Poem #84

outside the grocery, quick lunch while between here and
somewhere else.
people watching, appraising, judging, making little stories
for the creatures passing by either into or out of
the breezeway of the supermarket.
i’m struck by the way they create their lives,
the afternoon grocery buyers.
if you wait, they will show you who they are.
they will show you sensitive fathers holding tiny hands
of child in pink dress, crossing the street, moving away
from my vantage.
a huge man, menacing in a scrap, laid low by tiny fingers.
striding business men in glossy suits that shimmer like
holographic paper in the sun,
important men, essential men,
samurais to their masters of industry.
I wonder if they will have the fish
or a burger or a salad for their midday meal.
so many elderly, moving slowly behind dark glasses
in big cars, or short buses, wandering into
and out of a world they no longer recognize,
yet somehow are part of still.
i am aging quicker now and soon will know
the feeling of being adrift in the new.
overhead the jet stream is moving,
the wind drops grit on all our faces,
the asphalt heats toward impenetrable summer,
and here shoppers appear, disappear
and lunch is finished.

Poem #83

Drains remind me slender zoned is the passage from alive to loosed particle.
I enrich appended themes icing roamed over glutton mind schemes, no more really.
Only molecular configuration, chemistry with motives, gurus of nothing.
I bargain with entropy for more time, it’s going to be useless, won’t gird my natural inclination to undo, unbe.

My id drifter hunts interstates for comfort in sparse furnished mental motels.
There is an ugly isotope colliding with ideology everywhere I turn.
Irradiated, we stumble or gig or wish until the tired cells break down.
Police in masks made of nightshade rumors unwind our trajectory, disable our engines.
Keep on, we can only keep on through the night.

I am electrical signal wrapped in soft tissue, would like to be more glorious, fail now to bow.
But that isn’t so bad, is it?
To fade to static, unwind, break down, sleep is nothing more than practice.
It’s just so long, soundless, didn’t we expect to go on?

Poem #78

i didn’t start to die until i saw
far down the lane,
round a curve,
a corpse whose face
I’ve seen before, if only in
a thinner skin.

those hands i knew, i held them
clasped together after all,
in large rooms of strangers,
used them to put this line down,
and many, many others,
made my meager marks on metal,
paper, canvas, and cobbled shelves
from shallow, culled lumber hoards.
strong hands, could not hold against
the invading of The Nothing.

i didn’t get a glimpse of the eyes
hidden as they were by heavy lids,
stiffened in demise, shut fast, but imagined
a watered down blue tint, perhaps foggy,
holding a final snapshot beneath
tired corneas, showing the truth
of the mostly empty universe,
uncoiling forever and forever,
or if not forever, at least
for a good many years.

Poem #77

Comic book pilgrimage often took me
away from the neighborhood,
across strip mall utopia, paved over fields,
onto the railroad tracks purgatorial planes.It filled lakes of goodness in me
to chloroform the city for a few hours,

wandering the space between here and there,
behind the world.At crossings I passed through reality,

a specter in the windshield view of the living,
Fading into the train track alley to be forgotten, to forget.
I don’t remember what I remember, only moments
where life was left.
Rocky lunar landscape,

broken beer bottles,
twisted metal,
train jargon detritus,
a thin,infinite rectangle of blue sky,
comic book ink perfuming my hands,
fatally wounded by my reentry,
the moments fade.
Image

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