Carol Ann, Noir Poet

4–4 -17

I am an Untermensch Wench @ the bottom of the food chain, repressed, stressed and desolate. Bitter as cloves, I am.


The Homeless know more about sidewalks than anyone else. We look down to avoid the brutal stares of the survivors. The sidewalks are white with black tar spots. Picture a beauty mark on an alabaster face.

Sublime as hell…


The world is a Darwinian Sphere. Survival of the Fittest. Nobody cares. Moses was forty years on the desert and so are we.


I am alone as a busted out building. I live in a room with Zombie Girl. She is very charming.

It’s best to not defame the dead. Also I call her the Barbie Doll from Hell.


Got a new roommate. She is tall with long, gray dreadlocks. She is peaceful as the rain. Hello, black Rapunzel.


I live in a shelter with a hundred other women. It is called Rite of Passage: we call it House of Pain.

We sleep upright in metal chairs at night, we, the newcomers. We have to shower in three minutes with a worker urging us to hurry.

I think of an old Bette Davis movie with a jail cell as the setting. She grabs the bars of the cell and says, sotto voce, “I want to live.” Fade to black.


We have to be out at 6:30 AM. I go out into the chill air and see the sun as a giant egg yolk. I note how the winter sun casts chiascuro light. A black queen feeds the pigeon. Her pink pageboy frames her beauteous face. She wears lavender stretch pants showing all and silver eyeshadow. Her black lipsticked mouth smiles like a Cheshire cat. It’s a noir moment and it does delight me. So like a Fasbinder film.


We all go to a holding pen in the morning called Oschia. There we spend half a day trying to get a bed assignment for that night. We do this every single day. The clerks all look like mushroom people from middle earth. I’ll die laughing. Really.


We, the homeless. Are darkened souls. This kind of pain can rot us from the inside out. The last click of the lock turn in the door when leaving is like a bullet falling into the chamber.


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