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In late December, for Mitzie Angel.

The man using the payphone on Wall Street, his back to you, is using it as a urinal and urinating, only logical.

Our degradation is complete.

The young woman, a crazy smile, pickled in brine,

cross-legged on the sidewalk in a t-shirt that says,

Tomorrow, holds a sign telling her sad story.

She's reading a paperback of Lolita stealthily behind the sign.

She could be you.

Stranger things have turned out to be true.

He could be me.

Don't rule out the possibility.

This shirt-sleeves' Christmas weather is lovely

and seriously weird. El Nño is how Jesus was. Both changed the climate.

Everyone will have a home. Everyone is safe and warm. The homeless sleep on a bed of roses and sip ice wine, German icevine.

They spend their time deciding where they want to dine.

They spend the rest of their time thinking about the sublime and exhuming corpses,

so they don't have to beg for a living from the living.

They bring back billions of bodies and pile them in the apartment building lobbies

and repopulate the financial world with the dead, like a dog bringing back a stick.

The stick is what was underground back in sunlight.

...