There's hidden sweetness in the stomach's emptiness.
We are lutes, no more, no less. If the sound box
is stuffed full of anything, no music. If the brain and the belly are burning clean with fasting, every moment a new song comes out of the fire.
From chronic joblessness comes homelessness, immediately followed by a kind of identity theft. Unmoored from place and purpose, you no longer know who you are or why you matter, and the world seems to have stopped caring about these questions in your case. In the perception of others, your body now counts for more than your head, as though your life has come to resemble some monstrous rear-side portrait by Lucian Freud. As for the labels you get to choose for yourself in this low condition, you won't find any specific designer signature on the second-hand rags you get from Goodwill, just a provisional placeholder in the unlikely event that you ever again become someone.
TITLE - "Signature Label"
WHERE - Vancouver, British Columbia (2015)