Saturday in November

long johns
wool cap
no shirt
with window
open
heat on
sounds
of Saturday
golden
sunlight
powder
blue blueness
reaching
gray cat
sleeps
behind me
faint sound
hum of purr
keys ticking
green fields
of what once
was is no
longer
colorless
trees
branches
sapped
faded tiled
roofs
never noticed
before
a breeze
cuts in
every now
and then.
freezes
my chest
freezes
my hands

November Street Scene

a cafe

with only one table
outside

even in November
is strange

a man tries reading
Gravity's Rainbow

"but it mocks me."

I'd rather fry kidney's
on a stove

oil crackles like kirby
on the page,

think iron smell.

color is dull
to none existent.
all white, bland

utterances from
bodies lying on
subway grates,

morning

coffee sips mankind
a selective hi

novels in garbage cans

chairs upturned
on counter tops

chill winds
scuttle through
alleyways

old city pathways

cracked pavement
like an arrow
points north.

Missed two

I came to blame the fever
it was in some ways easier
some ways more believable,
when burying ideas to
ascribe them some other form;

of their old stuff
packed away I said nothing,
sun setting
on Mondays a bit hesitantly,
a but unsure, something to
do with the blood ritual of the
inured mass-machine mash,

sun in my eyes is damaging
my feet sweat in these shoes
not wearing any socks
the radiator is cold

I am othered from the outdoors
regardless, by conspiratorial window
panes,

the sunlight reflects off my screen
I am typing blind
like always.