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a poem by Ron HayesBrought to You in Technicolor
in the piss-yellow haze of a filthy streetlight turns suddenly crimson in the blue-black night. Shocked, the man makes no noise, falls like a sack of pilfered loot before curling fetal and covering up fruitlessly. The coroner will find no defensive wounds. pools slow and silent like plague, seeps into scorched brown grass, pulses into crevices cracked black through the concrete walk, swallowing street dust along the way to drop, gluey and thick, through the rust- brown sewer grate at the corner. the recluse in his purple chair snaps shot after shot, captures the attack in black and white. from the Internet, dye each frame by hand, style it just so. Only when the executor of his will holds the screening of his work will they see how vividly he captured the colors of his day. |