Whatnot

I've got an angel by the thumb,
The pounding of wings making ripples
In the puddles reflecting alley light.
Tumbleweed garbage - charred nothings
And napkins with mustard
Flutter subdued in the artificial breeze,
Pressed into the concrete stone-parody
Like a eulogy in automatic script.
The magnified razor-line
Is thick and overpopulated,
An ancient, urban pueblo
In a 3 a.m. mesa,
Refuge for the entire spectrum
Of chiaroscuro Supernaturals,
Constructed in response to the memo
On the irrelevance of hue.
Feet start pushing the pavement,
And some distant ego recognizes them as my own.