I remember with fondness the last worry worth the strain.
It was between the advertisements bookending the
bus stop bench, and I watched a woman no older than I
cross the street without looking both ways.

I panicked despite there being no speed toward her, and
as rapid as no cars were traveling my heart was ecstatic.
At her carelessness. Peered behind turtle-shell bifocals,
and they weren't rimmed thickly; I hate those. They were
wired, and she tugged my heartstrings. With her joy in pacing.

She met my eyes with her glasses and peered strangely toward me,
a stranger watching her with a knitted brow as thick as the scarf
she wore. She paused on the curb a foot about to lift her up, I
think I scared her. Her lips tugged as her hands stuffed themselves
into her tiny pockets. What are pockets used for on women's pants?
Surely not to look nervous and pull away from the world as mine are.

I almost begged the question to ask for her name, or to be a gentleman
and help her cross the stone-few-inch-threshold that seemed to have
stranded her as wide river from her destination; then I realized if she
could cross the raging streets without the help of even reassurance
then I was nothing but another obstacle.

She smiled.
I stared.
And off she went, and I watched her still.
I thought, "If she turns around to look at me, I'll wave her down.
I'll ask her name. I'll pour myself out,
even foolishly."
Her grey knitted cap, of which I am sure hid a knot worth untying,
turned and I saw her profile as her peripheral scoped the last remnants of her
slowly-forgetting-me-memory.
I lifted my hand toward her, and flicked my wrist.
She stopped.
And so did my heart.

by rooms
as in the streets
I walked on the road
I walked on the road
was on the road
I sang a song
I sang a song

27.07.18

Stepped in to the street.
Two rain drops fell on my face;
A cloud’s parting gift!

For you, I'll make a nest
on top of the church spire
and fashion it
from plastic straw
and dangling colored wires
I'll cushion it with cold receipts
and pocket lint
and party flyers
and leave each morning
an early bird
to pluck stale crumbs
and rancid meat
from drifter's blackened feet
before even the buses
took to the street

You will feel at home

I will feel concrete

salt underfoot
I prevented and did not prevent me from going
and the moon around was water
when there is no water and no sea
then it's under my feet
bricks become water and salt

the light is on the streets
day and night quarters
the sea looks at me and I look at it
and get out the paper
I write again and immediately
I go to nimu and only to him

18.07.18

Jamin Hollis has her residence in The Garden.
In The Garden, in the bloated blocks of Transit Town.
Behind the day shelter, beside the corner store.
Across the parking lot of the thrift shop.
Beyond the fluorescence of the pharmacy.
Right there, just a hop and a skip from the trains.
Right there, just a scoot from the bus barn.

Jamin Hollis is a rampant ***** and she needs,
she needs to die.

Jamin Hollis is a rampant ***** and indeed,
she'll die tonight.

Wait for the streetlights to dot the immediate sky.
Most of them are dead or flickering in the blocks.
Wait for the junk rats to leave for the metro line.
Most of them are dead or flickering.
If any open eyes remain on the sidelines, take a breath.
Collect your nerve and toss a penny on the pavement.
The eyes will blind to the shine and they will prostrate.

Bow with a force enough to imbed gravel in the forehead.

Jamin Hollis is a rampant ***** and she needs,
she needs to die.

Jamin Hollis is a rampant ***** and indeed,
she'll die tonight.

today i'm dead
and I resurrected

or I died yesterday
when the window was
stars and fire
flame

today i'm dead
and took the torch with him

and the birds sing again on the street

29.06.18