bus ride transcript

'what are you doing to my good children?'

--this from back of bus, the
semblance of body, thin grey strands
hair matted to liver spot forehead
sweat, yellowed skin,

'i told you, it doesn't want it!'

--pained

'my good girl!'

--who's?

'get outta my life!'

--alone, no phone

'i earned my credit! how did you do
the machines? no, it will not take
my
good
children!'

--the silence in each other seat, the counting
of blocks, streets, miles to the next stop

'i told you! drug on drug nothing! i don't want him!
get rid of the stupid
false
nothing! i
am
not a
nuke!
go live your own violence!'

--a few shuffling feet, some unoccupied seats,
some duck duck goose, some buffer, she's all
alone back there three rows removed
from re-situated shuttle geography; pariah

'it doesn't want him!'

--who?

'you can't do that to my green children!

--same voice answers?

'say good bye to your career!'

'no i will not!'

--begins to harden

'i said get out of my life!'

--one body speaking

'i'm not talking anymore'

Piss on Trash; I came over here to say this

wobble to the subway doors
     automatic
           before they'll close
you bridge the gap
     stagger on

at your worn heels
     buttoned up
                leather belted
seriously bent
          anger scowled
anger thrust through plexiglass
     into heart of train

regardless

the metal wheel
the metal monster
                              pulls away

If I could make you out in the crowd passing
I would

at length of edge
       off track
                      he quickly turns
veers from departed train
      cuts toward me
throws his hand
            into the past
what was
                 looking into the corner
                                  under escalator
                          by the train mapped
                                  the totem pillar

'that guy!'

'he pissed right there!'

I'm his only audience I am humanity I am made to see
shown the wet lines growing between the tile

'he squatted down and pissed! he pissed!'

passes me too close
      inches from glowing globe
shiny sweated
            nearly brushes my nose

'fuck is wrong with people?'
       
                       all the veins
clenched indignation
         I respond with blank smile
paper weight

'fuck is wrong with people?'
     one last bit of wisdom before he goes.

people walking across the street and the white bus that passed them

the bus was so much faster than you, you know?
tho it carried what, 30, 40 times your weight, maybe?
that many more minds, too, and yet, like you, it obeyed
that little green or little red light, think about that, it had
onboard airconditioning too, so it was in no hurry to get out
of the heat, and it was a bus even, so it probably couldn't,
anyway, it was most likely enroute to some layered
parking estate and there you were for a second walking
beside it going that same way only slower so much slower
thinking how to get out of the heat without sweating too much
going with the flow of the other feet, carrying your own weight.

Metronarok

city is its own apocalypse
          empty streets snake by empty walls

no mass incarceration today
          surveillance mechanism built for home

what the last email in the chain said
          a victim-less perfect copy machine

sun is its own warmth
          spends its days in endless dark

for next 24 hours
          the mechanical coil of the world snake

abeyant.

Kiss my life

yesterday
leaning over bar
I played the
lonesome traveler
peering over pint
of oyster stout
silently brooding

'in heaven we will all be safe,
          there will be no reality to bear,'

in private libraries
I read alone
another night leads
to another day and that
is gone from me already
already I am older still
slower still stiller still

yesterday
in auld forgotten faces
I got the usual in a place
I'd only been once
two weeks before

a delorean revved its engine
across street to cheering crowds
another celebrity out of time

the sun was set
the night lingered
bits of orange
tint of black
purple bruises

yesterday
I limped home up Ode St.
caught each transfer
perfect red to yellow line to 16J
fed my cat
showered
turned off all the lights
kissed my life farewell
fell asleep

Cemetery Sentences

Red hydrant on the ridge     what sets you apart from death?

***

Candy corn barricades stacked on roadside     wait for another day

***

Wind blows toward the one true God     Washington, DC

***

on the hill     line of trees     in the sky metal streaks     blue angels

***

lying flat in the swamp     freedom's five-sided tombstone

***

No photos please     the military industrial complex is now in session

They up and left together; The Pall Mall Girl

she looked lonelier than the pack of Pall Malls at her feet,
carton left by some passer-by for the subway floor
there was a chance cigarette or two left
each rider thinking to pick them up, even if you weren't to smoke
just trying to make a score
but not a soul willing to make the move between her legs
so tension hung in on the car
all eyes at this girl's feet
while she leaned her head against the Plexiglas partition
headphones in lips pouted eyes going nowhere fast
clothes drab gray old and waning still
we waited we watched and I couldn't guess her age
as her bag slunk to cover the rolled tobacco rolled paper
arm and hand relaxed in dazed lost sleep control
those fidgeting addicts wish scratch feel watch
red light and doors open close bodies move and feet shuffle
the abrupt jerk of engine brakes subway stop noise
and by the next stop in case you missed it
the girl and the Pall Malls were gone.

Exposure

     hey man you got a bum might wanna dollar somethin to eat maybe hey thanks lady pass by credit card carry lunch crowd thin dirty dying sonuva but just don't let me see flesh out on the sewer grate street--dentist says "open up now open up"--dying of hunger just as long as my eyes can walk by downcast or up above over filth should be ashamed is ashamed never worked a--security on it's way guy been exposing himself to gentle innocent costumers outside corner deli--"shits can die and leave us alone a stain on our public soul
     ive seen those lost ugly assholes beating rain snow cold on exhaust pipe holes sick sick sick"--what's he going to do with that cash anyway honey drugs death ugliness homelessness it's a disease laziness apathy doesn't move like the rest of us shiney silver feet and if--the street sweeper moans--and if there is anything left of him it'll be too much for me to see--shudder shudder--nakedness that's stark unclean what's wrong with them--
     nakedness

untitled

On my lunch break
I hear the ughs and
groans of those  I'll say
are worse off than me,
& those I'll say are better,
scurrying to fill that lost
tiny hour of the day
all suffering like me
suffering that pearly idea
suffering for independence
gained through slavery,

I think like, what's the difference
IN GOD WE TRUST?

Why would you want it on
those green slips of sludge
rot in yer gut printed on the
carcasses of our beautiful world
anyway?

Didn't Jesus overturn
the tables at the temple
of your mind body soul
for a reason? Didn't he
carry the sword to his
enemies?

Buddha, know, gave up his belongings willingly

BUDDHA BLESS on the gold coin

I catch the multitude of car in
the swelling cavities of my yearning,
black window, cold windows
got going somewhere

pass that nameless man on the street
I've seen him everyday for two years,
says, god bless, even when you offer nothin'
not even a nod, goes on mumbling,
bent over walker now,
body's crumbling onto street,
just two too quick years,
leaning like broken branch now,
and the street, paved in gold
under all these bodies
goes on thinking nothing,
silent prayer to the lord on high,
skyscraper heavens,

walk
croak
creak
cracking,

I see the faces,
I don't see.

Fall on Rainy Mornings

Rain
on
fall
mornings

anyone can
write this
but I am
and it's mine

stepping
out of metro
I hope it's raining
harder than it is
but it's a fine
drizzle

it's nice so
I'm not so
disappointed
I quite like it
actually
now that I'm
thinking about
it, it fits with
today,

sky is bright
but gray

I pick up
a coffee
barista knows
what I order
it's ready almost
before I walk in
and the cashier is
always looking
at me like she knows
something,
she smiles out corner
of her mouth,

I wink at her,
walk back out into
rain,

it's chilly today,
drops hang on my glasses
but I can see just
fine,

the street is glimmering
blackness,

rain falls and gathers
like mountain
streams in the gutters

it smells like wet clothes
and old cement.

A new diner

off little river turnpike
open 4 lanes, looks
like Virginia when
it moves south
becomes flat,
lays itself out,
goes forward into
the real south
finally, firmly
out of DC
to become real--

not planned constructed
white washed
cluster of white collar
suburbs high tower
suburbs
and everyone living
in some condo-hotel
purgatory like apartment situation
where years go by feeling like
you're on vacation never home
and suddenly you've got nothing--

and then up ahead dust covered open--
roads less than 10 minutes out
squat colonial style red shingled single
storey cross-hatched white painted
windows breakfast specials coffee
smells and something like true american
landscape brings you home--

while not very far away the
white dome glistens the capital
street burns the monuments watch
and Washington keeps on going,
painted white, replete with statues
of old gray dead men,
living out it's own fantasy,
it's strange desert existence,
surrounded by the oasis of the living,
casting its antiquated mirage.

Count the Green

Ever see a Gulf gas pump

with scrolling dials in the 

living room of an apartment?

Place smells like weed

weed weed & PBS

running un-watched

un-listened to,

white walls chipped and mildewed 

and old famous old DC punk

stories, get this one:

Guy comes home late from a party/bar/party drunk off his ass, banging on his apartment door, can't find his keys see, but this door, as it happens, isn't his door & old lady inside isn't his old lady, so she calls the cops,terrified (someone is shouting, cursing, trying to bust her door down & they show up, find him passed out on the floor, check his wallet, see he lives in same building but floor above, so they help him up and take him from say 4A to 5, rifle through his pockets for find his keys & open the door, find inside on coffee table:

Weed - 2 lbs

Money (in American $) - 15,000

Tomorrow he wakes up in stupor on couch, money gone, weed gone, and only hangover, robbery infamy.

There's a robot jellyfish painting on 

the wall above his couch now,

it's no longer 1994--

Those years are gone,

he's chilling now with 

medicaid,

healthcare, &

fucking hell, help a bum out,

why don't'cha?

I'm not at liberty to say--

He lives in an old beat highrise,

coffin elevators, maroon brick walls

everywhere, follow me?

We sit facing each other,

Jon and I--

He counts the money,

makes sure,

counts again,

deals out the green.

Radio

*Sfffxxxzzzkkkyaa~Goooooooooo-oood
moooornin' DC
the sun is shining
the weather is beeaaa-U-ti-ful
and if you're worth anything on
this fine fine fiiiiiiiiiiiine day
you'll be on your way to in to work
so enjoy that spring air while you can
my little darlings 'cause the world never
stops turning and~grrrrkkkkvvvvvsstktk~lll
of me
          why not take 
                               all of me~hrrrrrppp~
to you from sunny
southwe~we got~
you're not going to believe what's
on tap f~
               today~left me with
                                              eyes~
so I hope you're out there
looking for that green~gkkk~ats
Dodgers last night in elev~cry~
forget to tune in that dial
I'll be here all~

day~

City Sketch

hard-hatted mexican workers
return to work in the cool
shadows cast by squat buildings
walking in line, dressed in
fluorescent orange yellow green
vests, soiled white pants,
they pass on other side of newspaper
stand bypassing groups of
office smoke breakers, talking inhaling
exhaling talking, the air smells like
spring slight tinge of burnt rubber
idling car engines, one of those days
with winter shadows and spring
sun warmth, men with sleeves
rolled up, women in skirts, not sure
if it's still jacket weather or not,
lunch crowds swarming
outdoor patio seats full and waiters
skipping between tables, taking
orders bringing food, cleaning up,
everything above blue and crisp
and new, birds returning chirping
harbinger of march april may
I hear them counting down
pulling me away and toward--what's to
come--something like a great adventure
and maybe get my pen moving again--
like legs and wheels and--lunch truck smells
lines haphazard waiting--did you order, yet?
no. yes yes okay? no, go ahead--feet on
pavement, honking horns washington dc in
the afternoon same as afternoons everywhere
stuffed into a box and shaken up and turned
upsidedown--I catch a glimpse of it
choking--a great wall of text written underneath
a promise somehwere a sigil planted deep
deep beneath the void--calls me to step over
the pot holes--listen as it explands--hissing
from the future--winter ends spring ends
summer all over again--someplace new someplace
grand part the great sea america--shuttle to the coast
3,200 miles away I know where I'm going
I know how I'll get there.

Take a walk we me baby, take a walk

breath,
white plumes of
smoke, winter hangs
on, bitter cold
last day of Feb.
shortest month
rent still same,
food costs, trans.

what's in the bank?
I dunno,
other peoples money
I guess,
or the bank's lent it all,

that one seems more likely.

the latter one,

closed the door
chill slowly melts
shake it off,
heat hits like wall
and coats you,

I am more uncomfortable in it
than the cold,

three people stand in the elevator
staring at me
as the door closes,
I am 3 feet away.

fucking fuck.

assholes.

Super Bowl Sunday

tumble weed in the streets,
K street streaked with
salty whiteness no cars,
angle parking on 9th
for church crowds,
empty restaurants sit you by
the window, leave
the coffee pot to its own devices,
or yours,
it's superbowl sunday,
all's quiet,
all are in worship,
chilling the beer,
unbuttoning the pants,
saying the prayer,
waiting for the kick-off,

release.

A poem in 5ths

Scenes and Whispers

I
It's simple really
I'll write every poem
about myself

II
Don't sit on park benches alone
they'd rather rot by themselves

III
a pee only becomes a piss
when you're mad and gotta let it go
dick out a shaking pants down,
I can't take credit for that one

just promise not to rest on the metro

IV
Revelations of today
look ridiculous in my notebooks
of yesterday, I pour milk
for the young in my sleep,
aged and warmed my bones for them

V
The sick leave the elevators unharmed
turn the swastikas into boxes
wrap my heart on their fingers
drag me into the next thought

Happy Endings

Southern metro cookin'

They had us in a fish fry
like sardines sweating those
remaining hours away before
a hand grabs and pulls them
toward God, like the can with
the curled up top that looks like
some satanic soda pop,
and the girls were grinding their
teeth all smiles, a group sang happy
birthday outside Arlington cemetary
which I found kinda funny
in way, I guessed for all the oil lost
and we boiled crispy and golden
until we hit the end of the line
which was just two slices
of white bread and a side of slaw
away from the Pentagon.

She smiled and knew the world was watching

She wore a pretty blue and white dress
that wasn't quite flowers but abstract
images of flowers meant to trick the mind and you
couldn't tell unless you looked up
real close and even then
maybe you wouldn't believe
the truth,

She clacked along on matching
high-heeled shoes in the
way too hot for May DC sun
and I watched her move past
booths and colorful flags,
mascots and steaming grills,
I watched her blush,
turn, smile, laugh, brush her hair,
and I didn't care if she knew
it.

Round 3

Finished edits today,
baked chicken with potatoes
on 400 degrees and the whole
place smelled like rosemary, it's
70 outside and sunny, tomorrow
I'll be in the archives reading
Revolutionary War pension files,
it'll be raining like it always does,
I'm in DC again, scrawling in red and green
ink, I've got all these sketches tucked
away in my journal, part of me wants to
post them here, but I can't bring myself--
I watch the cleaning crew outside my window
5 stories below...they're speaking Spanish
and I don't get it, I don't get
much--