A Stream of Consciousness: Rough draft

Cherries picked straight from the tree
can be eaten fresh.
Worn shoes tattered jackets won't keep the rain out:
funky moldy fungal feet swollen like monkey paws
clutching pacifiers licking lips rinsing toothpaste
tobacco smoke residue whitens the teeth
whiten the teeth as history too before us.

Parched throats in need of water
Arid eyeballs look into periscopes with foggy lenses
out onto the fog of war.
Down down down the drain
meter maids make money
monkeys running on four legs knuckles to the ground stone
learn how to speak without American accents:
sign language the universal language
of love only we know our own encoders
signifying speech like bitches signify heat.

Birds don't understand the city,
they see trees and buildings alike
eggs proving not only that the early bird gets the worm
but she also finds the best real estate,
and with interest accrued on profits made
deathless the pale rider comes to rescue us all from herpes.
Rare is the prize fighter punching holes in walls,
thumping charcoal skulls till
iron-cast blood runs from orifices
holes new made in the back of our necks:
projectiles find fingers crawling clawing intercepting the brain.

Fists a Flying; draft #1

Step into the ring fists a flying
blood stained ropes splotches covering the canvas
smashed mouth shakes through my body and I fall backward
ropes bounce me back g-forces whipping sweat off my body
like a dog shaking off after a torrential downpour.
No time to ask myself what's the fighting for.

Rotund Rasputin
snickers mouth full feed dribbles out onto the carpet,
ties tight locks down right
pad locks and dirty knots
dead bolt on the exit door.

I turn to face a battle royal where everyone's my enemy.
Did I once see the finish line as a mirage
rising murky on the highway
or drinking hallucinations from a dream works spigot:
one or the other or both at once confuse my senses,
and what is real what is surreal what is fake
comes round about circling in swirls
in a hot tub rising above a hundred degrees
now full of broth
so hot it burns.

Fists A Flying; brainstorm

Step into the ring fists a flying
blood covered canvas sweat stained ropes
smacked then smashed in the mouth
ropes bounce me back with terrific g-force
My mind rings what am I fighting for?
Where is the exit door?

Rotund Rasputin snickers behind me
ties tight locks down right
pad locks and dirty knots
dead bolt on the exit door.

I turn and face them
a battle royal but everyone's against me.
A battle royal that I'll never win.
Did I once see the finish line?
The mirage rising on a hazy day on the highway
or hallucinations drinking from the spigot,
one then the other confuses the senses.
What is real what is surreal and what is fake
comes rounds about in swirls in circles
of a hot tub rising above a hundred degrees
now full of broth
so hot it burns.

Wanting a Bonfire Blaze; draft #1

My fingers linger on her soft skinned belly
pale red glass of a tummy ring for as long as I've been looking.
The skin stretches thinner after each exhale
lungs vacuum mucous membranes
ribs barely hidden behind flesh
ribs almost pushing against the smooth flesh.
But I want
lips lick tongue kiss up belly button hard hips
hope for internal combustion, a lighter lit flame igniting body
such that our skins touch and
THE WHOLE THING GOES UP!

But she lays still
eyes soft glazed breath
dizzy pain of long workdays:
unable to release as talons of sharp-eyed gold feathered eagle
clutching chinook between claws.

I wish she'd spot me a thousand miles away
grip me bloody tight between her fingers,
take me to her nest and eat my flesh warm and raw.

City With A Slow Heartbeat; draft #3

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

Knife scratch phone numbers etched in dull stainless steel
seats covered in seventies style thin and stained carpet
violet speckles on soft neon blue.
Ink stain directions smudged in broad crack head script
From the 15th ride the broad street line north
get off at Allegheny
and you're at the Diamond street projects.

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

From Erie-Torresdale going West
here on elevated tracks high above Kensington Avenue
ride quiet quite like the glance of a bull
in the kicked up dust just before the charge:
just the squeal of breaks
the breathless mechanical whistle of metal against metal
and a mechanized voice announcing the next station on deck
letting us know whether the doors are open or closed.

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

To my left across the aisle two men sit facing each other,
I see them out of the corner of my eye,
each sprawled across two seats,
one sitting back twisted
arms gray anguish folded across the back of the seat
speaking gravel too fast
but not for his brother no he ain't no fool
he won't get fooled again
he ain't no fool and he won't get fooled again.

He speaks and chants and sings
and God bless this and god bless that
god bless these bitumen black-grey roofs that stretch out
endless in the dusk and we only pass by with vacant stares
burrowing holes into windows seatbacks and floor,
or chins notched in books
avoiding cigarette burn holes in my jeans,
even as we ride by abandoned warehouses shit full of shattered glass.

City With A Slow Hearbeat; draft #2

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

Knife scratches are phone numbers etched in dull stainless steel,
seats covered in seventies style yet thin and stained carpeting
violet speckles on soft neon blue.
Ink stains are directions painted in broad crack head script
From the 15th ride the broad street line north
get off at Allegheny
and you're at the Diamond street projects.

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

From Erie-Torresdale heading West though actually South
this ride quite like the stern glance of a bull before the charge:
just the squeal of breaks
the breathless mechanical hum of metal against metal
and a mechanized voice announcing the next station on deck
here on elevated tracks high above Kensington Avenue,
“Next stop Somerset...Next stop York-Dauphin...Next stop Huntington...
Next stop Berks...

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

To my left across the aisle, two men sit facing each other,
each sprawled across two seats,
one sitting back twisted,
arms of gray anguish folded across the back of the seat
speaking gravel too fast
but not for his brother no he ain't no fool,
he won't get fooled again,
he ain't no fool and he won't get fooled again.

He speaks and chants and sings
and God bless this and god bless that
god bless these bitumen black-grey roofs sretching out endless
and we only pass by,
some solemn with heads held high
vacant stares that would burrow through your brain if you let them,
or chins notched in books to avoid the piercing eye of the Public
that burns hole trough us like cigarettes burn holes through jeans
even as we ride by abandoned warehouses shit full of shattered glass.

But I still feel a heartbeat.
No don't leave this one to die on the streetside
this city with a slow almost silent heartbeat.

City With a Slow Heartbeat; rough draft

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

Phone numbers knife scratched in dull stainless steel
seats thin covered in cold stained carpeting seventies style
violet speckles on soft neon blue.
And directions painted in broad crack head script
From the 15th ride the broad street line north and get off at Allegheny
and welcome to the Diamond street projects.

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

Heading South through West out of Erie-Torresdale
not expecting this ride's quiet ride:
just the squeal of breaks in rhythm
the breathless mechanical hum of air against metal
and the prerecorded voice that announces each station's arrival
here high above Kensington on elevated tracks,
“Next stop Somerset...York-Dauphin...Huntington...Berks...

To my left across the aisle, two men sit facing each the other,
each taking up two seats to himself,
one speaks gravel too fast for me to follow
but not for his brother no he ain't no fool,
he won't get fooled again,
he ain't no fool that won't get fooled again.

God bless this and god bless that
god bless these bitumen black-grey roofs we pass by,
solemn held heads high
vacant stares burrow through your brain
or breathful and intentful slumber of chins notched in books
burn as we ride by abandoned warehouses shit full of shattered glass.

But doc,
I can still feel a heartbeat,
don't leave this one to die on the streetside:
this city of two rivers, this city with a slow somber almost silent heartbeat.

Myth of Meritcracy (draft #2)

Lightning flashes across the maddened sky
cuts molecules in half and you can count the seconds
1...2...3 then crack and boom!
Peering down at that moment you see the slow shuffle of yesterday's work,
the careworn and withered movements of dying-eyed
shadow characters best known from a distance
best known as abstract in a less than ideal world
while working-class stiffs think concretely,
lest our own thin skin be ripped
sinews and veins born against an x-ray sky.

Storm moving fast as clouds churned up by a whirlwind
dark masses floating in ethereal airs:
turned hot on its heals an evolution
of stomaching stuffs and growing the belly's bulge.
Fat now made famous
its consumptive powers render supposed evidence of our own will to fight
mano y mano
even though guilty till the last man standing
oink and you slobber over dinner
hwoink and your tongue pale pink lolls out
once more to suck on mother's tit
as anecdotal evidence insulates fallacious theory
in this myth of meritocracy.