Do you see me?
Your eyes divert with the clumsiness
of a compass too polite for pointing to
true south. This drifter, too low in the stratosphere
of economic bodies to space direction.
The lines your eyes sketch around my form,
divert into white space,
into a silence of held breaths and murmurs.
Lord, it almost proves you do
I am not cold yet in your black coffin coats,
a trash bagged body in Charon’s boat
of social death.
No wallet to prick the sieves of thieves,
or beauty to gut for a low-scum rider. But
my brother said my name so long ago
I can hear it like a haunt,
like my own blood’s cry
muffled in a ground raped dry
clashing against the eardrums
of a raging God polishing his scales.
Without the soul connection that comes
In the glance of a weary eye,
I am erased. You’re all a blurr
of gray ghosts rippling down
the shiver Styx, these stairs
If gravity could make me rise
In your eyes
I would make you
Perhaps you’re the ones undead.
Not spirit, but blistered shell,
used up like a bullet shot once and reloaded.
And I, the warm rushing blood you gush through,
have more substance than the light above
could cast on this subway drifter.
George L Stein is a writer and photographer living in Michigan City in Northwest Indiana. George works in both film and digital formats in the urban decay, architecture, fetish, and street photography genres. His emphasis is on composition with the juxtaposition of beauty and decay lying at the center of his aesthetic. Northwest Indiana’s rust-belt legacy provides ample locations for industrial backdrops. George has been published in Midwestern Gothic, Gravel, Foliate Oak, After Hours, Hoosier Lit, Gulf Stream Magazine, 3Elements, Stoneboat, Occulum, the Gnu Journal, Iliinot Review and Darkside Magazine.
Shimon Moore is a writer, jewelry maker, and Literature professor who delights in helping others discover the power of words. You are likely to find wandering through Nature with her camera to expose the very small wonders hiding everywhere, or frazzled to the point of panic, searching for the sunglasses hiding on her head. She lives with her heroic Marine husband, two spoiled Pit Bulls, and two ninja cats that like to knock her beads into oblivion while she isn’t looking.