my shoes in the museum now.

dream about that.

left overs from train rides

and other side ways

and reaching around the mountain

to grab onto something

other than what’s on my own plate

crumbs and wanted tastes

of cardamom and lesser evils

in America

and in America again.

why.

and eyes closed I pray

for decency

and times past

natural disaster of soul

and soles worn

and warned

against leaving.

but where are you now?

not America

not with me here

here in America

sleeping in the libraries

with leaking roofs

and pages stuck together

why you think this is joke or metaphor

or beneath what you belong to

how do I get want I am going after

here

in America

remind me of that.

I could be a penguin bird
in love with a girl

the great Leroy Jenkins
and people fucking in the next room

eating fish
right hand left hand ed

Islamic violin.

I could be a bird with wings
sing song broken as well

and everyone would be happy then
except me

I’d dance and everything
still. but she’d be never again.

maybe a worthy silence.

I could be Leroy Jenkins. maybe.
India navigation 1979.

the whole world changing around me.
people in asia. sleeping.

airplanes wind mills
people speaking dutch with chopsticks.

I double lock my room.

thirtyusdollars thirtyusdollars.
a day. and I’m still hungry.

in love with a girl.
somewhere.

I could violin my ipod earphone.
waiting for a text to say.

all is forgiven.

(or:
all is well and goodnight).

and this is what happens when you have to pick a favorite arm








a favorite toe
or a favorite breath



then winter comes
again



and all the good you’ve done
just laughs at your failed attempts



to make everything feel okay




you say good things
and fold hands
and whisper blessings
and hope and hope



but do
only in books
only in sleep
only in little wooden puzzles
from Indian craft shops

and everything else is just what it is




what it’s always been

what it’s always been?


build a boat for me
who-ever-you-are




and I am a window



blue.

yeah there's wind in my hair. yeah there's sun in the sky. yeah yeah they say that it's freedom. yeah yeah they say that's it's cool. soon the sun moves behind cloud and my clothes stay wet. i shiver a little. so what they call it now? blisters forming. whisper from lips curse leaves blowing along the street. yeah some people look. those with cars with windows rolled up. nobody laughs. not until they reach home at least. my socks are holes. my lice are cold. i cuddle up with dirt for napping wringing out the blanket we swim in. tomorrow the same. sleep in a puddle wake in a puddle beg in the rain drink in the rain sleep in the rain wake in the rain. tomorrow the same. yeah yeah they say that it's freedom.

is mexico even a place you can be? what if argentina is just an ocean wave? papua new guinea just a coffee bean? what if there was no napoleon? his crusades just a comic book series? these are not questions but exclamation points. You’re the chief of police’s son. Pow! You’re a doctor’s wife. Pow! It’s magic really. Pow! You just won the lottery. Pow! Pow! You’re the luckiest virgin alive. Pow! You never knew your friends had never eaten a chicken back. Pow! You learned to beg change in junior high cafeterias! You were prom queen! You were suspended for cross dressing! Pow! You stood on the lunch table and shouted your allegiance to communism! You drive a BMW! You never made love to your wife! POW! POW! POW! IT’S MAGIC REALLY! LOOK AROUND! Life is happening spontaneously really. It’s really magic really. And you never lived to be 30. Pow! And you never lived. It’s magic. Really.

welcome to the two thousand zero zero years the years of zeros. zeros in yr check book. zeros in yr bank account. zeros in yr cheerio boxes. Wake Up. it’s the third famine. The Great Anxiety. Zoloft in the drinking water. safety standards now require seat belts in all box cars. helmets on the subway. condoms in soup kitchen serving line. For Your Safety And Ours. billboards. newspaper headlines with yr name in it. old drunks defecating on city sidewalks. Wake Up. History repeats itself. blister cream and heating pads now stocked in all vending machines. History repeats itself. witchcraft made popular by tv sitcoms. History. wickedness praised as ambition and the height of professionalism. History. believe what you want it’s been this way all along. H. believe what you need it’s been buried alive along with everything you hoped to become. B. Wak p. Hist. peat. L. L. L.

which one of you comes sitting from over-there? the over-there. i wonder aloud as you approach. worn denim jackets worn with the sleeves cut off. i hold my breath and wait. trying to look in the other direction. direction other than the over-there direction. but it seems to be everywhere. you seem to be coming from all-sides. but just one. so i wait. trembling a little. for fate to decide where to throw me. looking back you're standing directly in front of me. hands on hips. foot tapping. just like a bad movie. i swallow hard. gulp. just like in a bad comic strip. we occupy all genres. i wait for you to speak. the time never comes. suddenly a cup is in your hand with arm out-stretched. i rummage pockets fumbling for and old quarter. but only dimes. that would be insulting. but a dollar would be too much. i wouldn't want you to think i do this all the time. looking down i take my hand from my pocket dropping two nickles and an old button in your cup (i noticed you were missing one on your vest). when i look back i see you've grown old. your hands wore and eyes clouded over. your clothes less fitting, collected from others, or the garbage, tossed away. you're dirty and ashamed. i am still afraid. but it's a different fear. a guilty fear. i look down at my shoes, fidgeting , as you grunt and walk away. back in the direction you came from. you disappear.

sleeplessness my weakness like pity. no weakest. no weekend. the hues of blues and strawberries behind i eyelids. a coffee brewed. solo piano drone. things strewn around my cluttered mind. haha vision of stand up comedy. haha visions of sit down insanity. that's a wrap boys. downloading rap music. rebel without a cause. sarong and no drawers. no shave. no head. no hear. keep the lights on flickering the shadow movement in i eyecorners. static electricity. other words i come up with. not for entertainment. just as a reminder. and i haven't even seen winter for a year.

So things are not the way they used to be. So what if I still listen to Bob Marley and daydreams of summertime only always. Another man once said through flutes that all love comes from the creator. As I sit on my stoop I wonder am I alone again. Once I was lost but now I’m found the song said. Was blind but now I see. But who sees me I ask. Under breath. Probably not even breathing enough. Heart beating too fast. But who sees me. I poke my toe through the hole in my shoe and spit into the bushes watching as the sun sets. But who sees me.

What was that shit that Kerouac called? Where the words spewed puke blue and green? Another side of the sun I stared looking for the backside trying to rotate around dizzy. I wept after unable to see the ham sandwich my mother packed for lunch. What a dismal day in rain and watery eyes. Thinking back to youth as the water drips down hair in my eyes. So old so cold so little to care about. Again it goes sad. I am sorry about that.