Friday Nights

starting off at dusk--
on car piled, metal snake
slinging cement gray road
plied by mass of commuter transit
nightmares, all hands headed to opposite
shores, quiet homes, small
pleasures, lonely hours,
ovens cold, fast food on table top,
missing children, barking dogs, hungry
cat, snow shifting madness, waiting tolls--
I get those sad groaning butterflies
of driving east, driving toward the old
shore, the thick waves of brown atlantic--
away from the great western stretch,
pioneers and new lands, fabled
journeys long etched into memory--
those sad eastern butterflies of
going home, of timelessness, and long
lost childhoods reaching out to me,
speaking in languages
I can no longer comprehend.

Pounder

left turn with
all the other left turns
headed home
snow fall earlier
now street just wet
turned over
torn up by winter
metro crowded,
standing like always
trying to choke down
some book some thought
some idea some reality,
there's nothing in my
fridge for dinner
but 4 bottles stout beer
4 pack tecate pounders
I follow the crowd home
or they follow me,
no energy to go out
once I'm in and changed,
no reason either,
I'll survive the night,
I forgot I had a quart of milk
tucked away in the back,
head out to the balcony
sun going down,
watch the miniatures
cut across highway lights
I wonder what they're going to eat,
or if they've got the same problem
as me.

You ever get to leave?

You got an old hat
spins on its shelf alone,
some odd square foot ledge
and nothing in between
that and floor and rising
tide, age and circumstance
play a game around it,
old fashioned hat, isn't fit to
wear 'til the sun come
knock it down, on the last day
watching earth plummet into
the forever ooze of primal space,
you'll be wearing that ole hat then
I swear,
making sense like ya got to always do,
never,
I swear it's swelling under the waves
pink lemonade cuts the shore
in half/halts/wilts
while you--whilst I--nagging
mind numb feeling of collapse,
and the hat, gonna sit and stare
at the aftermath,
explain it to you--
on the note left on the bronze plaque,

you ask "what's engraved there?"--
"what was it that I wrote?"

I 'll save it for another day,
cause I'm forced to move on,
left all my books on the shelf underneath too,

we're all forgetting some soul there,
watching out,
we'll all be dust in some bygone age,
the hats looking on,
calling our bluff--

Where I can find a home

Ah man, sound of cars
reluctantly head north
over the old bridges
at a new angle, crossing
the river--God's river--the
ol' Potomac, that's one of those
ancient arteries drives right into the heart
of the dark American soul, the mighty
rushing waves too far away to
hear over heavy planes
that scorch the sky with businessmen,
stewardesses, free drinks and first classes,
I'm in a new room, that's again,
not my own, tip-toeing uncertainty,
wondering when these sounds
will be mine again, when these sensations
will be private, when I can finally
let these bones rest as the
door closes

Travel home on Broad at south street light

And they stand on corners 'cross
America screaming,
my angelic bards of night and tattered clothes,

the taxi cab blinks backfire cool green
smell dust and construction zone 2am

I'll walk home if I gotta
desolate souls--holy soles

worn shoes

Bus is tired blue sadness
and minds estranged,
We're all silence waiting,

It's late--I've no fair nor toll

--We think of home,
not running engine at light
subway stops above ground niteowl early Tuesday,
we think of home--

heavy bag, cheating wives, dvr'd tv's supplication--

burnt offerings, savior prayer, my knees in aisle--

our night or mad gods or fire--

what're we all doing
up so late- alone?

Combinations

Street lamp cast supernova
white dwarf into lately midnight skies,
I'm hurrying home to escape the paranoid
darkness, the story darkness and figures

grieving, penetrating black puddles stagnant water
reformed space, footsteps, sleeping branchs
lullaby winds force faces huddled behind steel sheets
bleached white cloud sky snow, sinister day-lite terrors
and my key blades turning, bleeding
find the locks.

Picture of my America (Clifton Heights)

At this very moment
cars pulling up to drive thru windows
before Egg McMuffins become
Big Macs rush to afternoon jobs
on the big city pavements of the suburbs
tagged Route 1 or US-number
all the same with flashing lights
timed seconds green-red-yellow
drivers absently following tapping wheels
pedestrians making way to supermarket nightmares
and childhood dreams in schools pock-marked with
Oak trees 50 years mature,

Road chugs on unbridled by anti-depressant wish-lists
cornered by rising squat liqour stores on your sidewalk turn,
on all our corners looking for a drink a taste some change
some dream, walked by passed or forgiven years before the hospitals
outside the city fell.