transcriibed pieces of trash

(1)

take 5 more minutes
reeding up the harbour's edge
coins flip into rain across water
beyond turtle and gator, eating other eating
reeds. body of a spinder
wings of flywho eats who i'd like to know
like the swamps in drew parks made of pot holes.
nothing's close in this town, but it's crowded
anyway...




(2)

she gets paid
for the magic in the manner
of psychiatrists and gypsies.
she wonders if this makes her
a capitalist whore. you're stuck
in the purest of blues, ok with
the guitar work but there's
no way you can scream cuz you got
the white man's blues. fat amerikans
and they skeletal kids, smell of beignets
and antiseptic.

the earring keeps demanding payment
"u think he desires YOU because
of a poem". the friday center
of the universe.
half life in a flip book sky.
he hopes, she refutes , he begs
the blonde with a direct wallet
to spare him the mob scene.

~

the drummer likes to solo. because
most other times he has to do someone's
limited beat of a song.



__________________________


there's a big fat zero comin for
the boy on the bike, and you
are a worse poet than comedian even tho
you got no laughs. just remember friend
a friend acts like a friend. doesn't
manipulate with last minute requests
clearly designed to wind up not
on the living room couch but in my bed.

the egg wants to ripen. coffee. hand
sanitizer. honey it don't matter
if that violin's out of tune cuz he
has both mics. no one hears you.
















(3)




what i wanted to feel
was all of you collapsing
into the flight of the heron
and the crow's cheep. it sways
the black thing, on the branch
above the bobbbing heads
of 2 doves as they companionably
toss triangle browned leaves
aside searching for tiny hard berries
which ripen upon then fall from
the faux holly tree.

they expect food, these glinting black
beauties, collecting in the branches
hitchcckesque, courting. some nests
are being built. a pair of brown swallows
encroach. scissor beaks chittering,
urban wings cut the sky, funk bassy.


scherezahde, how far ahead
you were for me. ahead of time.
somewhere off in the alt you inhabit
things go according to plan.
the doves confirm this, from the bowl
in the base of the tree.

a monarch floats by. also the crayon
yellow sun. wings also survive. and you
a piece of music running thru me
until my spring turns into crow.















(40009)

pome of the back of my neck

crow chitter, whistle. under bass wind tunnel.
time to adopt
a new name.

i took off wiht a backpack and a copy of kerouac
you didn't care if i lived or died. we were
that free for each other. yet we lived. we loved.
me melted into our futures chocked with hate and funky.



this morning i'll be early, but i'll try not
to make it a habit. i could be what ever you
wanted me to be but only for a while. to give
is to recieve. i am flush, this moment of rushing
hush. the tweet and charm of it.

no profound things to say, just witness
to profound acts of god. crow chant under jet
a mumbly mazy sountrack. a book in my backpack
for company.






(5)


if i called you
what would i say to you?

i don't think you loved me
it was you who you love.hate.

now you think about me
ever so seldom. melt into the floor.

it was like basically what you're
telling me is put on this mask
till i can breathe again, then maybe
i'll let you take it off. i can relate.

maybe in therapy you'll listen cuz
you'll be paying for it. all i know
is i believe you
can love , i just don't think
you can love me. and anyway
what's love got to with it?

your confession? u wrote that line
for another woman. my confession?
i wanted to be her.

the moon settles into capricorn.
another horned animal. those who delve
into mystery trouble themselves.
just be good puppets. get a reboot
or erase the things you already know.









(5649)





i think of the ways we could fail
and decide not to go there.

the apple is still god's perfect food.




















(66)

we get our blowers out
move sand and leaves
to the gutters. pollen
swrils in the air.

march has other plans
blows them back onto
the asphalt, glittering
and speckling the afternoon
golden. reaction to action
on a time delay.









(702)


requiem for rangoon

world beat down 49th st.
tl at 118th.

the sun is an hour behind time
the glorious day sows guilt on gilded
leaves, pollen ripe with goodbye.

time to settle in with imitation.

whitefish and cream cheese. it's a travesty
she wails. wallowed in mayo and tarragon torn.

she tries to buy the recipe. ships pass
and refuse to exchange lights. lips pass
over exotic taste, leipple light
sea sweet burrowed bottom feeder, goodbye!












(8)




i've learned to bob and weave
my head again, like whuuu, like du uh
can't you see i'm just playyyin

last night the melodrama continues
she is lonely and lost
she tells me, hates that she doesn't
have friends hates tht no one seems to think
like her how she's all alone. i suggest
counselling or a group, whre they're hiding
the same way.





(9)





there's a big fish in the pond.
it roils the breezeless water
shimmer sprinkling, stones tossed
from the cloud above. just beyond
the music for the deaf. a symphony
begins across the flat face of dark
pondwater, reduces it to chaos.

the weather rolls by, uncapturable.
gears of the water truck wind up
crow feathers perched in a dead mellaluca.
it's 124. time for work.















(10)

she's simply
disgusted with the whole
thing. it's out of the realm
of caring anymore.

thre's ledges on the therapist's
office buiiding. a crow picks
at ticks black against grey sky
traffic sloshes and hisses behind her.

puddles sling sleep at her. it
begins to sprinkle. she places her lime
green flip flops and unkempt toes
out the window.