the pulse

charleston,
where the sidewalks scream on saturday nights
and the corners rotate budding musicians
with skin-tight dreams.
where strings of pearls search for salvation
then sweat out their frustrations
on the backs of rooftops.
where the homeless sprout like weeds through concrete
seeking two dollars, a handshake
and a little bit of sunshine.
where the humidity chokes you out of breath
but you manage to speak to the
spit-shine waiters who serve 95 dollar bottles of wine.
where two blocks away, a five dollar pitcher of liquid gold
spills on the canvas of sticky floors.

charleston,
where love lingers on cobblestone streets
in narrow alleyways, and the smell of sex
is the foundation for first and last impressions.
where shadows are surrounded by the ocean
and sea-seeing people gasp for air
from knee-deep bills and dirt-cheap thrills.
where those with no sense of history's melody
will sync with the songs of the city's slaves.
where the poets scrape stanzas off of streetlights
and if they scream loud enough, maybe someone will hear

because we are all the same,
we are all the
same.
we are all
the same