This Autumn Month; draft #2, finished poem

This autumn month
eyes gaze through a thin window pane
down leaf strewn street
scattered rags plastic bags butts discarded wrappers
black gum-tar stuck everlasting polka dot distraction
faded beer cans smashed flat like aluminum paper.

This autumn month
eyes gaze through a cracked window pane
unable to stop the loud sight and sound
of other people's matters late into the night
of drunken madness and irrational argument,
lost at sea must be seen to believe but invisible to most:
like the late night moan of the trolley
letting the whole house know the schedule of the number ten.

This autumn month
eyes gaze through the thin veil of a window pane
farsighted I bare witness to the long and slow groan
of earth's internal clock tearing a hole through space and time
seeping into living matter finding its way into
blood choked scream screened streets
that are rivers in our lives.

In this autumn month (from Brainstorm #1)

In this autumn month
eyes gaze through thin window pane
down leaf strewn street
and scattered about rags plastic bags butts discarded wrappers
black gum-tar stuck everlasting a polka dot distraction
faded beer cans smashed flat like aluminum paper.

In this autumn month
eyes gaze through cracked window pane
unable to stop the loud sound
of other people's matters late into the night
lost at sea must be seen to believe but invisible to most:
like the late night moan of the trolley
letting the whole house know the weekend schedule of the number ten.

In this autumn month
eyes gaze through the thin veil of window pane
farsighted I bare witness to the long and slow groan
of earth's internal clock tearing a hole through space and time
seeping into living matter and finding its way into
blood choked scream screened streets
that are rivers in our lives.

Brainstorm #1

Eyes gaze through window pane and down
street strewn with leaves in this autumn month
street littered with discarded wrappers and wasted human lives.

Eyes gaze through window pane and across
homes sittings on low hills slanted doorways
witness to the hard crunch of modern lives
for people that do not breathe the clean air
for people that do not breathe the free air
for others that do not share a sense of home,
lost in a sea that I see but is invisible to most.

Eyes gaze through window pane and far off
men strong and brave and men weak and timid
stand along side each other and and share in the contempt
that has been building in the sum of living matter in the sum of human thought
in the the blood choked scream screened streets that are rivers
in our lives.