it went like this

the past is gone the mice are dancing--

I read this in a book
in a dream, from when?

I can't remember...

In night we are much like in day

my gray cat
is a gray poet;

in sleep he rages,
awake he stalks
shadows, bites at
imaginary objects--

there is nothing but me
in my dreams; my
waking reality; my
drug laced fantasy;

in night we are much like in day,
the street lights for the sun
line the way; home--

with orange slitted eye,
he watches outside, watches
in; ears twitch, tail snapping,
pupils dilate, muscles taut;
to pounce.

fat fish fry

fat rat fish fry illuminati
watch this vine
here
[copy paste]
this link is broken
fresh oil fries best
without the burnt
taste
of secret society
fear, as in old food
left to rot,

there're bacterium
in my brain,
I am partial to cats,
paranoid

there are at least 15 places
to get baked ziti in orlando
(even tho the city is imaginary
fantasy)
a cursory incorrectly
directed internet search;

I searched my own name.

seems they know I'm Italian
on to the silent e,

this poem is a google search result,
spiders crawl inside

sizing my bandwidth up

don't worry I've just about lost myself
you're not alone

follow the prompts the directional boxes
take a bow

stuff your face
it's basically nothing
and nothing can be done

there's always time for another lie

I'll set the pace.

Cat Nap

this glass a demon in my bowels
ringing out what's left of my watery soul
eternal dehydration;

last night I carried nibs through
apartment elevators,
like dorm at Rutgers,
cold old unadorned,
headed to concierge,
     "my door won't open,"
thick brown water, still,
impenetrable to eyes,
sat at waist level,
there was no one at
front desk, I noticed too late
nibs was no longer under my arm,
bobbing in the water beside me
head down legs down,
coated in the brown unguent
I pawed at him
memory becomes thin
see-thru
he was then in my arms
wet chewing gray
     "door might be open when we get back,"
I mused as floor rose to ceiling
rose to roof rose to room,
waters carrying us up.

Potomac River and Harpers Ferry 263' to 315'

ascend the spiral stair

     chain-link line fence

families stroll maryland to west VA

      hiking polls held horizontal to ground

          I have walked 12 miles since morning

white blazers pass me ask
   
     how far the next shelter south

I point to Garvey some-when in my past

          this a day and several miles behind

taste of ice cream milkshake before me

     Gabow put the idea there on my tongue

in my tired hiker's mind

          sky is mid-afternoon

town is red white blue madness

     I am dried of rain soaked with sweat

eyes to the sun

          walking now on sidewalked streets

walking south

walking home

AT Poems XIII

In This Time

in all this time
     I've not written one divine line,
     I've sown not one bountiful field,

I will leave for my child
     a vast unreadable work,
     a collection of journals for the fire,

I am slowly starving to death
     most of what I eat is digitally prescribed

in all this time
     I've built up the cancer particles that will kill me
     I've worked in boxes called offices on rows called floors

I will leave for my child
     Crippling debt and a decayed philosophy
     old bones of the oldest man alive

I am slowly starved to death
     by the long lines of the loudest bank

In all this time
     our trees have grown and been cut down
     I have grown and been cut down

I will leave our children
     the future of the human race
     to do with as they please

I am slowly starving to death
     of my own and rightful accord

I am slowly becoming death
     which I will embody for all but an instant

I am become death
     of the poem and the world

I am death
     everlasting in nothingness

I death
     am a phantom in a dream that never was

I
     is meaningless in the void

A short non-linear American poem (So I will)

Ginsberg set them up,

Bukowski knocked them down wouldn't let them get up,

Kerouac was too weird, too off time to make any visible impact,
     "I write poetry not prose",

Corso was a romantic was too italian,

Ferlinghetti published books had a cabin in the woods,

Whitman lived too long ago to be easily recalled,

the modernists were all suicidal like Crane,

William Carlos Williams got caught stealing plums,

Pound pledged his heart to fascist dictatorships,

Snyder cared too much for turtle island,

Elise Cowen they wouldn't publish your thoughts
     and nobody asked if they were scared,

Gdowik bit into pineapples, cracked his tooth
     on ungodly spires,

Welch drew rings of bone around the earth,

Hughes started a renaissance and is remembered
     for one line in a play he didn't write,

Whalen wrote invisible words across the sky
     became invisible himself,

Tavella walked the concrete medians of Broad street
     imagined unread words,

Rexroth was old and new and couldn't decide which way to go,

McClure jizzed all over everybody came off too cool,

Mcknight fought the structure, lines and rhyme and voice,

Plath said fuck you,

Taratut sung a song of a song not yet heard,

Hemingway never gave shit enough to try,

I intend to follow my words to the grave.

C&O Canal Towpath 290'

like opaque green sledge
pools of my worst dreams
canal is motionless
stagnant lime green
john deer tractor green
thick nuclear waste gunk
of the world,

on opposite trailside,
the mighty old Potomac
crisp and blue-brown,
flowing from upper valley
toward Chesapeake shore,

raining too hard to see,
I remove my glasses,
shirt soaked, pants, bandanna,
head, arms, feet dry under
wool socks, hiking boots,

I hope my poncho rigged
as rucksack cover holds,
not much in there that will
suffer if wet anyway, still,

mosquitoes out,
mark my right arm,
return mark return
again, fuck the C&O
my swelling arm,
my tired fucking legs,
these fucking bugs
won't let me go
unscathed.

AT Poems XII

Keep Tryst Rd, 320'

cloud cover
thick

sky ominous
dark
almost
indigo

quaking thunder
rolls in distance

.4 mile race down
switch backs 700 ft.

we climbed this
section two nights ago

it seems darker now
rain begins to fall

boots hit concrete
strange

seems my feet
so used to rocks

I remember now
how the road feels

how heavy everything is
how new

AT Poems XI

Crampton to Weverton 1000' to 780'

from the gap
thru Gathland
rain slowing
to stop     misting
in still gray morning,
July;

sun is warming
beyond tree canopy
yet to dry my clothes,

cross Townsend road
up the hill
and
follow those
white blazes,

muck and mud
of stewed trail
by Garvey Shelter
     --I've enough water,
making good time--
moving on,

hiking sticks clang
on rocks
support aching knees

I missed Weverton Cliffs
     --must have
been watching the
wrong way, must
not have been set--

determined to walk straight
breath steady
stomach empty
     --no
rest--

if all goes, I'll
start up the car
     --in my memory
parked by old
abandoned school
Washington St
unmolested
un-towed--  
hit the road by three

AT Poems X

Crampton Gap Shelter IV 1000'

rucksack wrapped in
navy blue poncho
bought outside Seattle
traveled 4,000-odd miles
ripped and stretched
and tied
rain coming down
cold cold morning rain,

in mists of mountain air
we said good bye and turned away,

north          south

you sank back into forest
around trail turn

rain picked up
and clouds

You'll be in Pennsylvania
tomorrow

"I'll see you in a thousand miles"

AT Poems IX

Crampton Gap Shelter III 1000'

fog
          rain
three snoring bodies     sleep
     rain forest     old forest
smell
     early morning
          ghosts of America's oldest land

these sinking beautiful mountains
     these gray old men

today
     I will walk 12 miles south     drive 60      east
follow
     the Potomac     home

tonight
     with your body against     mine
my aches will
my blisters will
     fog
          fade

AT Poems VIII

Crampton Gap Shelter II 1000'

by firelight
          drinking whiskey
pass around the bottle
          pass around the joint
easy conversation
          music in the night

liquid burns
smoke burns
daylight burns
muscles burn

          sassafras and birch tea
forest is deep dark
          alive
snap of distant fire works
          towns below

it's fourth of july
          high in the appalachians

AT Poems VIII

Crampton Gap Shelter I 1000'

logs painted white
porch with benches
       
          a hiker sleeps inside
          feet dangling out

there's a wood bridge to the outhouse
a fire pit (no wood)

          no green acorns falling
          tap tick tap tsk
          isk

this is where
          --packs off
          shoes off
--we sleep tonight

an osprey screeches through tall trees

AT Poems VII

Gathland State park 950'

Five poems

1.
Rear guard
battle for south
mountain,

headed for shelter.

running water,
open field, Gathland
Estate...Alfred Townsend

[was a journalist during the civil war]

had the war on his front porch.

2.
Gabow posed with ceramic soldiers,
          they'd all marched through the
          Shenendoah in June,

but this was 150 years apart,
and for different
reasons.

3.
Library no longer standing.

          a barn made of stone,
the trail zig zag through property
          mist, coming rain
moisture on bag, sticks, trees, miles
          mind.

4.
filing water bottles,
     filing them up.
bitten by a mosquito,
     bite swelling up.

5.
In a flash
              Mercury
a memorial
message from the gods,
thunder,
newspapers,
           pencils
           typewriters
           ink
           go
in a flash

AT Poems VI