Lunch

behind them. the fire burned on television sets
spitting, ARE YOU GOING TO HELL?

They couldn't know. the sound was
muted. scattered about the room

they were eating lunch. as the fire burned. and
they didn't know they couldn't know.

the suits in front of the fire. three of them
in all colors. it was their words held the answer

but thet were muted. ARE YOU GOING?
they were saying they were telling but no one could tell.

no one could. knowing. they were not knowing.
only the voices could tell and they were speaking before

the fire no heat or smoke but the fire burned. flame.
hot flame. HELL. they held the secret

in their mouths but the words came as silence
comes over a loud room unnoticed. they wouldn't know

what they couldn't know. they remained
with their fate. unknowing. ARE YOU?

IN HELL. they were letting them know
where they were going but there was no sound.

High Tops

shake the elevator          go down
chills down your spine           go down
sit still and shimmer
caffeine course through system
base of skull shrink           expand
blood vessels          tighten

smudges in corner of glass roll
                                                   eye socket tension
too many cups on the mantle
                                                   shaking hand

Can't turn a face to the          sun
wrinkled toes in bent shoes          jaw clicks
hours slowed

you can't pick a stone then walk in a          circle
or the words won't lay down          right
what's in my head is sucked down battered in drain
torn by the
                    garabage disposal mechinism

A song about murder

when I first listened to it it was mostly for the melody and the sound of
the voice gravel like and strained and the words bounced kinda bounced
off and I didn't pay attention just to the melody of it and the sound
of it all mixed up and the meaning didn't well it somtimes picked at my
ear but I would lose the thread as the song lost its push and it ended and
I would start it again back at the beginning forgetful with the words
bounced back to the start and starting again it would just go on with the voice
and gravel like I'd forget to pick into the song for its meaning the words
even while after several times I sang the chorus along in my head but that
only brought the words to life with now the lines in my head but the meaning
still bouncing off or washing off and slipping under my feet enjoying the melody
the beauty of the song as it like crested the waves up and down up and down
as it slowed and came to a finish I would remind myself just once more I'll
listen listen to it before I pour over the lyrics to get at what the trees how or what
washed to the river in the night what was that gravel like voice moaning for

Gnat

there
you were the sky
where I grabbed you
and choked you
became your wing your legs
your body
pressed into paste
wiped black and grim
blood like body
or some other curse
where you were
taken
suffocated tortured
and broken
it was only a mistaken
reflex
movement in
the corner of the eye
I reached out for you but you pulled away
why? it was foolish. it was all your fault.

On the day

after the 25th day of no dreams
I recall in the time I dropped in late for work
missing incessant alarms
waking and thinking
finally a dream finally a dream
only to forget where the thought was
what life had been lived in the span
of twenty minute lifetimes
to hurry with creased clothes
wait for screeching underground trains,
no airconditioning no seats
packed with neck-collared bodies
black summer dresses sweating leather bags

and no dreams
no dreams

no dreams

Night Pome

light hides what's outside,
along with dreams
swirling at the glass,
heat against the door
seeps in
mixes with my sweat
my hopeless rot and the words
squeeze out
tonight nothing changes
nothing goes forward
just the sun spinning
the earth pretend spinning
the sky black spinning to blue
me staring sleeping yawning
nowhere to go

the difference

That man is me but nobody knows me

I'm not content in my house locked up but here I am
anyway

3 floors up 3 more floors below ground

think of all the bones stuck in cement

of many many buildings on each
street

many sidewalks underneath

That voice is me but nobody knows me

I'm not able to lead by my words or by my
hand

3 words into the microphone 3 words come echo back

think of all the years left as nothing behind you

of many many thoughts come to
naught

many thoughts not worth it

That body is me but nobody knows me

I'm not able to pull the trees from out the grip of dying
cars

more metal mind than stem

think of all the fields with low lying grass

of many many little hearts meant for
roadkill

many more will cower alone

That mind is me but nobody knows me

I'm not willing to let go of my blood red
release

3 knives to the back before 3 get me on the street

think of all the pain we can cause

many many acts of retribution
earned

many more to come

That man is me but nobody knows me

the act of compelling observance

red lights are exit signs

                                        green are to shelter in place

which one marks the stop sign while other marks go

jack boots slapped with lacquered black shoe polish snap in the street

the long blue uniformed mind of the law

                                                                    at war with no other side

senseless cowardice is the weapon of the oppressed

isn't it easier to drink the purified water you've been told exists

hand in your calloused gloves for the shackled fists that fit

watch what you do and where you go

alleys at night are bad places meant for the veiny stew

listen for the coming of the army of the republic

wave your banners in the coming blue dawn

                                                                          safety is none of your concern

9-5

laughter in the halls on the last days

sound like florescent lights emitted by some atmospheric phenomena
     localized above our heads

an hour between eternity and now to spend ingesting death

the white
roses
left
one by one
by
mourning
fractals
from
even
deathlike
hands
sharp
nails
dry
cuticle
encrusted
keyboard
bones

plastic coffins and plastic signs

around with the numbered dial goes time enchained in brass links
     cutting into thin wrists

no space before the collapse of the thin film of resolve.

Apples

my mother used to warn me about worms in apples
and when I was younger I saw traces of their existence,
little cored out tunnels turned brown,
small globs of green decayed bodies,

funny, I was thinking the other day,
'when was the last time I checked an apple for a worm,'
I had a bag full of organic pink ladies,
'not in something like 25 years, maybe,'
I couldn't even remember the last time,

It's strange to think how lucky I've been,
but, maybe even stranger to think where I've gone
that there are no worms left to find any sweet apples
and burrow to eat inside,

the apples seem as sweet as ever,
'moreso', I think, 'than ever before,'

and I wonder where all these worms went
and why their apples gave up on me.