there’s not much value
in a day wasted
unless this brick
torn from the earth
harnessed and
fused with and
channeled through
what passes for glass
and steel these days
can find a way
to make my arms
want to move
want to shape it
all the while i
sitting here tired
between all lines
waiting for every train
find my nostalgia
in the sweat and the trek home
and, eventually,
the rinsing in the sink afterwards.
this miraculous appetite that i know
knows no false lines no state borders
no punishment no fines
it runs on wheels and fear and money
it breathes, when it wants to
it waits on line at the bank, if it has to
it grew up without a father
and without a brother
and attached these to those it was shied by
impressed with
to whom it found itself aspiring
throughout its run
it felt bad when the occasional
old school rock and roller died
but other than that
often said nothing
it stares because it cannot plan
it is outside of the thing
that the groups are laughing and gossiping about.
not above. below.
it found itself next to windows
behind gates and
just slim enough to round bars
with eyes like that
with sides that curve like spacetime
even this crude
air conditioned version
has once again coaxed itself
into bringing with it this
friday night
saturday morning
before the end of the world
in labor day blue
the generations of sorrow that
can’t help but to be seen
as burning themselves out
extend into every orbit
cook then crush
every love story
every rush
every ice cream cone
every crutch
and then
get this
fall back
taking everything
even those hips
with them!
i myself travel well
but would prefer to stay here
with you and rest.
+
ok i concede.
there is a queerly
cultivatable silence here
& given enough free shoes
and missed paychecks
i could stretch out in
deep sleep too
among the arguments,
tracing the coiffed beards of minor celebrity,
over a fan of tips on the floor
and the sidewalk audience,
straight to the crux of something baffling and stupid.
self as faucet has been shown to be largely a myth
so i walk
bored with the dream
because i took it only as a forum
for what i thought i knew
and not as a set and setting
from which to explore
information i wasn’t aware of.
anyway.
keanu reeves was at cake shop
to see the husker du guy play
what turned out to be a big (and free)
and very cool show
upstairs, things were loud
the drinks were flowing and tipped
girlfriends puked at the ramp
bouncers steered noobs to
holes in the steel
rubberbumping their
glorious, glorious spots
we are in search of
carbohydrates and water and salt
ecstasy and revelation and wonder
but not the kind you paint
when you are under a bridge
afterwards,
even the worst parts of you
feel watery keyboard rebirth
you fall asleep on the bench
the cop wakes you up
you bike to rehearsal
and wait for wednesday
+
slam the fucking air!
cry the mother of the hammer!
cry the beguiled
before the invention of the diet
and the chastity belt and Fox News
what will be sung but the multitudes anyway?
the multitudes you are there
to crank up and convince
don’t be dated
let them go
they’re not you. their opinions
are not you. they don’t get hungry
and blame the walls like you.
there are not that many seats left.
each tip of every finger
touches each finger in rhythm.
it’s an exercise in the moment and
each beat kicks in threes
easy blues happens
easy blues when you’re on your way
the great escape or the crisp sonic
awesomeness of every other day
every third sunday
every other June
not dreary winter
it seems so far away
and it is
take that with you:
migration
excuses
juices
polyester
crowds – the wisdom of the crowds
the tragedy of the uncommons
culture is a theory
while you stand in the river.
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