I know it’s not kind for the fortunate to talk about the homeless--

especially when rain pisses cold night early
like a dead drunk on the sidewalk,
filling ditches with frigid water
pooled in ankledeep depressions
unnoticed ‘til rain pisses
gutters down asphalt
heaped in middlestreet impressions.

Heaped against curbstones
fed by asphalt,
the heaps of middlestreet form
blackpool gutters
that shine like sun can’t
off daytime things
matted by diffusion.

On the surface of the blackpools,
the greenlights and redlights
and yellow streaks ripple
like dreamtime falling out of phase
with the walking rhythm of cold-soaked sneakers
squashing ‘long the greenline
ripples of a redlight
nighttime.
Soaked in piss and inconsiderate snow,
it melts before it’s supposed to.

He’s an obvious imbecile,
now handicapped or special. *(exclude?)
A sweetness caps his voice
like the accent of spice
in a cigarette that got wet
then dried then smoked once fished
from under a passenger seat
like a nice surprise—
like a tipped hat
after hello and a brief discussion
of snow and the rain it followed
and whether or not this snow is the symptom
of a cold front;
gone tomorrow,
here today.

He wanted money
to get through the night.

(He had no nurses to give him
what he needed to get through the night)

I gave him cigarettes and useless sentiment instead.

“You look soaked to the bone.
I hope you have someplace to get dry.”

He said,
“Don't worry.
It’s not the rain that gets to me.
It’s this snow.”

A poem about myself.

I’d like for you to lay down
the things you find important,
the people you spend your love on,
lay down your arms and move around with,
touch, laugh and sing with-
Me in my bed

or on my shoulder when there’s no reason not to
except important things
and love and song.

I want to be exceptional.
I found you in the crowd
and you called on me when I said hello
and made myself available.

It’s only fair I am the same
as I imagine you to me.

So I do

Mmm. Yes.
High times when times are final.
The boom hound lapped me by miles.
Its panting echo leapt from the barrel and struck the rim edge,
Rang it like tracers overhead.

The phosphorous melted off the iron
And the ringing echo settled.
The cartridge spins,
and rest.

But Odor remains,
Nestled in the fat of my firing finger.
I’ve anodized my tongue
shredded my palette
stuffed cotton in my mouth.

Another year is going
And so I do.

Vi

The eyes do not grow old. They become
Clouded sometimes—they cross.
They can sour at hot news or curdle
Like ice melting backwards in cold lumps.
They get their globes glazed
By the heavy gravity of positive to negative,
Promoting collision and the worst kind of collusion;
the kind like white on rice or stink on shit
so you can’t see past it— the glaze.
Eyes become afflicted, they do not grow old.
And as we know, the eyes are the window to the soul.

This morning I saw the immortal soul through the eyes
Of a young old woman who smiled at me over her shoulder
From a bravo afternoon sometime around springtime, 1962.

The chicken or the golden egg

Preparing eyes and ears for a day
is no small feat, no feat too small
for a firebrain, for the wireframe
whatsitgonnabe of whileIsleep.

Why else would the damn thing sing
anagram lovesong architecture
all night long?--kicking while I’m down
but not out, out but not out cold.

Why else’d the damn thing sing
if not to steel my stupid flesh
against the ugliness of calendar
sunshine? Could it be reporting

some bizarre subplot? Or
is it time for shuteye?

Subjection

Faith takes guts no one is ready to spill
Sincerity aside from a white guilt or a lost american war
Come on. Isn't common.

Thoughts of things primary frightening and discouraged
Passionate pacification sinks sleepily into our eyes
To participate only in pretty prepared screen action

To forget our wills and make them small
To make a choice only between malls
That new bag is the best you can do
You're free! Don't define, do!

And the people cry at one another, deafening and clear:

Flee to screen or mall or weed!
Two philosophers have disagreed!

Any object can be you!
And you can finally be an object too!

Summer 2009

I dont work a job in the day
and I have no time for hobbies
Instead I stand in my doorway and chew gristly questions
That taste like cigarette filters
That most people have chewed and digested by college
But I had doubt jammed in my gears
A four year old anxiety boy kept asking
Probably just sparking the apathy wheels
Into tension
To see some kind of motion
If only it were a daily grind (pun in tension)

I'm lazy and bored with the day
Its ideas refuse to entertain me and so I too often return the favor
I fuck around like I'm making a point
Personify everything, then argue with the sun for cutting and running
The heated sky apart
And petition (bitch) him later about the sweat in your shorts
And the ache in my gut that joins the chorus of shouting things
A loud nature, I wish it was polite
Left me some peace

Left my head out of it

At least attempted harmony if they have to go on like they do
Gave me better sentences to write than I do

_

For now

Go back to choking on half baked faith
Read about an ascetic you'd hate to meet
And an old ecclesiast's poem gilded in black ink
Running with the same thoughts you've had

Then dip it in the fountain doubts and wash it clean
Isn't that easier to read?
To forget?
Now swallow the rest of those loose connections
And pray you have intentions in your intestines