INSERT ANALOGY HERE

theres so much shit
coming thru

we got to suck up

inset hoover analogy here
with reference to full bags
&
the horror & frustration

& delay & interruption

from 

the 

tangled electrical cords

knotted need to not comply

that makes me hot with anger 

in the bland day hallway

BOOKBAGS & BACKPACKS

 

the sludge
burbling in the turdle runoff
once was rain maybe
gentle in spring

&
falling
on
small shoes & swings
&

bookbags & backpacks

&

hand-me-down softshell hoods

&

a mothers phone

the banking app there

& her anxious minces

BUCKOWSKI AND ME AT 43

i read buckowski
on the toilet
magically putting 
my guts in 
the plumbing

read his poem
about being 43
about the $22000 
in three months

his grey hair 
and pot belly
typewriter
in and out
of hock . . .

i stretched out
on the pm bed
on my side back
against the sun
hands in an 
almost prayer
in front of me

the endless 
lexicon
of workers
and managers
out there
behind me
making their
desperate moves

the little cat
comes to join me
so i know
i am doing 
it right

he lays down
in a mirror image
of me
his paws out
in an 
almost prayer

his claws touch
my fingers
his head rests
on the same pillow
his pot belly
his few 
grey hairs . . .

theres always 
poetry
endless poetry
behind the closed
curtains
and in
the dust

always fables
of the
storm cloud
written
by the
unkillable
husbands of
the moon . . .

my grey hairs
shaved away
my pot belly
slumped
same as
the cats
like two 
half empty bags
slung on the bed

he keeps his 
illness in 
check
eating right
doing his time

and so do i
and we close
our eyes
together
against
the incredible 
size of 
another
afternoon
and all
the things
to do

MEDLEY OF DREAMS

1

  i 
  am 
han solo
but
thinner / effeminate
and
i
find
miniature face-hugger aliens

pale and pink

in 
the 
drinking water


2

my desk is out on the front drive

i fiddle with a big spliff

scared to light it / too early

and
gone
faces
from
gone
jobs
ask me my passwords
and
say

  why 
  do i encrypt anything at all ?


3

heavy bags weigh me down

lost ID preys on my mind

and
cocaine in a crisp bag
on 
the 
top 
deck
of
the 
number 154
is 
caught in the wind
always 
just out of reach

      and
    i
  am

  almost almost almost

    nearly

      in
    control