the long version:
the things that happen in stairwells,
hearing music from a loft.
that party where EC found that money
and bought those winterboots.
the stairwells at the music building
each with their own pot smoking landing
all those times looking up
so many doors to open
it’s not a mature state of being. it’s very fearful,
the first few days after the molt. you can go back
in time for these. remember the passion which with you
would have defended your fresh skin at twenty
in basements, now a tall proud parent in basements no more
if resistance is futile
and ritual a path
lower your expectations and follow
change comes with a soft lid
throw a dart and you’ll
hit a dying industry
the longer this goes on
the better your chances
i’ve designed this slide with a special app
that makes it look old
all my ideas fell in manholes and
sprouted seedlings, grew, reproduced, i found
them five generations later and didn’t even
recognize them as mine.
seven stools in a row
dead pens crying for ink
when everything is blocked
one of the first things i remember
a poem in blocks called EXIT
now a sign i sit under.
i dream in cadences
left over from those
which i used
to build my new wagon.
my leg healed,
my crutches
are firewood
for tomorrow’s camp
hear me out
i’m calling on some
see thru stars
to work their magic
july has given us rage
and compelled us to pause
and sit with it
i oblige, slow sips
and steady eyes
adopt a desperate
institution
save face
the cat walks confidently
away from her food
not looking for
changes
just biased eye misses.
everything ripples
if you look fast enough.
the tide
becomes
a pulse
a heartbeat
a blood flow
we’ll be first.
wait for a slow walk
to wind its way
through the trees,
a mystery of heat.
the border of the apartment
at the open window
smells and acts like over
the boundary is warped
from sun exposure
i lean in , nose into it to check
Sunshine and Wind 