MacArthur (a stream of consciousness writing about the murder of an individual and the dumping of his body on a street in my neck of the woods)

Lay me down on the warm,

Night asphalt

And leave me. 

Speed away.

My body in a new place.

Killing in the name

Of everything that's wrong

With the reflection

In the stained glass.

Distorted.

This is me:

Full of holes.

Drugs and Guns.

Barely legal.

Not even.

Drop me like a bowl.

A rare, fragile, expensive bowl.

I shatter, I scatter.

Some of me in chunks.

Some of me in dust.

I fill the crevices of the road.

With little rivers of blood.

It's killing season for man.

Blood rushes, gushes.

Never a drought.

Just a night's pause.

A night's rest.

With one eye open.

While I sleep.

Finally.

Atop the asphalt matress.

On MacArthur.