Late night. Footsteps.
Crane necks and girders.
Fog lifts. The wind cries.
Steel bones in moonlight

                        I'm out
                      so late now
and it's Sunday night and Summer's ending
                         soon.
I'm aging
                                          with questions
fermenting in my mouth
ignored for years

Fenced off. Unfinished
project shelved and waiting
                     for next Spring.

Cool night eclipsing
years spent indexing,
answers mislaid and
blueprints unrolling

Components rusting,
crane necks and girders.
Steel bones in moonlight.
Tight lipped and staring.

                             Fall comes
                             construction
halts now and the walls stand half
                            complete
And outside
                                     the chain link
shrugging off the cold and
still wondering when

Step through unfinished
building. Get home. Shelved
                      until next Spring.

LAY me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar.
Let me pry loose old walls.
Let me lift and loosen old foundations.

Lay me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper together.
Take red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders.
Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through blue nights into white stars.

Bricks and mortar, steel and boards,
Phone poles lined with power cords, on
Pothole streets, where engines roar,
'Neath smoggy skies, where jet planes soar,

Where penny merchants peddle wares,
And news reports pretend they care,
Where vagrants sleep, and children stare,
And people work for lives not theirs,

That's life in the jungle, adrift in the herd,
Where terrestrial beasts envy free flying  birds
Where the pundits stand polished, and speak empty words,
And the artists paint portraits, while posted on curbs,

Where the men push carts, full of empty cans,
And the women spend paychecks, for spray-on tans,
Where the truckers drive loads, 'cross a thousand mile span,
To appease the great gods of supply and demand,

Asphalt and tarmac, girders and glass,  
Terrarium trees in cemented sod grass,
Ripe with the stench of exhaust fumes and gas,
As the choir lines up for the 10 o'clock mass,

While the brokers all scream, at a packed stock exchange,
As the veterans in wheelchairs sit begging for change,
That's life in the jungle, it's just a big game,
But remember you're playing, lest you go insane.

The streets are clear, we're hydrophobic
Hoods propped by hats and socks pulled high;
The rain brings peace to the agoraphobic
Puddles form moats and clouds fill the sky.

Splash, droplets hit the window,
chauffeured by the gale outside.
Squint your eyes and flash back
boats tilt starboard, with the tide.

The captain shouts to the decks, paranoid
'Clear the decks and brace for impact'
Without turbulence we are disenfranchised
Boredom becomes us when we're boring.

Shake it off and stare at the dot to dot
the residual carving of water as it slides
Another droplet falls beside it, parallel
it aligns, growling thunder overhead.

Without stirring we are robotic workforces
Without awaking we are left inside
The constructs created for us, by corporate-
conglomerate elitist-psychopaths.

Two drops of water on the window
simmer red with burning anger.
Crash lightening sears the sky
Rage becomes you, girders melt.

The starry night undercurrent, flings
us backwards, never up, as democracies
which seek to serve sink into a sea of
stocks and shares, the wall street journal

sits atop the captains lobby, economies
were meant to tumble as the working classes
fumble for bread, men in suits gaggle
and toast to the millions they left for dead.

Resistance is futile, when eighty-five
of the richest suit owners sit on currency
that was meant for the three point five
billion who aren’t driven by gluttony.

I'm born
Airborne
Forlorn
In war torn
Discord
My ripcord
I pull for liberation
Alienation aviation
Away from a station
Of no relation
Where their elation
Lies in degeneration

The fright fair
Nightmare
In sight there
Is a right scare
But light flares
From an illuminated theater
I dive into art
To fill my meter

I consume
Darkened tomb
Screen in room
Is where I loom
Inspiration blooms
From a sense of doom
My separation reparation
That will lead to veneration

My artistic fervor
Drifted further
Drifter's murmurs
Lifted learners
But gifted murderers
Shifted girders
Of shame and honesty
To my grave of modesty
Where they prey upon me

This plagiarism
Layered schism
Cratered rhythm
Of great decisions
Now I make incisions
With repetition
And the definition
Of words stolen from me
They're all I can see
And I can't get free
Or just let it be

Consumption disruption
At this junction
I can't function
A plagiarist
****** mist
Grips my fist
Makes me wish
I don't exist
I must resist
Before I miss
My chance at bliss

They're ****** me
By aping me
Making me
Shaking trees
Of bumblebees
With rumble pleas
On humble knees
Drinking antifreeze

Nobody cares
What's fair
They bear
And share
Blank stares
Up stairs
Of artistic compromise
Integrity lost in lies
They're not that wise
I hypothesize

My baby
Caught rabies
From Hades
Now ladies
Flock to a thief
Giving me grief
Beyond belief
In my coral reef
Sword in sheath
I drown discreet

Ghost Relics**

Downtown,
where Main intersects Main
you'll see the last living tissue
of a breathing bazaar.
They weighed down her chest with bricks and girders.
It's a wonder she breathes at all.
-
Wander too far in any direction
and you're sure to see the husks
of once proud and bustling businesses.
Abandoned sanctums of mortar and majesty.
Scars of the Midwest etched as constants in our mind.
Dusty and silent since the cradle.
-
The theaters are bedeviled with dolled up haunts
who just wandered over from Greenwood to catch the matinee.
Management still leaves the lights on for kicks after hours
to throw off their sleep schedules while they wait for the feature to start.
Up all night, sleep all day; they read by neon and slumber under Sol.
Here I am, left lounging in The Devil's Chair. Crickets keep quavering.
-
Underneath the Franklin Street overpass sleeps a family bound by naught.
They watch in dawn's light as the few pedestrian that traverse Cerro Gordo
advert their eyes as some sort of silent symbol of respect for their situation.
It's as if the very stare of a privileged man could drain 'til depleted.
They never ask for anything, they just wade it out and listen to
the cars overhead, the train-clock's trumpet, and the heartbeats in between.
-
Leaks are patched, potholes filled, and yet
we're still loosing blood; becoming beguiled.
So many stray cats in the civilian savanna,
aimlessly seeking names and second chances.
"This premises is under police video surveillance" -
hanging like ornaments from streetlamp poles.
-
Guarding the gates
of a dwindling dominion,
as the armies of Union and Grand
wait in their camps
for the rust to take hold
of her iron veins.

By day the skyscraper looms in the smoke and sun and
     has a soul.
Prairie and valley, streets of the city, pour people into
     it and they mingle among its twenty floors and are
     poured out again back to the streets, prairies and
     valleys.
It is the men and women, boys and girls so poured in and
     out all day that give the building a soul of dreams
     and thoughts and memories.
(Dumped in the sea or fixed in a desert, who would care
     for the building or speak its name or ask a policeman
     the way to it?)

Elevators slide on their cables and tubes catch letters and
     parcels and iron pipes carry gas and water in and
     sewage out.
Wires climb with secrets, carry light and carry words,
     and tell terrors and profits and loves--curses of men
     grappling plans of business and questions of women
     in plots of love.

Hour by hour the caissons reach down to the rock of the
     earth and hold the building to a turning planet.
Hour by hour the girders play as ribs and reach out and
     hold together the stone walls and floors.

Hour by hour the hand of the mason and the stuff of the
     mortar clinch the pieces and parts to the shape an
     architect voted.
Hour by hour the sun and the rain, the air and the rust,
     and the press of time running into centuries, play
     on the building inside and out and use it.

Men who sunk the pilings and mixed the mortar are laid
     in graves where the wind whistles a wild song
     without words
And so are men who strung the wires and fixed the pipes
     and tubes and those who saw it rise floor by floor.
Souls of them all are here, even the hod carrier begging
     at back doors hundreds of miles away and the brick-
     layer who went to state's prison for shooting another
     man while drunk.
(One man fell from a girder and broke his neck at the
     end of a straight plunge--he is here--his soul has
     gone into the stones of the building.)

On the office doors from tier to tier--hundreds of names
     and each name standing for a face written across
     with a dead child, a passionate lover, a driving
     ambition for a million dollar business or a lobster's
     ease of life.

Behind the signs on the doors they work and the walls
     tell nothing from room to room.
Ten-dollar-a-week stenographers take letters from
     corporation officers, lawyers, efficiency engineers,
     and tons of letters go bundled from the building to all
     ends of the earth.
Smiles and tears of each office girl go into the soul of
     the building just the same as the master-men who
     rule the building.

Hands of clocks turn to noon hours and each floor
     empties its men and women who go away and eat
     and come back to work.
Toward the end of the afternoon all work slackens and
     all jobs go slower as the people feel day closing on
     them.
One by one the floors are emptied... The uniformed
     elevator men are gone. Pails clang... Scrubbers
     work, talking in foreign tongues. Broom and water
     and mop clean from the floors human dust and spit,
     and machine grime of the day.
Spelled in electric fire on the roof are words telling
     miles of houses and people where to buy a thing for
     money. The sign speaks till midnight.

Darkness on the hallways. Voices echo. Silence
     holds... Watchmen walk slow from floor to floor
     and try the doors. Revolvers bulge from their hip
     pockets... Steel safes stand in corners. Money
     is stacked in them.
A young watchman leans at a window and sees the lights
     of barges butting their way across a harbor, nets of
     red and white lanterns in a railroad yard, and a span
     of glooms splashed with lines of white and blurs of
     crosses and clusters over the sleeping city.
By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars
     and has a soul.

The blushing barn barks
With bleeded hues
Gutted girders
The once held the strict structure
Now hold hollow hidey holes
For all the remaining vermin
While the festering flesh
Of the butchered beasts
Burn the sinuses of strangers
Who walk through the burnt broken building

We lay, you on your right side and I
on my stomach

  you can   hear  waves   crash
(steel girders twisting under stress)
An ocean of mercury, sloshing lightly- less than silently.
Ripples radiating as waves collide and
a drop is flung free,
into the perfect moment of    separation.
As the bauble is balanced,
I float momentarily flawless- circular with surface tension;
my wagging tongue wrenched free and swallowed whole
in the moment while I wait
for your answer.
I asked
are you in love with me.

“Every act has meaning.  Accident is a word born of confusion.” –Agnes Whistling Elk

Some memories are like crude graffiti
some gray in museums
still others, vulnerable chalk on the pavement
all fade
dawn makes no promises
it never has

If you’re afraid of what the night will bring,
or worse, you know
what it’s like to be young and out
of control  
leaving a scent trail of blood and flowers
for the monsters of yesterday to follow
just let them  
the fighting makes me so tired

Rust in the sun until rubies form
cry through the night until you have diamonds
pressure makes us perfect
because it made the cracks that
make us imperfect
fear is ancient, normal, mundane even but
fear is the anticoagulant

Meanwhile, I am very busy
construction’s going on in Hell
disrupted by
random clouds of
revolting, revolving gravity
knocking girders loose
violent vertigo
claiming kingdoms
work horses slide
into black holes
yellow tape flails as
white flags
cranes arch and spark
swing into the dark
silky black tar bubbles,
pops, seals
everything is
untimely interrupted
and later
ungainly speech mocks
the tombstones growing in the lake

Pain is like a good book
so hard to put down
separation of critical
moments crystallize
until everything has a compartment
and no one can touch each other

Decades old daydreams stink stale
like sour seeds in green fruit
lilies could grow out of so much
manure.
Rot bleeds through involuntary walls

The past is sweating,
afraid of what I know

Covered in rust from pig iron girders, and dust from the nicks in old bricks that time cracks
I cannot relax and wish
I could just blow up those buildings and stack them in mounds on the ground,which I realise is no different to what they are now.
Fred Dibnah would know how
he would have taught me,teached me
he was a preacher man
and could demolish with polish as easy as pie, all those monstrosities that laugh as they scrape at the sky (they should bow)

It should be back to the drawing board for those clowns in the towers of the towns where the ring roads depress us.compress us until we're back in the mould.
and the old men in whitehall who still play billiards with no ***** should heed what we say,
we don't want it this way.
We want works, we want perks,we want more out of this living that you are not giving and we're sick,
do you hear?
we are sick to the pits which no longer exist except in the memories of miners and women who scrabbled through dirt and put scraps of coal in their skirts and then carried them home.
Poverty is the bone upon which poor people chew
but be careful down there
one day it may be you
that's being eaten
being beaten
by us.

I want to be a superhero. I want to shoot heats beams from my eyes like I shoot...spit, from my uh, mouth. I want to save people in the burning building. Lift girders with a finger and hope with my words. I'd give food to the poor and teach respect to the rich.
   I want to show the kid on the ledge that the bully is the loser and not him. That he has a life to live and what an ******* says is just a bunch of ****. And no matter how many times he jumps I'll pull him back on the ledge, show him that the hero he looks up to was just like him. Show him miracles happen and if he's lucky he'll become the hero in his eyes. Show him scars are scars and they're just out battle wounds, that even his hero gets hurt sometimes.
   I want to be like Tony Stark. Have an ark reactor in my chest powering a suit of armor. Knowing that any second my heart will be torn apart. Be like the Hulk cause I have such anger inside that sometimes I want to turn green and break things.
   I want to have the power of Thor, and show others that despite their expectations that deep down I have something they won't ever have: Compassion.
   I want to be a superhero. Because despite my expectations I am a hero in someone else's eyes. In another world, place, dimension I am the hero I want to be. And I know that eventually I will be a hero. I may not have powers but I have enough hope that maybe one day: I will.  
   But this isn't the future. I am in the present. And right now I am not the hero. Maybe I'm the villain.

Inspired by the dream of the founders of city
Collated by planning of leaders and mayor,
Built by the muscle and sweat of believers
A Masterpiece fashioned for pride and for care.

Magnificent structures of bridges and tunnel
Faultlessly conjoined by highways of God,
Dreamt by the forebears of knowledge and passion
Crafted in concrete and sculpted in rod.

Towering edifices scything through city
Asphaltic motorways curving with grace
Estuaries bridged by elegant girders
Created by vision with tears on it’s face.

Fashioned by strength and belief in the promise
Fashioned by fortitude's strong hand as guide,
Crafted by people's belief in tomorrow
A Vision for Auckland and nation with pride.



Marshalg
With the Wellconnected Alliance.
AUCKLAND N.Z.
(Inspired by the animation on a good Mayor’s face)
6pm,14 February 2013


© 2013 Marshal Gebbie

The clouds whirl around horns of the gate.
The blush of the morning is tangerine
and gold. The blossoming chorus from the bay
for now is just silence, fog and a silver lining.
The cinema bulbs are flickering out.

There is Coca-Cola in my soul.
There is anguish in my bones.
Luxury paid for the tightness of my skin
and an artifice of love.
It blew away like dry grass.

I think God is a librarian,
crumbs in his beard, fingerprinted specs.
Cataloguing the hours I spent on my knees
his matinée idol, his evening sandcastle,
stones applauding his work in the Cali tide.

What can he do to me?
Witchdoctors can forecast rain from my guts.
A poor wading bird can fish me up
and photograph my corpse iconic like Evelyn Hale,
but that 'man' can do nothing…

I see the Island rising from the mist
like it’s throwing off its coat.
I’m like the birdman, in my way.
I’ll be remembered
flying.  

Perhaps I can even make it magnificent?
The boys on the boat will talk over their beers
of that triple tuck swan dive,
the acrobat, a harlequin that tumbled
like a shadow on the rising sun

Kamikaze, I Samauri!
The war drum beats, on, on but I’m done.
l am in the eye of the storm.
I am the harbinger, the horseman -
And the universe is a ball in my hands.

I made you up, I’ll rub you out.
The sky is holding the Sun and the Moon.
5am. Circling gulls. Harikiri.
Machinery rings upwards through the girders.
Equinox.  Tomorrow is untouchable.

I arrived at my station in Kaliningrad
as if posted there by an army of desires
entering through the gate with a firm set jaw
into the guarding teeth of iron girders
driven into the soft soul of the soil
by hammering heels as bold as yours

approaching a fateful encounter quite naughty
amidst ghosts in an Eastern European night
its sights built when all roads led to Königsberg city
taking pretty daughters of frightening Prussian knights
to a military parade past the rust of heavy industry

a call to arms wrapped tight up against youthful skin
dark forces dressed in lace trimmed girdles of passion
its secret codes covered by accents slightly Russian
sounding like love slipping into a cold war assignation

you were too beautiful by half
too perfect to wear jeans
so like the uniform concrete paths
abandoned to such ghastly stains
they attract me like works of art
that someone envious of being outlasted
had to spray with swirling tattoo paint
yet the matt camouflage fades fast
while your beauty is chiseled into my days
its ageless gloss defying the wind and dust

whipping across the wonderful blocks called home
built by socialist bloc labourers whose ***** hands
must have toiled for the day you were born
and set free the naked ambition of men that yearn
for a dessert of finely moulded vision
beyond the blue vein cheese and a little wine
into warm baths steaming away the tension

which had crossed our paths with precise chains
snapped together in a demand for attention
“stop - no tourism beyond here after 5pm”
but you knew diversions locked in 'till round 2am
a stress release submitting to the pull of a comforter
gentle in the peace of the goose-down we slept in
the softness of the rattles
the worst
of your corrupters

Oh gone are the days of white sheets draped on propped up cushions;
Of safety in delicate, wavering structures only strengthened by imagination.

This fort is of unseen iron, steel and girders - bound and secured by all of my insecurity.

Were I given a life to return
To hold again my newborn son,
I'd take time to be present,
Really "there,"
Beside, behind him,
As he learned to run.

Instead of the tower on the hill
I tried unsuccessfully to be,
I'd walk beside him on the path,
Reminded of my boyhood memories;
I'd leave the sermons to the priest and be the dad.

I'd get us shovels,
Deep to dig our conversations,
Embrace the work and sweat and look for more,
Pick and bar our way to Rock,
Drill and blast our anchors to the floor.

Before the storm surge of his teenage years,
I'd strive to see strong footings were in place,
Weld strong the structures while the girders rise,
Pray the work would stand the weather's cruel face.

The past, now present has me chilled;
The distances are lost in haze;
What I see now from my distant hill
Reveals broken structures to be razed.
God grant us time to renovate and fill
Remaining years to bring Him praise.

Man, if there was ever a time
where those two hands mattered
more than just pointing
out the obvious or tracing vague
memories on paper in swoops,
zig-zags, draw-backs, or the capital
cursive "Q" that still eludes me, it's
now. 6:26 A.M., and I haven't slowed
down since 9:20 yesterday
when my girlfriend gallivanted
about her room, her ******* perked
before me.
*******, she looked so good.
We, my friends and I,—the ones
I wrapped in cellophane and tissue
paper two years ago to take
out, reminisce, and put back
whenever I forgot their faces—
got in my boat of a car / bathroom
tile white / and drove through
thick I-80 fog to search South
Side for Santa's front rotor biplane
dropping Christmas joy mustard
gas down molded-brick, soot-caked
chimneys to get people in the mood
for a day or two before the egg nog's
spiced *** negligee stopped feeding
their stocking stuffer lungs and the blisters
that decked the halls like boughs of death.
Then we sat—I, uncomfortably on my car
keys,—by the bar, drinking refills that filled
the IBM-print bill $60 worth of Sprite Pepsi
Huckleberry Lemonade. My one friend
leaned over our cornucopia of unfinished
wings and said that he and the bartender
had been exchanging loaded gun glances.

Neither would ease the trigger,
or even aim well.

She could've been eyeing the waitresses
working the floor like a dart game.
Sharp when your drink's low and feathered
by pathetic tips. We stopped by Lyco. Lynn—
softly steeled—still sung her circular saw blues.
Baby, don't cut me so deep. Just let my girders
meet the street. Let me feel small trees and admire
nice cars signing their makes in last week's thin snow.
We took away two cups of coffee, some Modernist talk,
and a salt & pepper flannel past Market, Maynard,
and slowly spoiling milk to the Mansfield exit.
Over the occasional window defrosting,
we talked premature families, North Carolina
classmates, prison sentences, and that MU
***** who hates my guts. They're out there,
and we're here in this box going seventy-five
and skipping exits like rope.
Double-dutch dual-enrollment college credit
transfers, losing Foundation money talks
****, but can't leave her grudges on the rock
salt steps we sulked up. Hallways with
carpets and our cars parked poolside,
but we chose air conditioning over breast-
strokes. My God, would some lonely preteens
**** for that. Metal detectors to detect
our insecurities and greasy faces full
of acne acne potential. Potential some
didn't use. Potential that went wasted.
Potential that could've gotten them out
of this miserable hole, but instead rented
them out a sad shack on the outskirts—
nowhere near suburbs—of town
where they could inhale
the Ox Yoke's smoke stack laying fog
down to the county line.
Galeton High School, regrettably,
here's to you.

The oil's spilled; the weekend’s spent.
Battering rams adorn our newest cars.
The coral's bleached, our girders bent,
and as the ash falls, drones fly on Mars.

The poker chips clank on the felt.
Sweltering mules sway drunk in bars.
A toddler falls, receives a welt,
and as the fires grow, drones fly on Mars.

I could not bear to speak the truth
when you had asked me where went the stars.
A cow sits in the kissing booth,
and as the sky blackens, drones fly on Mars.

The wind has fangs; my heart now sags.
A feral pig grunts to mass applause,
Now childish men hoist cryptic flags,
and as the crops fail, drones fly on Mars.

Sweaty bones, cracked
         metal and marrow ionised,
Rusty toxins dripping,
         running the gully of the chest
Freezes
As sudden as it had broke.

Shaky, quivering limbs; fingers swollen
         like tiny girders
Ready to build - Again
The foundations of another fix.

Does it exist?

I look down
The direction of sight, below the concrete rail
There’s grass and blankets, Frisbees and pups
And a vision of love gone right.

The hands intertwined are wrinkle lined
Worn out with age and aching
Rough from life’s work
Yet soft in the finger’s embrace.

Those hands have perhaps held a plow
A newborn aloft
A needle and thread in fine intricate work
A rifle in a foreign trench.

A pen pushing letters to form words
A gavel to hand down sentence
A mixing spoon and bowl
A handle of a coffin.

Maybe they’ve held an unopened letter
A glass raised in a toast
A wedding dress
A framed photo of someone lost.

Chalk in a classroom seminar
Hard packed snow ammunition
A nervous hand in a dark movie theater
Clean sheets of motel rooms.

They look up
Their direction of sight, above the girders
There are clouds and birds and me
Studying their hands holding on in lasting love.

They walk away
Hands still knotted
And it is my proof
Of a love like that.

The sun cracks the sky where the albatross
flies; the clockwork waves splash
Lunacy, the morning haze disbands.

Your patchwork raft, the labour, the scars;
The salt and the spray assault
the ballet: the majestic way you stand.

Your teeming suitcase, a thousand journals,
Their iridescence forms a compass
gleaming north to your merits.

Mountains ahead are distant, hills behind are old
Marvel in awe, gasp as your youth
floats passed, whipping up paths of sand.

Grow and glow, perspire and expand,
shadows are cast for eyes to follow
a menorah of promised plans.

Sand turns to brickwork, pebbles to mortar
squint across the water and scuff a hoof
lunge and press digits on freshly laid girders.

Pull back the bow and aim, no doubt
In grey-matter but a quiver
full of knowledge, a diver in a mirage
A bridge to greener land.

Recall the river flowing
Far far below the timid edge
Of chasm walls, above the falls
Where rainbows blink and salmon ******,
Chrysanthemums reflect the rust
Of iron struts that mark the ledge
Where once a bridge was growing

It sprouted forth and blooming
Stretched eager beams across the span
To tame the walls, above the falls
Where boats were tossed and men would heave
With weighted nets their women weave
To pass the lonely days -- So ran
Their lives with chores consuming

A tempest storm was brewing
And raged along the chasm ridge
To smash the walls above the falls,
Upheaving trees and hurling rocks
To bend and break the cinder blocks
And girders of the iron bridge,
It's vengeance wrought undoing

The damaged bridge was bending,
It's proud commanding arch detached
To strike the walls above the falls,
The roadway and the pavement went
To spiral down in swift descent
Into the torrent flow -- Unmatched
Destruction brought it's ending

Proud men lament the falling
And mark the day each solemn year
Beneath the walls -- Above the falls
Foundations lay beneath the stone
And ever will remain at home
For those with hearts to see -- No fear
Should halt the brave recalling

Of elder days when rowing
Beneath majestic fashioned beams
That spanned the walls above the falls,
Emotions streaming like the flow
Of swirling waters far below
The mighty bridge -- Distant it seems,
Yet near to those still knowing

Steel girders high above,
support a railroad, criss-crossing underneath
to keep it from falling down.
Vertical beams extend from massive
concrete blocks, as tall as two men and as wide.
Megan & Tim 4evr.
Who are Megan and Tim?

Two kids, ages thirteen and fourteen, respectively,
convinced their “love” will last
forever.  Honey, say that you’re mine,
and I’ll be here ‘til the end of time.
No question of whether to stay or go:
he stays by default.  Why wouldn’t he?
Promises and promises pile on,
like heavy rocks placed on your chest for a crushing.

She yelled, jerking me away from my thoughts,
“Hey, wake up and watch this!” as she swung from
the rope, letting go at its peak and flying downward into the water,
landing with a massive splash, like a beautiful
fountain centered in a grassy patch
in the middle of a rich man’s driveway,
lined up perfectly with the massive iron gate.

I laughed, she climbed back out,
and we dried off, and we left.
It was one of those humid days, when you
can feel the sweat building up in your pores
like water behind a dam, just waiting for it
to burst out.  We rolled the windows all the way down
(she insisted on that, I hate having them down),
and I told her about the graffiti.  She didn’t find
the humor in it, and spent the rest of the ride
giving me a thoughtful look, as the wet summer heat
lay heavy on my shoulders.

Tap dance on girders, Ben Franklin Bridge
Jubilant prepubescent boy making mockery
Alpha doggie dodging any common sense
Step ball change and windmills free range
Little show off teetering on brink of disaster

And a dare of unabashed audacity
Stare, stare, and stare down his prey
Tap a whack tap, double time flick flack
Intensity that cannot possibly go away
Dared youth’s eyes give all hints to fear
Though no tear will come to his pride
Other boy steps and glides

Reach comes forward, disaster tap mongrel
Puppy stepper’s got to be a go-getter
Holds his hand out and comes quick the grab
Trembles a fright, Speedline in sight
This rail from Jersey to Pennsy might bite
Shaking and tapping, absurdum jacking

The slip; it’s over as you knew it would be
Alpha Dog sniffs that bridge to this day
Searching permissiveness, lost in foray
But if he hears one tap or a click or a clank
Jittery twitchiness, on that you can bank

my
     my light
my lithe light
                           my lithe lady
daily devotions: i attend with my lips
your marriage of heat and (callous sensuality
unerringly lavished a spit of phlorescent marrow.    .        .    To the salt

       of sunlight light majestically freckled your shoulders

who's so pale hands are grippless plums juice bursting off you're onyx hair
         dimly.

         who i'm enamored a foolish

                            girders
                                                  of my rib

solitary pumping scarlet

                                                carve my amorphousness to
            symmetry
                                 the
  ****
                      breach
                                                 of lavender
                                                                                   sound!

This bridge is faulty
there is dry-rot  taunting
    the girders
Its spandrels:
all knobby-kneed..
  Its pseudo-elaborate  trusswork,
    as if   designed  
    by a lonely drunk

It's pilings..  questionable
Its deckwork, treacherous.

    Its abutment--
    aw,  **** me..   

    its crumbling.
.  .  

If we cross over  
under the lie of darkness
we won't be so afraid..

     But these structural-flaws,
     when revealed  by the sun
     are so incredibly intriguing.


  Let's take that step
  and see if it holds us.

If eight years we labored
in canals and valleys and
on girders and then
for four years we spilled **** blood and
the Depression is lifted or
the depression is lifted
or not really.

America, your deep vein thrombosis
the size of a
lilywhite Toyota Highlander
You don’t make things anymore.
Your Marxists winter in the empty museums.
Your union halls belong to the company.
You ought to be Haymarket men,
bloodcleaned and ready for anything
but instead you workshop one-liners.

America you are afraid to love.
America you are afraid of medicine
and the medicine you do take,
bankrupts you.
America reset your passwords
and the twenty-year-olds will help you find a mate
we promise.

Do you feel how distant you are becoming from yourself?
Do you feel how words must
towards the things they stand in for
  like a silhouette
  like an ironic silhouette
  like a sketch
  like a mere shape?

I cannot be certain any longer. No,
really, I am losing that skill. I lose myself
in coffee cups dreaming of painted lips. My bedtime
stories are of Robespierre and Louis Ex-Vee-I; they
put me to sleep instantly. I can read this poem eighteen times
and never feel a thing. If nothing makes sense,
it’s because we decided we didn’t need it.

America do you hate
but not really?
America do you listen
but not really?

America,
  you’re trying to eat better
  but the poor and ruined in Missouri
  still chew on plyboard and drink flat Mountain Dew
  you want engineers but ******* to starlets

America,
  not one thing will satisfy you
  not any screen or voting lever
  your children wander supermarkets
  putting everything they find in a basket

America,
  give Louisiana to the French
  cede the Black Hills to the Sioux
  retreat into your telephones
  and remember Tippecanoe

America a voice
is singing from the past
and you would do well to listen.

why            ?         not
        in the glaze
hot subtle petals cravings
blue the read chin pageless verbs
nouning!
                wilt a bit  ,
                                 like the winter flake
failing warmth.

           (i knew too well the autumn .)

welcome me in your fluttering breast beautifully butterfly dUst
key my hole and unlock the secret girders barring beating
      muscle incessant tock ticking;

          can it be ever said?
                                           howmuch            i love thee.

Build. 
And once destroyed, remember to learn nothing. 

Walk. 
And when arriving, forget to rest. 

Speak. 
Think of what to say, taste the silver tongue's bitter ring.  

In a fit of rage I exclaim-
I have nothing to say. 


Anywhere but here. 

Anyone but me. 


Until then, destroy a child's heart. 

Play under rusted girders. 

Photograph and frame. 

Box and and store far away. 

All memories, all truths. 

And lies. 


All moments of you. 


Remove those. 
Explain yourself. 


And rise. 

Higher toward the sun. 

Your wings draping over the sweet gaze. 

All heavenly light. 

Weep in silence. 

Curse all those before. 

And search for those to come. 


Anyone but me. 


Try again. 

With tongues from different skulls. 

One bleeds. 

And one waits. 


And now there is a no. 

And now there is no now. 


Only your hazy future. 


Or only a brilliant past. 


The first littered with gold. 

And the last rot and decay. 


So remember. 

Anyone but me. 


And your stare. 
Into me for what seems eternal. 


Waking to see you sleeping. 
Covering your sight. 


And walking far off. 
Into wilderness. 

Finding love buried. 
There's nothing after sleeping. 


A year. 

And there are now six. 

Sending off for answers. 


Love the automatic. 
I passed it off. 
Planned for the son. 


Choirs great in their grey woven spells. 
I am a shape in the wood. 


From the vocal thought, my age becomes my choice. 


To return strife. 
In cold silent gaze. 


Pressed into you. 


Ten feet from now I will forget. 

From you into some place obvious. 

A Corvette in a forest. 

With smoke in hand. 

Sewing the ends of this letter loose. 


Fall down new barriers. 

Fall to the sun and fade. 


Walk with moans and smile with rhythm. 

The Baptist arpeggio of a life forced meaningful. 

These cliffs speak of charm and integrity. 

I see him made. 
And I hear his end in the bottle. 

Synthesized in fermented preservation. 

My hands won't move and my face numbs again. 

Against the wind in name of life. 

Wake before ghosts. 
 
Racing home. 

And the horns cry so low. 

With your eyes I find shame. 

Replaced with some word soiled. 

Work found for the haste. 

So I am told to breathe and forgive. 


And I end. 
To begin something I could not finish. 


In leaving I presuppose I will return. 

In gold worth more. 

On wings of purity. 

Lifted to fall and stay humble. 


And the yes I gave should now be a no.

I am concerned with that venison in America
But the juice is soured.
This weeping as I wanked out of control,
After breaking cross-haired whims,
Galloping backward and forward, ahead the past,
Behind the unfamiliar future,
What were we doing, or were we,
The mattress, the limber of lice, or of loves
We were measuring olives, continually?
A moon soon to be forgiven
In crossed girders of past, hip Brooklyn charcoal
In this peeping that has sized you again?

All the classic adverts a lot of them are missed
Adverts that are made today the producers must be ******
They're nothing like the classic ads I'm afraid I must resist
There isn't any flare or finesse so please would you desist
The same adverts are always shown there's no surprise or twist
Adverts are not liked these days I hope you get the gist
Your all just sitting there with you ***** clutched in your fist
Messing up your nice pressed suits with a swift one of the wrist
New adverts bore you to tears but it's all that you enlist
Cos your making more backhanders it's why you still persist
Stop relying on the sponsors we know there **** is kissed
And take particular notice of the old ones on this list

A skeleton with video tapes told us how its gonna be
Re-record not fade away with Scotch's lifetime guarantee
Whiskers was the food of choice according to the stats
It was preferred by at least eight out of ten cats
Noodle Doodle twisted spaghetti into motor cars and houses
He twisted it into butterflies and eek noodle doodle mouse's
A hippo made a fruity drink way down in the Congo
He danced a dainty tango and a rhino called it Um Bongo
There was only one Tea that could make you go OO!
Sue Pollard and Frankie Howard found out with Typhoo
But those little Tetley Tea Folk know without a doubt
That 2000 perforations would let the flavour flood out
You knew what to do to put the freshness back
Every time you vacuumed and did the Shake and Vac
Don't wake up and go to town use the one all over smell
Insignia's shampoo and deodorant, aftershave and shower gel
Jeremy had a roaring toothache again he liked to many treats
he could have had a crocodile smile without eating sweets
She was the Right One she would skate to get it there
Nicollete Sheridan delivered Martini anytime anyplace anywhere
A second class ticket to Dottingham a misunderstanding caper
Tunes could make you breath more easily with its Menthol vapour
Milk in every half pound one chunk lead to another
With a glass and a half for every Dairy Milk lover
Muhammad Ali and Benny Hill knew their coming fate
They watched out with a Humphrey about, drinking Unigate

If your into protection with your Mate's or a Durex
You'd get that rubber feeling during penetrative ***
Unless your like Fred Brewster and Geronimo was there
A friend that was washable and like an inner tube to wear

A chocolate bar sang about everybody's case of the Fruit and Nut
David Rappaport could tell it was Tizer when his eyes where shut
Kia Ora's to orangey for crows, it was just for him and his dog
Spuds wanted to be Smiths Crisps and not an average Joe Blog
Bars Iron Brew from Girders the Scottish people like
A second thought at junctions think once think twice think bike
You Crossed your heart for a better figure with a Playtex Bra
The Renualt Clio had a certain flair for Nicole and Papa
Flowers delivered from Interflora making your day bright
It was a taste to make you shine ohhh ohhh Vitalite
Sainsbury's world war one solders shared and called a truce
Maynard's Wine Gums set the juice loose aboot the hoose
Why would you have cotton when Galaxy was silk?
It was cool for cats when you woke up to Milk
The man from Del Monte loved fresh fruit so he said Yes
Frosty's where Grrreat, Tony Tiger expected nothing less
But Esso was the only petrol with a tiger in the tank
A galloping black horse was the icon for Lloyds bank

Its your life with Tampax you jumped around and skated
Jack Dee had John Smiths, was his Widget overrated ?
Flowers where given on Impulse hoping the ladies dated
Mr Soft loved Trebor mints a strange world was created
Flake was the Crumbliest chocolate was that understated?
Marmite was the kind of spread you loved or even hated
Michelin Man was made of tyres he was rubber weighted
A family always had there diner, with Oxo it was plated

Castlemain Four X wouldn't give anything else, Australians would preach
Unless you where Paul Hogan and Fosters Amber Nectar he would teach
But Heineken would refresh the parts other beers could not reach
Strongbow was strong straight and true made from apple and not peach
Broad at the shoulders slim at the hips Big Bad Dom Domestos Bleach
The Jolly Green Giant loved Sweet corn with his ** ** ** speech

Please broadcast something good, instead of all your trash
There is No Cornetto's from Italy! none shown from this stash
Like Cadburys and Nestle or the robot men from Smash
You had a break with Kit Kat and convenient packet mash
No Dr Whites ***** Pads I don't mean to sound so brash
Where is Castrol GTX or Buzby there's not even a rehash
All Gambling and Insurance Ads tying to get our cash
No concern about the national debt or any loan backlash

Rolf Harris teaching kids to swim in the water they did love it
I bet if they where around today they'd tell old Rolf to shove it
I felt sorry for that poor Churchill dog I admired his endurance
To put up with Rolfs wobble board that isn't much insurance

Jimmy Saville talked of safety he clunked clicked every trip
But Jimmy's mind was somewhere else thinking who he'd like to strip
And British Rail where unaware when he was trying not to slip
With Jims intent with his Railcard to get you in his grip

You may think its controversial, you may think its the wrong call?
I Guarantee the companies thought they where on the ball
I bet these ads are a blot and drive them up the wall
If they'd have known about these guys they wouldn't feel so small
These companies would not have hired Jim or Rolf at all
It doesn't matter if they're the ones who are not standing tall

Why cant new adverts be like the old ones that we had?
What's happened to production why are they so bad?
They are all so boring and there really rather sad
None of them are out there that make you feel so glad
Why do you insist on showing ones that drive us mad
Your viewers are so ******* board more than just a tad
everyone is getting annoyed even our mum and dad
stop showing the new adverts stop ruining our pad

We don't want life insurance or sponsors for every show
We don't want Go Compare adverts, the Gtech can surely go
There are no Classic overtones they've lost that certain glow
Its boring seeing the same adverts shown in the same row
Phone commercials are not wanted it may be quite a blow
Loans and expensive Sky packages the people should say no
Please would you take some advice stop keeping these in tow
And bring back all the classic ads and stop going with the flow

Barren empty sidewalks
gray and unforgiving,
winding on in never-ending concrete roads;
making un-melodic thumping sounds
as my feet rhythmically step-
dance-
and twirl-
Cold and lifeless buildings,
garter-ed in girders of steel and glass;
reflecting everyone's business-
every nosy little thought,
every scathing deadly glance;
Steep towers of frozen brokers,
daggering into other's precious dreams,
and optimism-
like the person you used to be,
like the hopes you used to have.
Saber teeth tigers leer down from high ledges,
ready to pounce and **** out my resolve-
while I flutter-
whirl-
and waver-
in existence;
teetering on the edge of perception,
of failure;
There is no color in these devoid cities,
no happiness held in these forlorn faces,
no smiles to stoke a burnt-out heart;
Just me-
dancing-
twirling-
leaping-
hoping -
trying-
to make you remember yourself.

Tunnels seeping under the river's belly
Cave in and around slowly like jelly
Appear often as silly
Girders built lose, their tensions
Like old dentures in attention
Underneath rattles passing over of train
Lengthen illusions in the rain
Buildings elongate land filled
It takes its time to get drilled
Always has a will to take its own time to settle

It does not seem
things move on
when girders
give way
to heavy stay.
Movement rattles
rutted hiding
from unknown contentment ,
to breath, to gusto.
And move, and move