on shared experienceshey there dragonflydo you want to have a kid?do you want to die?hey there bumblebeehave you ever thought aboutgetting to be me?
Brake BreakingA wet funk rises, musk-like on the chillNight air. It steams from cloudy sewer vents,Streams along the gutters far below mySpinning wheels. The city retreats from eachThrust deftly forced against the pedals. ICareen around the potholes and brokenGlass, heading toward darker spaces farFrom the nescient lamplight of the street. EachBraking lets go animal-like warnings,Voiced through the metal frame lurching belowMeas if some bestial dream awakenedBy the swirling, urbane stench has taught itWhat it means to rust and die. I aloneCan decipher its pleading howl: Im here.Beware. I will not oil, nor seek repair.
The Slumber PartyUninvitedlike the heat apparentIn moist, clinging sheets, the myriad roarsFrom engines whizzing underneath green lights,The sinewy, wet vomit sounds coughed upFrom the sidewalk below, the unmuffledCries thrown through the open window by theLocal vacant teenage drunks (who may haveAlso been responsible for the blastsOf amplified lyrics, demonstratingQuite well the sound of a Doppler shift)theStreetlight beams in through the window screen, asBright, or brighter, than any midday lightThat ever walked this room. There is no breeze.From somewhere, drifting down through layers ofSubconscious activity, a mutedVoice reaches a barely audible point.Footsteps hurry past, a pitter patterOf spirited motion echoed in theTinkling leaves. A soft sleep descends,Slowly flooding uninvited soundsFrom the night. There is a touch of breath, then,Remarkably, a quiet dream of rain.
Like a Lunchmeat SandwichI got life like a lunch meat sandwich.Paper thin bread turns stale, crumbles,and blows out of my walletborneoff, like spores on a breeze, leavingme no cash for tossed salad. I got life like a lunch meat sandwich. Layers of cut meat, scabs, stray hairs,
That Old ShedThat old shed ain't going to hold much longer.The land its on flooded, and now it sagsIn one corner, probably from the weightOf what its housing: namely, a rustedOld wheelbarrowred paint slapped on in haste,Turned tits-up and without its working wheel;A couple portraits of two city girls,One done by a cubist hack, the otherMarred by weather, and a fauvist. Both areUpturned behind what was a chicken coop,But has since returned to a mushy sponge-Like mess of wood, and wire that refusesTo rot. An empty jar, covered in dirt,Is placed on a unit of shelves amongStuffed blackbirdscreepy looking things, there mustBe twelve or thirteen of them in differentPoses and positions. A larger tractIs littered with parts from some broken hearseTheres cracked windows, a windshield, little brassRollers, and torn upholstery strewn about.The stuffings gone mouldy, as everythingElse. Its nearly impossible to makeSense of it!not to me
Assorted Small Form Poems amid grey landscapes a fertile green blooms between her eyes and my eyes ~ alive and dancing the small city tree gets drunk off rain ~ raindrops spring from puddles~lovers' muffled noisebetween box spring groansthen (sigh), a gasp! ~ an eye in the storm he sits, pants around ankles and writes more poetry ~ police siren sounds