back when we were young, and the circle seemed not so cruel
nor such a fickle one with her always coming back around:
clouds and what’s their character
to me it’s all matter:
of the air vibrating laughter
and plastic circuits ringing
the frequency of daughter:
torn around the corners,
Super 8 soft focus–
back then it was purpose:
all gravity and halos,
heavenly dynamos to the starry eyed
Greenwich Village inevitabilities;
but now the hula,
done for the setting sun’s return
seems not so sacrosanct
if this Earth should shrug us off the furniture
to send our own rich pursue another.
O what a laugh, what fun to expect
in the fun hall all decked out American Apparel rodeo!
The faces are stacked and, like all young Jacks of
All You-Know-Whats it’s all there in the blink
or the botched skin and bread crumb pimples
of high school fantasies when
what who why (how if you were trying) and where
seemed to satisfy lithe Mrs. Hackmatt and why not?
She is from the time before *shrug*
so what if she’d known what was to become
of her pupils,
bleached seeking relief in a sea of meaning
as brief as a semester with Derrida
would she be proud of the notes we passed undercover?
Good, it’s still raining without preamble,
without the usual hush or lull or fire schtick
in the dark of established ritual.
Naked, there are several things wrong with this picture–
for one, I’ve never been keener on that piece of me
being squeezed through the rigorous training
of a trim sterling spout;
the ecstasy, is inspired (no doubt) by the busy laboratory
of machine elves at work behind eyeballs and brains
to sex your salivate glands and convince you
you’ve got black friends
all lovin’ it unconsciously
when the rain speaks timidly of we.
I clatter and clank
along with the El train
hanging and sloppy
Pointedly, streets meet
where Polish intersections
sear in the snow banks
Lazy me and rocks
recline upon the lake shore
waiting for winter
proclaims its own innocence
keep the best of company
though it’s soon passing
We woke on the banks
of the bleeding Mississippi
to the snore call
and screech of
a teetering locomotive.
Blear eyed and hungover like old poets,
wily prophets, we thought the same thoughts
of morning paralysis
against the beauty come in dawn.
We’d left our ancestors,
slimy, stuck to our heels:
sucking noise, oil spills,
smoke smells in a bar,
taking sinking old Chartres before it’s a park
and that look as you pass in the dark.
In the West the sun melts into the water
and traffic music matters more.
Experience hills with wonder,
(they would do the same for you,
if they had the chance)
but don’t be afraid to corner the beasts you need:
their pelts and frozen growls
are proof of daring deeds–
that they die for you to feed–
as you one day will bleed
between boots and Mississippi.