There are hobos below,
that swim in the breath of
our drunken voices
reaching out in the night
under chords of guitar and light.
these streets are empty when
the early, early morning reaches,
holding onto fragments of the night.
I walked, stumbledrunk in the streetlamp haze
toward concrete and my car and thirty minutes of road
to the sky.
Then was when I flew,
and I burned up the excesses of whiskey and
and I stared into halogen lamps,
and danced like a maniac in front of mechanics,
hidden under the sound of jet engines,
a person undedicated but,
repeating words I had moved over months,
situated into perfect sculptures of instruction.
how does one teach a computer to kill?
My words are no better than blood,
duller than arrows,
sting more than poison
but I am allowed a tiny kingdom.
A castle of brown bottles and aluminum cans
that tower over the pacific,
(my toes in the cold sand... september)
there I see the ocean and,
fawning over millions of molecules
I remember the men I killed in the east.
I remember my oath to live for them
and I see myself unable
to live even for myself.