and

dostoyevsky screaming

in my brain

as i leave a tiny room

on the second floor of

an old apartment building

and run 6 miles

thru rich streets

with poor social skills and

worn sneakers

the miles fall beneath

my feet and i climb the

flight of stairs back to my room

my mind still racing and my

thoughts sprinting

across the page

malicious as

missiles and

molotov cocktails—