"Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth."

-Henry David Thoreau

I am balls deep in an ocean of tears. The night sky is awesome. The moon has a smile on its face, but the stars are all frowning at me. I think that I might be dreaming.

I awake to the sound of tires sailing on the wet street. The thick glass window deflects the rain into the surrounding L.A. madness. The rain continues to bomb hard and heavy. The wet black asphalt keeps on beneath the bus. Public transit is like a prison cell. The city scenes keep trying to push my thoughts back. But my mind keeps on sailing.

The bus stops on Vanowen and Ranchito. The busdriver opens the door for me, I step out, and I look back at him. The rain on my face is soothing. The siren songs of the city comfort me. The moon stays hidden behind black heavy clouds. I smile at the driver.

You can barely stand after sitting for two hours. After a while you can stand straight. I breathe in the fresh air. I breathe in the fumes. I pull the gun from the inside of my jacket. I watch you. You dont beg. You dont cry. You are brave.

I look into your eyes and lead you away from this hell, into a paradise, away from the bus, and away from the other riders. The gun in my hand pointed at the ground. You close your eyes. I raise the gun. I shoot you twice high in the chest. The coronas of light anoint you. You fall out. The rain rushes to wipe the blood off. I fire shots into the air. The ejected shells are swept away... two lives are swept away.

All Of My Heroes Are Dead (your poem) You were brave, the night I read your poem,

The one about this beautiful city.

I took the bus each morning to write your poem.

Up and down the steep blue streets.

You loved that.

You had the strength to tackle those hills.

That night in your seat, you sailed off without me.

You fell forward.

Maybe the poem’s force tossed you overboard,

and casted you back to the beginning .

A warm womb.

Do you miss it.

The love of your villains.

Saving the night.

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All Of My Heroes Are Dead