Thursday, July 28, 2011

I thought about Sleep

I got home pretty late
the lights were on upstairs,
hours later Whit would catch a mouse
its tail dangles from his mouth
he's black and white, Whit not the mouse,
he was gray, We left for center city,
but first I rinsed my mouth out with
mouth wash--refreshing mint--there were no
taxis outside so we waited in the middle of the street,
Broad Street, it went this way south and this way north
into as far as I could see in the night,
which wasn't far before all the red lights became
all the green lights and all the lights were one
big blinding mist, we walked on a cement island
I stuck a weed in my mouth, Joe said it looked
like a guitar stretching off into that north distance
I mentioned, it did, but there were no cars going north
and it was getting late, Philadelphia readied to tuck me
in my bed, it was warm when I took a breath
I was orange in the orange of the street,
I thought about sleep

Wednesday, July 27, 2011


I grab this computer at 5:07
I write in present tense
I stare off into space
I have nothing to talk about
to noone here
I am not sleeping
they are sleeping
they does not begin with I
I type on the computer in the dark
it is 5:14
5:15 time is constantly in motion
unnecessary motion
noone thinks like this
especially while sleeping
I write my dreams down on paper
I say, "I dream I kick the can it rolls
across the floor and stops. I stare off in silence."
It's a can
I'm a can
flesh and bones and blood and plasma
presently growing old and living
I ramble
it's 5:17
You're asleep
I put the computer down and stare at it
I write a few more lines and I scratch my beard
I stop to correct a spelling mistake
thank you Tif
I am done with this poem
the world is still floating
I think about how many dimensions there could be
there could be a lot.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Dark Step

The trees look pretty at
intermission like your eyes
dark sparkling lover of my
heart and your lips blare like
pink kazoos like no other
sound around us and who cares
if no one remembers our names
or faces? I remember; built
sculptures in word by word for
you on red carpets of the mind
mad world spinning fairy tale--
look up with me--

that music
in heaven are
angels crying

Saturday, July 23, 2011

terrible things

I've been too afraid of your window
beaming gray into the night
my night like mid-afternoon sun 100
degrees we melt the earth with our stare
our feet jogging-- incoherently mumbling on
corner of nowhere Broad Street and 7-11
is a building a farce a herald of the dead
selling pretzels until 24 hours is up
and there's nothing left but poems and poets
endless words saying saying tell us be us love us tell us
terrible things

Saturday, July 16, 2011


Is it coincidental that
reading Lawrence Ferlinghetti
at the John F Kennedy Center
he mentions a man with a flute walking
by, and I see, while reading looking up,
a boy walking by with a flute in his mouth
not playing but I imagine the serendipity of
the sound if that's an adjective at all--
I don't care and I put down the book to
write what I'm writing in the silent hall
and bullet holes zing to walls
like time going by--

Wednesday, July 13, 2011


Where are we now? Where am I—? How—
            You say, oh, There’s just too much time slipping since I’ve been out wandering, and, oh, there’s just too much time passing since I’ve been gone—and I think that maybe if we all stayed young without noticing that would solve it, but I know somehow our minds would die finding a way back—
To the big round ikea Raymor container, glowing life urban outfitter’s bulb, where there’s just too much wasted time to empty out; eventually—
It’s scattered ashes everywhere where we’re going.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

By the pond

God's given me the chance
to write so I waste it on vacant stars,
I'll carry my little treasures like Byron
in my back pocket, my back pocket's too
small, too small the flags of our states are ubiquitous
in vast room, and guess where I am with a man
his head's blown off and chunks are steel &
marble, there's a stage and leather upholstered
It's a love seat Jackie-O it's a love seat.


And thinking of you I realize
often leaves fall up
to trees back & forth paddling
     and fall is backward over mirrored pond
grieving by empty grave
     for my summer nearly
gone and gone are honey bee reflections
     fat and tormenting children,
when I was young they were
everywhere in pink grass
and now like ghosts
     so nearly gone, and
now like us, our flowers
     so nearly gone twisted
round and round and round
so nearly gone