this is nothing

nibs licks his gray fur in the yellow sun rays
Tom Waits sings a boiling sea
you can match the rhythm of both
to the south going traffic and the rain never came

what if many things could mean many things?

downstairs I clacked in sandals to the lobby
watched an old man drink a sextuple espresso
frowning into his cup
filled my own double shot

what if one thought could be many thoughts?

on the elevator my floor was already pushed
when it stopped I was the only one to get off
I waited to be last but there was only me to go

what if many actions had no consequences?

nibs waited at the door fur darkened
he pushed his head into the hallway
pupils wide looking right
looking left

I nudged his nose back inside with my foot.

It's the time

half the window is gray, half is sunlit
the gray half is leaning south along the highway,
east toward the sea the sunlit half moving away,

below both halves construction murmurs,
muffled voices mixed with clanging steel and stone,

the building across is cutoff by the protruding balcony above,
thin tree branches reach over the railings, little spots of green,

there is a chair on one side and a chair outside, both are facing me,

I am seeing through concrete walls as always facing west.

These little rain drops

These
           little
rain
drops

pink flashes

break through
powder blue
clouds

hold onto
nightscape

indigo
edges

shadow

sunlit
reflections
in flourescent
sky

ruby blazing
crystal glare

awash
the globe
in scarlet
threads
memories

of the
morning

birds singing
radiators humming.

24 Gun Salute

through
the caramel colored
eye

sun streaked

paint stain
pulled across my
floor

trailing light

an amber bolt
of lightning splits
rainbow skies

shaking color

gun shots at
steady intervals
echo mourning dove cries

engines roar

memory of
steel and carbine
hearts of wood

carving death

As a Dog Barks

The Hunt
by Dexter Gordon?

usually don't guess
right but

that's what's playing:

July 4th 2014

8:53 am

my phone turns itself
off during that night,
never the day

day looks like rain, but
it's not raining

I shit, shower

head doesn't hurt any longer.

I should get a beer, I says,
I'm a writer, it would make sense.

I don't. I hear children playing outside,

I left my window cracked, the gray
sky leaks inside, now
everything is gray

this doesn't feel like independence

a strange metallic sound outside,
car, sounds off,

these guys (Filipinos & Mexican
guys) are always out working on
their cars, I don't know enough
to know what they're doing,

I missed out on that part of manhood.

I've held a pen,
typed instead.

Sun peeks through clouds offscreen

it's all starting to look different

it's July 4th, 9:38am

I'm typing poems as a dog barks.

Baking in my sleeping bag

You're on the other
side
being abstract, acting
distant,

I have a stack of
thoughts in front of me,
unfinished; have poems to
write, poems I
should be writing; instead

I'm writing this; an

alarm goes off, it's mine

saturday morning, you're
laying around somewhere,
Cootie Williams is blowing
Gator Tail; I shut the blinds

and the world outside
goes on and on and about
and out without me,

this poem is running, jazz is
dead, so are all those jazz
men playing, dead, but time doesn't
make sense anyway; it's
just going in circles, stealing
what it can,

which is everything,

we aren't friends; I can't see the
trees,

I'm hiding from the sun.

Written on March 12 (Kerouac's Birthday)

Sun's down when I wake up,
don't know how I feel about that
just yet, doesn't seem right, doesn't
seem like I should be pulling myself
out of sleeping bag, brushing teeth,
getting cool drink of water, now then
now getting dressed, here, holding on
to warm fabric, sometime in the night
i had removed my clothes, don't remember when,
forgot to write dream down, letting this
journal waste away mold away, hear this
written down, some horror story
gone come gone go, was sweating,
was fear? or--could have been any number
of things worth mentioning, not worth
caring about, it's all passing by regardless
all a dream, all no one ever remembers,
all going somewhere in search of the prize,
it'll be darker tomorrow, and the day after,
and the day
and the day