Poem #72

They don’t make miracles in America.
The factory is shut,
The work force brutalized by dark-eyed ogre cops.
It smells forever like autumn in the
Basement where the boxes of our best days sit unremembered.

The chair reclined too far,
We fell on the ground, broke our nerve.
Hens jab the dirt for crack corn,
Find pebbles, embrace solace in disappointment.
But hey, full bellies and weight.

When I was five I broke the tv turning the channels too fast,
The picture never came back.
Only a far off green dot
entertained my naïveté about finding something solid to catch on
in the vast electronic dark.

Poem #71

Mention Urdu in the geometry of failed Urban sprawl
The new hotness soon the cold starkness.
Ours is empire in recline.

Owls speak in bwahahahs above us in the reaches of the trees we can no longer teach the names of.
Hippy shit, don’t lay that hippy shit on me.
But leave me some green anyway, to rest my mind.
Even pollock had the edges of his canvas to refrain.

Strapped to fixed gear bicycles built for speed, the only way to stop, pedal backwards.
It’s as if we are ringing the end of a phone line to a top floor office, futile, the big boss is dead, finally and utterly resigned.