my home is in the unwashed, cluttered margins
on the edges of sentences
crammed together with
the other ill-fitting, barely legible notes
in a symphony of discordant tempos
we mark our own time
jointly and separate
bring me your whores and junkies
outcast geeks and innocents
the awkward and ignoble
vain and inferior
filthy and frigid
dwelling in slack
or chasing carrots
there's plenty of room
for everyone
in the back of this bus
we're all pink on the inside
and our money is green
feeding our red meat
to the cold, grey machine
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