I bury myself to this rusted root,
The sum of sun and moon
And the synchronicity of
Car horns and bleeding streetlights. And you *****
And it gets no better.
And you **** down A celery stick,
And the cops turn down your block,
I put on Coltrane,,
Rue the Muse from his slumber, I knock,
But not too hard,
He shuffles papers,
      Invites me in,
The ancient fan whirs slowly,
And you reach
For a light switch, a connection,
And he leads you
To the place of water,
Where fish cry,
And I drink the night,
And I ******* no right
What is mine.
All these monochrome reflections,
As you dwell
On playwrights,
Editors,
           Poets,
Symphonies,
Ready to buckle
From the gate.
A hulking Brahma,
Raised on his quarters,
You steady him
For the charge,
And he beaks the gate,
Terrorizing the clouds,
And long highways
Carry you to the same destination.
You know them all
By name,
And they throw dirt and grit,
And bust up your tires.
And the day doesn't
Turn out like ice cream,
It just turns out,
As you fall in your snowsuit
In 1962,
Winter light cold in the sun.
And your four,
And you cry in
Your hot cheeks,
As old cars
Smile with metal teeth
And glinting glass eyes.
And you turn to your Mother,
But she's not there,
She died in a photograph
In 1987,
And all you have
Is a pockmarked moon,
Ragged in it's glory.
As I sleep between the page,
As a distant fury of winds
Build on the east,
Carrying my words with them