outside the grocery, quick lunch while between here and
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.
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?
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.
It’s a helluva life that we get,
A skin riff sustained by meager elements.
Owned or rented or fading even as it’s brightening.
Winched up by holy holy holy, but there are no cookies at the end of this line.
I entreat sweet video clerk, repeat the best parts please, they whipped past too fast to learn any secret to ease my unreasonable disease of the Be.
I just remembered an alley full of cops, a window full of old tvs, snowy street, an evil kiss, a wrenched knee.
There was something beautiful in this room before I turnpiked up unknown avenues,
the table is now an abandoned supper.
Someone left the cap off the ketchup, the miracle has dried.
Band urns spurn the agency we seek, guitars and harps, blues singer hyperbole, spur jazz lingo, cloud up the airwaves.
We are adrift in the dark of space, making ghosts where moments ago we floated through.
Every goddam moment is somewhere still.
My radio no longer receives, I cancer everything I knew before.
And there are no cookies, no apple cider, no brandy wine, no rest at the end of this line.
music ending on an AM station,
a bookcase, a jagged nail,
two thirds of the beatles dead,
the only way home barred by
circumstance, lost chance.
i woke in a room where there were no windows.
i broke the silence with a sneeze.
the best way to catch cold is to wait,
the weight will creep in, too late i
tried to lift it, herniated my ego.
let go, let go and be denied by judas,
after all a kiss is but a kiss.
music ending on an AM station just as we walk in
on a beating long time coming.
there are bags for your bits in the end.
maybe it was static in the key of me,
maybe the music waited, coldened the sea
of air between me and somewhere else to be.
a book case, a hang nail,
one third of nirvana dead,
on an AM station too far away to receive.
broke, broomed, never fighted one such as i,
pitiful attempt at small world domination,
foreign legion funny men in desert khaki cargo pants have et up all the sphinxen riddle salad.
almost nothing left to believe in.
peacock on a piano, middle c, vitamin free, flea motherfucker, flee.
i adorned the life you gave me in thick woolen socks, i will never get cold feet again.
horse tranqs will subdue the fearful if the fearful become too fueled by fading father figures.
tripod is my favorite boner joke.
a yellow tape, black numbers, coiled on a blue desk.
this is the way we measure success in the art biz.
how big is your etching image area?
too much margin, not enough picture planes.
weakened by the news of oblivion, i decide on a forest stroll.
and in the forest a nicely done suit, a sandwich of comings and goings, a cold stout, a treed ceiling, a clear view into space, closing remarks,
frothy stout, i drink it down.