Two Punks

Two Mexican punks
at the corner of Baltimore
& the Best Western Travelers Center
walk off into the past
without phones or music or time;
Irrelevant musings at the 
fire hydrant and spiked vests
blur silent conversations as
the bus they escaped lumbers
by, forcing them into heaven
or oblivion, unto heaven
and oblivion, maybe? Or shit,
maybe they huddled close
experiencing that copy scene,
that cyclical memory,
those black, white, silver shining
unnecessary spectres 
of Philadelphia
of New York
of gray east coasts
of Nowhere 

and the world as a frayed stem
continues to hang, shit, fuck, piss, spit, yawn
ball and turn
without misery