they weren't neighbors.

they couldn't be.

they wouldn't let them be

because they were just

occupants

with an expiration

date, which happened to

be whenever those people in

suits with big money

and big ass empty

voices decided,

 

they sent those seeds

somewhere else so

that they could

recline on bloodied

grounds inside of

what used to be

Church's Chickens

& liquor stores.

 

the making of a ghost

town is all it is

with those unaffordable

houses to match,

shutting kids out

from books and life,

vacating areas.

 

no such thing as

'owners' until

they come & take it

all.

 

making all of

the room for their dreams,

still deferring the dreams

of those who could've

been their

neighbors,

 

still deterring flowers

from blooming on

the westside,

leaving them to dry,

to rot on the eve of

grand openings and

don't fail to mention

them white ass fences.

--

Smoking guns in

their hands,

they blow on them

with a smile,

 

wiping the blood on

their 'neighbor's' shirt

just to spite them

as they die,

right as they

close their eyes.

but the hands with

nothing on them get

stabbed and the people

they belong to took

the bullets.

they came with briefcases

full of bullshit,

set up shop for

yet another botched

procedure,

 

thinking that you rid

yourselves of

responsibility

because you thought

you made the people

disappear.

 

they're surrounding you,

medicated with syringes,

these sharp tools

help them to

 dig ditches in

their souls,

throwing their life in

them.

 

sticks talking

and dead people

trying to walk again,

walking in death to

get a breath of

life,

 

she's posted at

that gas station with no

pants or panties on,

waiting for customers, strung

 

in the pits of her

wounds,

then found naked in

a field of kudzu

or inside a home.

 

they chased him up

the street and

shot him,

 

they didn't know

he was dead at first

so they left him,

they thought he was just a

drunk passed out,

until the sun began

to rise.

 

roll over that body

and see seventeen years

on his face with

a place in the world,

 

a site of mourning

the smell of that

dirty ass creek

accompanies his stench.

 

more wooden boards

and less life

they said,

it would be alright

for us, 

they said

 

with no money

the winners didn't

think they could

ever win

because they 

always seemed

to be draping in gold

while we tried to

just imagine

the scraps,

--

our voices are

tired.

 

our beings are

spent.

 

But they weren't

our neighbors to

begin with so

that's it.

 

reaping the disturbed souls

of the dead should

be their

nightmare,

their deepest

fear.

 

for they are near,

and they can't keep

taking and running.