holy pages,
ancient medicine-
a soul spotted
with flesh, marinated
in living water. This book
bound by leather-nourishment
seeping,
dripping,
spilling
over me.

Gazing through this
telescope window, no more than
five floors above the street.
The people walk
with layers of insulation
beefing up their size.
Some buy potatoes from
a smoking garbage can,
some are hailing taxis.
Others cram double
onto electric bikes, barely
putting up the hill.
It's already dark.
Even if the smog was thinner,
or the weather warm enough for
leisure-style walking, I wonder
if they'd even think about me;
if their earthly affairs could
pause--just long enough to
acknowledge this observing outsider
pondering their way of life.
I wonder if their schedules
are ever clear enough
to weigh such a thought.

What to do at 3:45am
when sleep cannot be found?
It's you, a couch and a sleeping bag.
It's you and your memories
from a foreign land. It's you and God
listening to the air condition roll,
waiting for a new day.

Wooley legs elevated
his remote at hand,
servants at beckon call.
A kingly schmuck
with a tall glass to fill.
His platter shall not
be delayed.
A royal bloodline
will earn one
not a single amenity,
for we are all
just serfs
in his court.

A graveyard makes a small nest
in the stairwell. Three mannequins
dressed in gore, laying side by side.

The science lab’s window is now
embellished with a miniature marker board
that reads “1 bleeding to death”

Library: war zone. Bodies scrunched
like fists under desks,
wearing book bags like bullet-proof vests.

In the lunch room
are men in black trench coats, plucking
machinery from duffel bags and flattening the
pulse rate of innocent souls.

If morning was
too brief to trim
those pine tree prickles
off of your lower limbs, it's okay.
Step 1: ***** hose.

After a mirror's
glance, you will be tempted to panic.
Step 2: Stay calm. Peel
the dead animal
off the side of your cheek.
Let the hairbrush
paste the fly-aways
into a hot, greased bun.

How easy it is
to experience a wardrobe malfunction.
Remember to keep it simple.
Step 3: Slip on
that black pencil skirt,
the polyester one--not
the leather.

No one needs to know
that you were up late
watching sitcom reruns. Remove
the screaming purple rings.
Step 4: make-up. Base
is your friend.

You are now prepared.
Smear on
your finest ruby red
lips, and tuck in
your leopard-print
bra strap.
Step 5: Strut your
stuff. Retail has never seen
such class.

A striped field on the screen.
Late Sunday afternoon--
preaching your adored game.
The tackles, the tight end, the safety,
the touchdowns, the fumbles and field goals.
All your precious babble
into my ear--then gone.
Burly-beef-boys charging
are not in any way my motive.
Your urgent concern to inform of
the game I'll never know.
Terminology spat,
your message lost in clouds.
My eyes are attentively listening,
but only to your charming presence.

The mortals twiddle their thumbs, they
entertain fickle thoughts.  Eyes
are fixed to electronics as they wait
for the bus stop,
for a promotion,
for me to pass them by.

In their last season, I'm finally observed.
For the first Time, we mingle
with intent. We sit
watching grandchildren and
drinking coffee--slowing
down. A still moment; and then without fail
the mortal will pack his trunk
and journey to a place
that I cannot travel.

I am left, once again, to awaken the eyes
of the young. Investing
nudges and pushes, waging war against the clock--
All so that at life's end we might
if only for a brief moment,
be still, and sip joe.