one of these days
I am sure
of it
you will go to your
grocery store
and find
a dragging —
a trail of
blood and
cheap wine
leading into the room
behind the register
and they will be eating him
man, do people hate each other

God, when will you end the cola wars

We cleaned it out
Swept the floors and threw it out by the gate
We cleaned the crates, hosed and scrubbed them lightly
Left them to bake in the afternoon, I wake
them, the colors that is, and they are beautiful to me
I showed you greyish green and blunt yellow
It was all too much I know, I see that now
We had a few minutes to spare, I looked up and skies hurt my eyes for while
They seemed provident, I guess it’s all worth it
I don’t know which ones you saw
I thought of adventures taking place far away
The freshwater museum looking like an abandoned lodge
I wonder, all those fish still hanging there, glass eyes telling us our time nigh
But I’m sure I saw them swimming, someday
I’m gonna’ try that myself.
We stood arms akimbo
We said nothing
and I’m still not going to

for the last time
forget the man
hattan-project
for the true *****
bomb
lies behind the lips
of every
woman, if
she can smile
with her eyes as
well.
See, that’s power:
nuke em’ Debbie
-but come to think of it
I am sure that
there is a woman like
Debs
behind every
bomb.

goodbye

-you know what to do

he was born
on a bus, and did his hair
in the bus seat window
looking at him from all of the sides was
the world
at large, moving fast
around him
it is not lost on me
he saw the world    three
sixty degrees, that was how his world was built
he saw two opposing sides to everything
he never wore the seat belt, so it would just be hanging there
he took his fate however it may come, he said
he realized by seeing everything from every possible
perspective
that nothing really was
an elderly woman touches his shoulder
seeing his misery shoot out the window
but he is already so far away

Listening to the electric lights
Spread out over the passage
Just listen
A lamp every tenth step or so
Hollowed out concrete serves as a mode
of transport – through
What awaits in the next space between the lights
The passage jet black
What awaits in the next one
In the moment equally far from either light
Yet another trip, another adventure
Let it be a good one, I say
Let it be a good one, unlike the others

skipping
the creeks
and
the water holes
never occurred to me
I fall, roll, drown, and sit
****, in the murky
stream, the rocks
smooth but smelly
the color of ****
rocks - my world
dive down
I am glad I cannot
swim
I never learned how
to keep myself
afloat
but at least
I see
what is really
going
on, on the
bottom,
sea bed
and let me
tell
you, baby
it is
a blue
world

drinking brandy and listening to the walls
they scream
a lot is happening, but no one notices
well I notice, I am here
and I’m listening closely to the silence
it feels like something is about to make
  abrupt
pounding three beers and adjusting the volume
I don’t see what else
with everything so intricate
I miss walking in my hometown without sidewalks
the trees slouching from the weight of the rain
waiting for it to drop to the ground
I walk with my shoulders slightly arched
in case it happens, you know?

we all went running
as kids
along the steep
forest path
I was misguided, misled
so now, I run down here
I keep parallel, but there is
no coming back,
that I know of
a minor ravine ahead
that is where my path will
lead
and I am guessing
that all the little beetles
will come out to play and
to eat

the floor made a noise
it gave
and I was there, finally rested
finally ready to do it
for my mother, my father, my country
Thou Father
the troops are aligning
I hear them moving around downstairs as well as upstairs
it will commence soon enough
even sooner it will end again
we are all here, waiting
to be ready again
how they scuffle enrages me, who dares
halt, who goes
they have arrived
the oil lamps went out and the storm rolled open the windows
but let it be known, let it be written — we were ready
here it goes

I died slowly on the streets of Beijing
driving a pedicab for fourteen hours straight
my cigarettes fell from the chest pocket of my grey, black-striped corduroy shirt
sleeves rolled halfway up, hanging just underneath my ever-arching elbows
they were of the brand of the golden tiger, with golden tips to bring to your lips.
they will find my work in my room, someday it will be known
I greet the tiger as we lie on the ground all gravel, litter, people gathering
he holds the same magnificent stance as always
before we go, let me know
how do you do what you do

I wish I could sleep
with my eyes closed
for I only sleep with my eyes open
I want to see the peoples — the folks who lay these traps for me
every day, every morning
I remain unvisited
at least to my own accord
but as I slide my feet down from the bed side, out of my dream
I step down into my stygian sea
and they pull me
ever under
-
we go deep
a little deeper each time
where does it lead
where does it lead this time
-
I am no new
to this avenue  
-good morning

Turned around sitting in the grass
I got up the three steps
Sandals made a soothing noise on the stone
You sit there, at the far end of the bench
Seated in an air I’ll never comprehend
Under the burning bright
I fell backwards as I sat, backwards into your embrace
Now, my head in your lap and your hand in mine
The wind was passing and I followed
My closed, cursed eyes inundated in yellow and red
It’s not the kind that demands bursts of tears
But rather a sigh
Just the one

you know me
now trust me
there is a house
where we all go
your mother’s family went there
your teacher’s sister’s family went there
your nephew’s cousin’s family went there
it is way out in the endless, sandy banks
they walk along the shoreline and collect rocks for jewelry and for windowsills
amber and pastel
pebbles
they eat the ***** and other beings from the sea
and when the late night comes along
the tide brings the house down into the rocky shore
Fare-thee-well
Will I see you there?

someone is tearing up my old street
putting in new pipes
but it belongs to me
I can’t help but feeling,
seeing - how the kids on the street would have felt
long before me
the turning of pages
the sidewalks are not what they once were, and the passing of time has tossed me
where are the kids now
someone turned and someone didn’t
all of their cats have died, all of their dogs have died, all of their dreams have died
the oldest of stories,
these trees are older than me and will outlive me, and we’ve been watching each other for a long time, every season we come more apart -
how they come, and how I realize
that they now belong
to someone else.
they wave at me, the new ones
they survive the flooding – moving the dirt around like it was nothing
the flowers don’t have a name yet
I don’t know what to call it
something like traveling and seeing death
something like a funeral for someone you haven’t seen in years
someone you didn’t know
these flowers don’t have a name
yet I want to call them something
like leaving home

run-down asymmetries tainting the benches around the steel frame
they hang by their hands, screaming, in laughter and run
around as the day they were brought to this place
they turn each other’s bags upside down, scattering the entrails on the tile floor
they tie their shoes with pride – who knows what awaits the child
that does not know how to
anything could happen
like children kicking a ball around a school gymnasium in a small town
hitting the laddered walls, the ball reflecting in awkward directions
making for an unpredictable echo
all making a run for it

do not pity
me, you
silly little path
though you are beautiful
in the cold autumn breeze
I have seen
many things like you
on the way, to
The place I am going
it is near where I grew up, or I like to think so
it holds a lot of people
but they do not let you bring anything or
any
one
in the place I am going
every morning it seems
a walk to long and testing
for me
but every night, I wind up, concluding
that it is the place for me
no matter what happens
on the way
twisting my ankles
and clicking my knees
will probably do me in
but the place I am going
I will crawl my way in
you are not certain
until it is
there, gaping, breathing
and the place that I am going, is a place
you will never be leaving

as the sun rises
intrudes round the edge of the blinds – a square
shirts on hangers, some in the very umbra
on the line, that I hung myself
with nails to the moist walls
Hanging Bodies
as I hang them after a day
maybe several days
giving up, flat again
to air
to vent
to reinvigorate
one hanging for each day
I must have died four times this week
am I getting sloppy