We were walking
down some street
well,
I was walking
He had a scooter

I took Fifth Street home last night—
two blocks back from the corner
store selling dry-mouth Camels
cheaper than the shop downtown.
Away from the newspaper boxes
selling the Gazette, Times,
Tribune, Post, Weekly, Daily,
Whatever for one dollar
and fifty cents a pop.

The crumbling sidewalks
took the glare of porch lights
and slid with 'em the length
of this rusted chain-link
fence spanning four yards,
three front doors, two
pipe railings, and a doghouse.

The ice salt sprinkled
from the stoops earlier that day
made the glasswalk melt
and bubble up, popping
like Christmas bulbs
beneath my shoes.

-Parsley flakes
-Cheap pens
-Memo notebook
-Breaded fish filets
-1% milk
-Bleach for the bathroom floor
-Brillo pads
-Italian Wedding soup
-Instant meals
-Pushpins
-2 cans of fruit cocktail

      Man, I grew up on fruit cocktail.
      Waxy cherries, see-through grapes, grain pineapples,
      and wrinkled peaches bathing in thick syrup,
      waiting to see 1990s kitchen lights.

      But it probably costs $2, or more, now.
     And I've got a car I need to keep runnin',
      a house I gotta keep standin',
      a job I have to keep goin' to /
      keep bustin' my *** for.
      I guess I can see how things go
      in the next few years.
      Maybe it'll be in paste form then.

—Ray Barbee, 1971 -

Barbee's stuff just hits, sounds
straight like a bee-line back
through bedrooms, garages, picks.

Back to when it was man
manipulating ma-
chine, and not the other

way 'round. Just human hands,
white nails, and some strings,
plucking.

And just one here-and-there
hi-hat and one woodblock.
The simple sound of it,

just pins for the groove
to move on.

Almost blue
like some stained-glass Christ
that never felt the saving sun burn
his caulked stigmata soft like
cinnamon toothpaste in the creek
bed.
Were his robes Robin's Egg, or Giotto
like the clergy wanted?
And when their fake pearl bracelets
rattled, fishing out cheap change
from brass-clasp purses,
did Christ stoop to gather
the sixty-something-year-old pennies
from in-between the arm rests
while they sifted through
the silver?

Almost blue
like a southern / western overcast
that never calls New York in advance
to schedule time to sweep up
the sky, standing on cold water flats.
Buys a Southwestern ticket straight thru,
walks past Madison marketing
her ***** underwear to anyone—everyone—,
buzzes in, third floor, apartment B-6,
but the door's locked, and the canary
curtains dance out the window like a house
fire.

Almost blue
like the Dawn dish soap
glass I neglect to rinse well.
But more like a lazy oil stream in a gas station
parking lot beneath the perforated banners
yakking in the still-cold March midday
about $12 sheet pizzas or unlimited
free coffee for $1.19 a refill.

Money better spent on a pack of Marlboro
Blues saxophone squeal by the plastic-
wrapped firewood by the almost-
blue wiper fluid and the antifreeze peaches.

Third floor psych ward window lookout,
second from the right on the east side.
Best seat available, padded, from 1934.
Backrest Swingline-stapled to the faux-
Maple leg support 2 x 4s. Beige bedspread,
white walls blend into the door threshold
that people are honeymoon'd
through kicking the aids, clawing at their eyes.

But Téa sat there watching the overcast
shadows sweep the sky heavily
like the watercolor paintings on the group
room plastic table where ******-off
preteens paint Dad beating them,
or Sis dying in a car crash.

Téa just sat there while the stagnant Valley
tumbled dry low outside, tuning out
a black patient behind her riling-up
another fight with a plastic-hinged
particleboard door.

Swinging.

All I want is a stick-up light, so I can read at night,
between my bedpost and bedside whiteboard
beside the baseboard,
outlet occupied by a black power cord,
the bookshelf, both coffeemakers,
the power strip duct-taped to the cream brick wall,
the bush outside,
the sidewalks, the brick walks,
the burnt caramel steel fences separating Washington babble
from Lyco small talk.

With one touch,
I’m lying against the wall
on acrylic-painted stretched canvases,
photo booth strips, a brick and sky scene,
gouache and ink sketches, that Giant
receipt with teal pen in the margins,
and developed photos of storm
troopers, ****** microwaves,
and forklifts moving trash sofas
around from film class.