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?

Regrets are left next to coffins, to be picked up by curious youth

I'm Sisyphus pushing a
pyramid toward jagged peaks
while you watch,

a 6-pack too many
and you're sloppy drunk
or epileptic,

no matter what side I turn you
it's all the same nowhere,

standing slouched, peering
over gorges calling names,
we are bathed in the sweat of regret,

a sweet inviting smell
that you've accepted,
and wear in resignation and disdain,

I'd like to hit you
so you'd snap out of it,
but the jump has already been made,

Now all thats left
for me to decide,
is whether
I should watch
or
close my eyes.

Running

I'm tired.
there's a fan in the other room buzzing.
crickets outside
and trash cans
sitting next to driveways.

under a desk light
with the night surrounding him
a man can be forgiven of all
his wrongs,

in the light of day
with the desk lamp cold
and trash cans empty
he's just tired.