Blind

the world bends and
my tires with it

 i am within the clouds
 but not of them.

I cannot see. Before me.

 or behind.

a ghost that lives ten thousand miles

away.

Our Present

I am like a can of yeungling passed
between hands reaching out from two
cars going the same direction
pressed into the cold night
drunken
streaking under overpass
fluorescent skin-like lights
headed for different unknowing
directions
spilling, shifting, heaving
toward the failed future we would
surely find

They are human houses

The vultures possess a human face

somewhere in the barrens
of a new jersey night
the corpse of a shanty--
collapsed roof
rotted boards
decorated with tall,
grey tombstones--

carcass pushed back from
crumbles of pavement

sentry faces obscured by yellow eyes
smiling
made of endless stone
carved into human eyes.