a river of
crosses
 and crossbows,
hallucinating,
you saw
   an ocean filled
 with Coca-Cola bottles,
     close,
very
close
to west cliff
    now
just bits of plastic
   from Isla de Mujeres
   to Alaska

   

the day of
the hammer
    not claw
    or ballpeen
        I guess mallet
 or small sledge
    to vanquish thine
enemies
    to crush their skulls
     dash out their brains
      mangle their fingers
        an effective tool
          since ancient times
now I just need a winged
helmet

stuck in the 

    slot 

        you watched 

but left feeling 

less than - 

 echo that 

   the fabric 

reminded you of 

      old sidewalks -

less than that 

 you wore an 

overcoat 

  on the greyhound to NY

  sling 

sly 

some 

stupid 

        the city of alphabets

                                    and drunks in doorways 

1982

    two years away 

              in the back room were cutouts of nude women 

taped to the wall

    it smelled like fixer 

                                   you still have the photographs 

                                                 somewhere

style 

    cues 

 mark 

the territory 

          words 

are 

       you kidding

                   shoes 

         shoes 

      shoes 

           see the world 

             fly away 

                                            everything is changing

  

with 

the late night light 

shining 

                                 (thoughts of bb guns)

   and a large truck passing by 

           a silver painted hand gun

         a broken back

                                                   old copies of mad magazine

             taking LSD

     and playing frisbee

                                                                you wore mirrored aviator glasses

              (now you're dead!)

spit 

trees /////

    wait-

are you?

     no 

not that...

                                  somewhere, I think

     I'm the one 

 who

       /////

   you always 

 do that!

              ah maybe that's why...

 

 

  

baffled by the
   funghi
      fungo
morning fog
   white
 grey
concrete
 motorcycles
   serendipitous
      glucose
        meters
             neon
   with a
"sincere smile"
     suspended animation
   wily e
     see?
no, not really
  the tunnel is just painted on
  
 

some
inebriated
   masses
  at
the pulpit
   of
 negligence
         woke and bespoke
   sharing
nothing
  caring
not at all
and
 proud of it
 like shameful
     wrecks
on
the sea
   talking about
how
beautiful the water is

He never went to Vietnam
  He's not Jewish
  Liam and me
  we're gonna fuck you up
    Damn it Walter

sometimes you eat the bar
   and sometimes the bar eats you

the fierce
  endemic
ritual
  sneezes loudly
     some still sacred cows are
pasturing in the violence
  great
   leave the broken stone walls
      battered
   and
provoked
   there's no shade
 there's no
rocks under the snakes -
 nothing is hidden
   that you don't already know

     
  

why
the wherewithall
   the somnambulist
     centers
the stony bridge
 seeks
and escapes
the narrow confines
   of his own doing
    yet still
     seems sleepy
    shakes the ice coffee
      the ice rattles
footsteps in vans
 worn and stickered
    reading the pavement messages
     "joey"
    "this city sucks"
     "jewish"
    a man runs through traffic, laughing
  

flowers didn't exist
  when there were dinosaurs
nor did donuts
or any number of things
 mammals were mostly small things
they took to flying
 birds are the only modern dinosaurs so
they say



 

Careering
   down a mountain side
    catch your breath
       and watch the sun
burn a hole in the
...
 


 

the bent freezer of Samadhi
   burgers and
roller coaster
  wait staff

PUM/POP ©2006

I guess the advocacy of tin cans as shoes was not a
defining moment in my circuitous
route to Happiness

Nonetheless, things being as they were, I was intrigued by
the notion of memorizing
a reasonable contextual event,
in my memory, as it were

Therefore I eased the brakes on the 2003 Astro van®
and thought about the White Rabbit (not a car)
It was called a Caribe in Mexico (the car)
-some unsavory mechanic in Puerto Vallarta
stole it from my aging father

I was there (in Mexico) to deliver the sad news
that his brain was getting smaller (physically)
He accepted the news and then attempted to move
a light bulb on the ceiling because it was "too close to the ceiling fan
and might shatter"
it had been in the same place for fifty years
I steadied the ladder as he removed the bulb

down by the
 sun
   drenched
 alligator
  tears
you cried
  I built a log house
  filled with desperation
  and bad jokes
  and bad poetry
it was nice for a while

i gotta keep moving
  there's no rain
    blues falling down
       i'm standing at the crossroads

I guess I sold my soul
  sometimes you just don't know
    he seemed like a nice guy
       his face seemed a little red

(beatrice has a phonograph
   but it ain't got no winding chain
      -we played it on the sofa
   we played it side the wall
   my needle has got rusty
   it will not play at all)

Sketchy

a real shit show
   back it up
 the streets are full
       don't talk like that-
    you memorized the entire poem
and would recite it for a nickel
   at the dinner table
       penny a minute
     listening to julian bream
play portugese arias
  still the pumpkin pie was homemade
as was the whipped cream
and coffee
after much wine
le blanc de blanc
  you stumbled out into the hot sun
to whisper to the lizards
   run run or i'll grab your tail