Sign of the Dog

saw your sign glance by

          lost since last august
                           no update     on sad face dog

last seen exiting the front door of a house on prince st
                                       
                                         running east

Doesn't answer to his name/may run from stranger steps

another sign
             read ASSN.
             as ASIAN, hmmm.

you'd think maybe like     a bilingual school
                                          or history
                                                    could be?
as
ASSN. of Educators and Lecturers
ASSN. like an Association like an abbr.

     meaning
                    parking spots
for members meaning
                                     that was a sign
                                     for sure

warning for tow implicit throughout
explicitly measured out below

and other words of white on blue field

     like
            the first sign
blocks of text

the general gist
      is already          wearing thin
                         
                          two blocks past into tomorrow
     the dog
             beside     downward stare

what did it look like?
                                   the dog that's just a dog
were there any cars?
                                  parked in the lot?
educators?
          was there even a school?

how many     months
                             have been lost
          since august?

Writing a walking poem

feverish long poems in the night left tattered on front door steps
making an arrow of the map unable to escape the grid like sprawl

follow the stanzas out to the river edge
remember each word must go with you
stick them like candy between your teeth
wash them out under the sewer of your home

these relatively meaningless directions on specific on wire-taps
contain massive spoilers for the coming week
poems cascade like arc waves drowning offhanded remarks
each new episode resets the continuity mark
ADHD victims are integral to this body trade

the street signs are no help it is the cracks on the floor show the way
fill them with your spit and sweat
eat from tattered remains from the hole punch
recognize the language unrolled from collective heads
leave the DNA to be gathered by the next intelligence sweep
throw your hands up at the unhinged finish line
ejaculate on the cuffs

First spot

closest to the farthest spot,
first space on the longest mile,
left in park, ignition off;
walking home through the rain.

those walks with you

when I was younger I would pick a direction and walk
until after a few hours I was lost somewhere new
cruching across the crabgrass everywhere new looked
                       everywhere old and the same in the suburbs
I would often follow cracks in cement winding streets
or slip through small wooded parks with rusting swings
                                              and clusters of silent trees
or step over flowered fences tramping through front yards
always the eyes would watch
                                                yet there were no fences
nothing to bar my path a few stones a welcome mat
the trash would be rotting on tuesdays and thursdays
there were never enough hours to escape the county
it just stretched on and on with cars following
cars being shuffled along a string forward and back
eventually I would start back attempting a different path
looking all the same and new and never strange back to my room
and my home looking never different always the same

skullface, in smoke, again

ivory eyes through the hallway

skull in the wall

     the build up in the shower head
each tiny hole

old, everything around is old
     useless and old and hollow follow down
and clog the clod the drain

night in through the window soundless

bones in the wall

cardboard thin walls bent inward
     visible cracks in void

     weary, rattling death
straight through my gaze in the dark
     and tip-toe beyond and sink

seated somewhere close by

chalk outlines the floor

South Gate Rd. Sentences

Ivory totems on ivory hills left to feed the gods of war,
mourned by withered wreaths and crimson bows.

* * *

a word written in snow, or was it the way the sun revealed the grass?

* * * 

fenced in, thrown out,

          the land and debris of america;

buried and hidden from sight.

* * *

the snow is as flat and blue as the afternoon sky.

To afternoons

big sun up on hills
over my imaginary
sandcastles put-put-
puff-smokers on the
balconies of the past,
huff and spill smoke
on bowed heads, laugh
for some joke dead
long ago, no connective
tissue to the current
be-speckled
reality, I scratch whispers
into the filament saying all this,
saying nothing, each mark
a pencil gash on my notebook
page, each gash a woman
I've loved, each gash a'
sailing into universal void
oblivion, each microscopic
ash a truth fading away,

oh quail egg sky

you're a thousand years old
you'll never change

you'll never go on and die
          you'll never--
                    never--
                                will you?
                                will you?

On the way to Oysters

a street
off Dupont,
P or Q,
she walked
uneasily toward
me, blocked my
way,

     "I have a question for
you, young man." she said,

about 60 years old,
horn rimmed glasses
large framed and bifocal-ed,

Yeah?

she held her pocketbook
tightly, arms crossed
over wool knee-length
coat,

     "Just one."

knit cap sitting loose
at hairline,
rouge lipsticked mouth
partially hidden
behind homemade
scarf, she asked,

     "Is it Tuesday,
tuesday...today?"

Err, uhh, yeah, yeah,
yeah it is, I answered,

     "Oh," she smiled,
"Oh, good, that's what I thought."

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.

So Hot You Won't Find Her in the Same Place Twice

rusty lock on
swinging gate
gray sand old
time photo of squinting
cowboy gun rasied--
BANG--thumbs in
belt hook
spits tobacco on
memory I haven't
even been born
yet and he's gone
and buried himself--
six feet of dirt--in
the ground,

she winks through
glass hued glass
transparently as I
pass--

the slug catches me
in the chest

blood and gore--

I'm clutching my
insides

all out bleeding out

no breath,

she lights a candle
blows out the match

red lipstick kiss

the curtain falls
like the sun sets
like my eyes shut

like the wind
ever goes--

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.

Gray

I thought about publishing a blank page
but then I started typing
and it all seemed foolish, like the sun
coming out at 4 o' clock
when it looked like rain all day
even when I walked you back to work
though I forgot what I did coming
back, I do that sometimes
think back and wonder if maybe I crossed
the street into traffic or fell
down a manhole, maybe I'm not here typing
in some serotonin nightmare final
gasp, maybe the sewer doesn't smell
as sweet as your room, maybe I'm
just suffering down here with
a broken leg; I don't know,
it all makes sense for a few seconds when
I gather up those memories and place
them one by one beside your
cold bed

Houses fixed by roadside stare

The alleys reach that parallel nowhere

Bleeding left to right one-way dimensions,

There families wait and eat and wait

Watching from protruding tri-window ledges

my olive corduroy pants and Mao cap

passing by, labored by maybe noticeable limp

and slouched posture (I’ll have to fix- sometime)

and no destination but absent-minded wonder

under yellowing sky weary blue cloud cluster dusk 

Tired sleeping eyes closed

I can type while the stars falter--
utter (eventual) desolation-mixture,
two men walking solitary
hands-in-pockets-thinking
on faded street lit night,
I'm stories above and bodiless-
emptiness leeching from cold bones;
there's a beautiful burst, a terrible
peculiarity by the corner market,
baking bread in spanish hovel 25c-
apiece,

kiss kiss ambivalent night-time lullaby bliss
tired-world dog on sidewalk sleeping sadness
cradled in flour, butter airy mess

Maroon Tiles

Deep voice and velvet tomato coat,
face screwed up to pastel crystal light
of early morning cool sun
glint off cars waiting to pass in Marriott
-please for taxi's only cul-de-sac-
blister glitter off street sign corner
'round building squat,
Alright, alright, alright, move it on,-

the car chugs infuriated
rolling brake stop engine whine
haven't quite woken up murmur--

hotel attendent waving him through
to guests, become passengers,
onward airplane miles cloudless-

tell me--

invented dream morning dove-

held in shaking hands-

blueberry fantastic sky-

who cradles falling baby stars, in the know-nothingness
of thursday morning eternity?

Crossing Streets in Winter Time I Caught a Glimpse

Cheap months october-november-december
uncapitalized diagonal streets dirty pavement
and blinking white frozen in-stride man, he's bald
I guess, without future but--
like everyone of us crossing the street
to our ululating white-washed horror destinations
holding our ears; the truth on the crisp lines shouting,
We've all had enough, since that first squelched cry
that immortal cry reaching back into super-nova-blitzkrieg-time
the first lament--
life leads everywhere leads everything hands everyone- pretty faced girls
and sober boys summer lushed by midnight fragrant airs-
silent oblivion...ob- obliv- oblivions-

I write it all the same

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.

A Portrait of My Room

Steep hill dog-legs right,
fifty yards up the incline street,
parking permits and miniature yards,
at its peak sunk into the now slopping downward hill,
really sunk to the left, yellowed shingles,
down 5(?) cement steps
and blue cragged roof, around the back,
tip-toe right angle for sale long-ago sign,
I find my room in Maryland winter's driveway
and coverted backdoors, how many miles?
I sleep, vigilant/

Eastern

Facing East
Prostrate submissive pious
without shoes in the cold, public
unself-conscious in late afternoon
blue darkness of oblivion, spirit
thousand miles thousand lifetimes
rhythmic mat covered ground,
prayer obligation love
Faithful.
I envied him

there few blocks away walking
a kitten crossed gravel road, suffering

I called out-
I knew him once, suffered together
The sky becomes dark with so many memories

White

There's music in those white sneakers
and a weightlessness in their step,
with a song like that
we'll never touch the floor.