Glide, loop, float
gulls on a
crisp breeze.

Trudging with
groceries, an
elderly man.

Dim blue glow,
a clock—what
this long in-

complete life
sees in the
wondering dark.

Death, so close
to the mail-
box at noon.

Glide, loop, float
gulls on a
crisp breeze.

There isn’t a
single

soul on
any of

these dark
deserted

streets,
in these

sleeping
homes, in this

barren
parking lot,

in these
abandoned

stores in
a failed

mall, in
these lifeless

restaurants, and
I don’t know

where I
am or how

to locate
myself on

this dank moon-
less night.

Like a constipated
mule, the old man
limps toward me

saying, The end is
near—the words
falling from his mouth              

like congealed bacon
fat, then the young
woman emerges from

the churning sea—her
auburn hair, alabaster,
almost translucent

naked skin, fearless
like thunder, casting
a long shadow—The

world ended long
ago, she says, and
we walk onto the

emerald green great
lawn, her in the old
man’s cerulean

sky-colored overcoat,
and she points to the
tower—figures falling

from its large windows—
Fear of truth, she asserts
referring to the bodies

smashing like overly ripe
melons on the ground,
then she says, Your

classroom is on the
sixth floor, and as I
open the heavy door

she states, The class
is on how unnecessary
the class is—then adds

Please do try and not
stumble or trip near
an open window, sir.

The man in the
cellar is forging
the books of

history, as the
ghost in the attic
is starting to

realize that he
is dead, and the
piano tuner in

the den is an
international
spy, and the corpse

is in the trunk of
the car in the vermin
ruled alley and the

ghost sees that he
can simply leave
this world, which

he suddenly does
and all of this—
instantly left behind.

A fly buzzes
madly around

the room, and
ricochets off the

mirror, then
ricochets off the

window, then
lands on a leaf

in a painting
and it resides

there for the
remainder of its

incredibly brief,
minuscule life.

A statuette of Durga,
alluring goddess of

divine destruction
and new creation,

in her sky blue and
cloudy white robes,

on a shelf above the
swirling gray smoke of

a burning unfiltered
cigarette in the

sunny orange ashtray
on the kitchen table-

top the color of the
churning stormy sea.

A dot on the far
left side of the page—

that is where I started,
and a dot on the far

right side—where I am
now, and a dot for each

detour that was made,
and when all the dots

are connected the
image formed is of

a wounded man
with one leg, and a

broken crutch, limping
toward the future.