Sunday, February 21, 2010

40th and Market; draft #2

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up my pant leg's inseam
leaves behind a shadow or ghost of a spectacle
that enshrouded this somber city.

Fresh spit snow and crusty coat
chunks of ice slips and slides the soles beneath my feet
hinders my walking me dwarfed by these man made sequoias
tall brick and stone buildings and taller sky-
scrapers cutting gashes in the spinning airs of the world:
soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in this space
where I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

the scene on the street corner
men standing splotched polyester jackets
propped on empty and upside down 2 liter Pepsi crates
“Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”

“Get a ride!”

A taxi ride but where's his taxi?
the El runs under these streets so you can have whatever you want
trinkets cheap bling incense body oils,
Bo-sing Chicken, nails or a new haircut:
sometimes lucky the fate of the passerby
I am so I walk on, walking man leads my way.

I slide my gloved hand on the rail and descend
watching my feet lest I lose my step
or stumble here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or eight or ten or twelve minutes
depending on the time of day.

I cross the platform entrance, gloves slip off then into the left hand
the right now reaching into breast pocket:
Running the pass I push through the turnstile.

Whine and screech train songs congest the air
platform half full of scattered people and I, stepping left stepping right,
try to be first in line
filling gaps in efficiency.

Doors slide open like Star Wars,
I pass portal to the land of blank stares
and vacant aural landscapes:
this but for the tinny sound of an hip hop amplified iPod,
or the reasoned or outlandish cajole of a mother to her daughter
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

"Sit down!"

or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slapstick black leather charm
something must have been funny but you missed it
you who keep your face buried in books
while the language is written on walls.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

40th and Market; rough draft

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up the inseam of my pants
leaves behind a shadow of a
ghost of a spectacle enshrouded in this somber city.

Fresh spit of snow and crusty coats chunks of ice
slips and slides the soles beneath my feet
hinders my walking me dwarfed by these man made sequoias
tall brick and stone buildings and taller sky-
scrapers cutting gashes in the spinning airs of the world:
soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in this space
where I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

I walk hands tight against my body
soft brown cloth hat, ensign of muted pastel
triangles arranged lengthwise round the head every color of the rainbow,
rain coat and dark thermals layered against the cold
insulated against the wind.

the scene on the street corner
men standing splotched jackets
propped on empty and upside down 2 liter pepsi crates
“Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”

“Get a ride!”

The El runs under the streets so there is always someone going on
trinkets and cheap bling incense body oils,
catcalls, lo-key jabs, never scene a fight
but I have seen two man yell each other down
sometimes lucky the fate of the passerby
I am so I walk on, walking man leads my way.

Sliding my gloved hand on the rail I descend
watching my feet lest I lose my step
or stumble here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or eight or ten minutes
depending on the time of day.
I cross the platform entrance, gloves slip into left hand
right side reaches into breast pocket,
and runs the pass pushes through turnstile.

Whine and screech train songs congests the air
platform half full of scattered people and I, stepping left stepping right
try to be first in line
filling gaps in efficiency.

Doors slide open like Star Wars,
I pass the portal to a land mostly of blank stares
vacant aural landscapes,
but for the tinny sound of an hip hop amplified iPod,
or the reasoned or outlandish cajole of a mother to her daughter
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

"Sit down!"

or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slapstick black leather charm
something must have been funny but you missed it
you who keep your face buried in books,
buried in the written language:
but it is written all over the walls
of this subterranean urban jungle,
as much underwater as it is underland.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

language loves desire; draft #4 (near final?)

Language loves desire and demands communication
but in words, more than just with body.
Love without language
lusts for body as animals without language.

Language comes from life, a dream to tell
that which cannot wholly be seen.
To make known
to relate in metaphors without body.

Language also is light piercing molecules of air.
Connects without touch. Communicates without
body. Moves without move.

Baby I Scar; draft #4

those hoodwinking evangelists
are not abused burned victim enough
and I have been driven into the thick mud under foot
days after the rain
black tongues with burned black talk.

and who pays for this whirlpool windmill
piss trickling down drain pipes leaking from decades long decay
and how
do I daily wash my hands clean when it is my people
keep shitting in the shallow end
or cannibals eating the hearts of others?

we are one and maybe accident prone are we,
a mix of colors and chemicals in a meth lab
chipped pale red wood shavings sprinkle cast shadow off cabin's far corner
and funneled by leaky weather rain vomit on woods green turned to brown:
rinsed away like so many earthly crimes.

Needle can I lick taste the bitter drugs as they rush through your veins
as I fall backward in a passed out slumber backwater night walk?

I will fail long before or after celebrity's made famous
for dodging questions land jawbone first onto razor sharp exit ramps
or a country made famous for lack of luck
lands dismal fate laid low
(sometimes in mind by us and everyone).

this machine stealing thoughts and body functions
has an inside deal on 22nd century eyeglasses.
It sees in 3-d,
and though my skin may not burn
I scar baby I scar.

Shattered Glass; Draft #5 (near final?)

I piece together the shattered glass of this half empty cup
like Superman I fly fast as infinity
reverse the earth's rotation
change the course of history
breathe a cone of cold on any who stand in my way.

A slow motion shot of levitating glass fragments
up from the kitchen floor,
gasps of shock turn back to smiles or blank stares:
my slippery grip fades back to a firm handshake.


Sticky liquid slops up the side of my cupboard
like Einstein turning gravity upside down
settles back in the cup just prior to implosion.

At this moment I realize density, mass and time:
as Atlas holding up the earth, as Hercules sweeping shit from the stables.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Shattered Glass; draft #4

If I could I would
piece together the shattered glass of this half empty cup:
like Superman I'd fly fast as infinity
reverse the earth's rotation
change the course of history
breathe a cone of cold on any who stand in my way.

A slow motion shot of fragments levitating off kitchen floor,
gasps of shock turning back to smiles or frowns
my slippery grip sliding back into a firm handshake.


Sticky liquid slops its way back up the side of my cupboard,
and as when Einstein turned gravity upside down,
it meets the cup a moment before implosion
and just after the moment when my hand slipped.

At this moment I realize that counter tops have mass and strength:
as Atlas holding up the earth, as Hercules sweeping shit out of the stables.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Baby I Scar; draft #3

this one goes out to all the
hoodwinking evangelists who think
that I am not abused assaulted burned victimized
sexy or smart enough
that I haven't been driven into the thick mud under my foot
a day after the rain
black tongues with burned black talk

do I not pay taxes to this great whirlpool windmill
piss trickling down drain pipes leaking from decades long decay
and how
do I daily wash my hands clean when my people keep shitting in the shallow
end or on the news, cannibals eating the hearts out of others.

we are one and one are we, being that the verb goes singular to plural;
that's just how grammar works, maybe accident prone does fate
mix of chemicals and colors in a meth lab
chipped pale red wood shavings cast sprinkled shadows off the cabin's far corner
and funneled by leaky weather rain vomiting on forest green turned to brown:
rinsed away like so many earthly crimes.

Needle can I lick taste the bitter drugs before they rush through your veins
before I fall backward in a passed out slumber backwater night walk?

not dead I still have an opinion on what it must be like to die
I will fail long before or after celebrity's made famous
for dodging questions land jawbone first onto razor sharp exit ramps
or a country made famous for lack of luck
lands dismal fate laid low
(sometimes in mind by us and everyone).

And aren't I complicit in this machine
stealing thoughts and body functions
takes and doesn't give back leaves only lacking:
they have an inside deal on 22nd century eyeglasses.
they see in 3-d.

My skin may not burn but I scar baby I scar.