An echo of my gasping breath came back from the canyon up ahead where the last hour of my life is waiting.
I think it was an E minor, or perhaps I am tone deaf and ken not the alphabet of sonic vibration.
A fudge sickle waiting on a bookshelf for me to come back from reading spoon river has been melted by the echo, ruining pages in a monogram of milk carton collages.
Well, I guess I should have gone in for the ice cream sandwich.
Rapid fire fears erased the daydream of motor biking through an autumn evening down a smooth street devoid of cars.
The echo awakened something enormous in the back left corner where my pedestal bearing god used to give me comfort.
And finally we confront ourselves in elevators going up and coming down, waiting to board and straining to disembark, listening and hoping it was the squeaking of the cables up above.
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.
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.
Unknown figure compiled from internal data banks of faces, eyes, etc. if theory proves true that we only recall, and can never invent faces.
This is an aluminum etching with some colored pencil offset coloring. The subject is after Andreas Schelfhout (1787-1870) which is on a plate hanging in my kitchen. Edition of 10 numbered, 3 AP, and this one EDITION VARIABLE.
Each is 5×7 inches, ink on printmaking paper. First is called “portrait of Eliot” second is “portrait of a frustrated anarchist”.