a sign shoved in the dirt
identifies the hamlet you've just entered.
each crop is a town spread over the fork.
years ago, inside their huts,
algonquins traded wampum, trembling in the ice age,
popping their corn to the beat of the glaciers,
exiled a ****** from mattituck to cutchoque.
now we smoke our own peace pipe
on the sands of the tranquil sound.
the only algonquins left are huddled in the bed
of a ford, laughing in the sunlight.
i walk down to the cemetery
i walk down to the train tracks
i walk down to cooper's farm
and they all climb into me through my ribcage,
and hide my poison under the grey
stones scattered through love lane.
some people built houses they only visit in the summer,
but they've never seen the inside of the broken down valise.
some people like to ride the carousel in greenport,
but they've never rolled down third street,
smoked blunts under the halfpipes,
picked crystals off the bay and eaten them for breakfast.
i tell the people that i know
about the great big world outside,
they nod and light a cigarette,
they speed faster down sound avenue.
some of us ended up in boston and some in manhattan
some are still battling the current, trying to escape,
but let's face it:
your graduating class parks outside sevs every morning
the men here have paint on their knuckles and black dirt on their boots
the streets are not spotted with lights,
but you know how to weave through them as
fast and blind as the blood knows your veins
when you step foot here, it's like a magnet grabbing your toes,
when you drink your cheap beer and
complain that your neighbor knows your business,
just remember that at least you've met your neighbor,
just sit down there and listen to the crickets in your veins.