1947

The shadow, darkened,

at noon's turning as the storm

sweetly approaches.

I see lightning with all

its crackle, rushing in like

delivery men.

My walk I wish to be

secretive, quick, and to the point,

collecting wares from the shelf.

But I am clunky

and all too noticed, wrapped

“I hate it but…

I have to lie sometimes…

I don’t have to be greedy but…

You see, I’ve always been open to suggestion.

I am touched by every story;

                                               though…

I know I’ve told a few whoppers myself!

I WOULD readily offer myself to their

    Peculiarity, though I often feign indifference.

I gave you two cigarettes and a light (which I later in the day mistakenly accused you of stealing)

when you asked me for $4 to stay at the Mission.

I later passed you (though you made yourself scarce)

on my way to buy a beer when the inconspicuous method was unavailable because of a temporary I.D. The beer costed $3.99.

——

The excuses: Oh God, there are so many reasons…

I didn’t want to take my money out in front of you; I also don’t like to carry too much, its true enough; but I had his $4 and then some.

After I had given the cigs, I started to realize that at the very least it wasn’t what you needed.

WHEN YOU DOUBLE-GIVE, THEY GO FOR THE THROAT!

Not really. Its a bunch of bullshit.

I’m afraid of feeling vulnerable and so I became not only a hypocrisy, but a hindrance.

Instead of being invulnerable for others,

I should have tried being weak

With them.

Hell no, I don’t want to go to the Mission. Hell no, you don’t need a fucking cigarette or a beer at the bar. Piss on me.

I’m having a pretty good day;

Wounded neon roads suspiciously special nodes

let go of odes to the beyond strychnine toad’s toes tadpole tale

                                                   swims itself out of there—

  the only vestiges a whirly swish of water

spiraled upon the weedy

sky growing grass

  tall oak rustles a pathway

through once vertiginously mountained

sprout      I’d imagine

they’d ruin the all day long

from dawn to dawn

            a skyscraper dragged across

the roads and hills and houses

on a Tuesday        on Anyday

            there are no sideways directions anymore

              so after all of this

            I’ll simply utter:

  "the fish will soon be swimming

Welcome to the City,

once called Salem, changed to Slam,

a bit of scratching on the road sign.

Maybe it’s a change

in the atmosphere, more rays allowed

through, but here people could do

amazing feats.

Slam City is

where you can find…

a slender robotic assassin

with ebony liquid skin,

probably inspired by The Matrix;

a man with implements on his feet

large enough to cause an earthquake.

I called him Stamper,

imagined his thudding steps

shattering the world to its center.

A guy who could leap a tall building

in a…well, you know.  Kangaroo.

I drew him once or twice, complete

with hat and bionic legs.

Because who wouldn’t want

bionic legs?  

A figure from my dreams with gun metal

gray hair and a mouth sewn shut, stitched

dark clothing, went by the name Silence.

I drew his costume in between drawing

the one I would wear when I could

save the world.

An unfortunate fool who turned the wrong

knob in an experiment and became a living

creature of stone, dubbed Cement.

My family pet, the barky Chihuahua, blown

up into a fifteen-feet tall monster,

his bug-eyes bouncing along a dark street.

A character inspired by Jim Carrey’s Mask

with purple skin, a lavender suit, and two ping-

pong paddles to spin him into manic orbit.

He would deliver jokes I had not written yet.

Maybe I read too many comics.

Maybe I watched too many films.

Maybe I still do too much

of both.

An entire race called The Lizards who lived 

on the bottom, darkened level of the metropolis,

led by a scarlet-clad reptile man called Levine.

Surely this many-leveled world was inspired

by my frequent visits to Batman Forever.

Another race of creatures called The Sand

who live in the outer recesses where the urban

landscape meets what used to be forest.

I dreamed their stories daily

in my childhood walks with my father

and his large black dog.

In those reflections, I saw

a figure with the wings of a hawk and the body

of a man who could swoop down deliver them

who heard the board

  who heard the board

each avenue and circuit

whose mane and match

which avenue or ghost

may I speak to you of it

the gale and gown over your tomb

whose map and race will be shattered

will be enormous

will be dead

the dead and the dead

and the dead

  which mane was it

whose creation

I shouted into your skull

all of the secrets

and you heard none of them

  betokener

beard lengthener

killer

  I made you

I bought you

slave

  tell me the reason

give me the sound

of your hair

  I made you

I wrought you

for my deeds

  kill me

take me

  give me the sound of it

  give me the reason for it

  I made you

  I shouted into you

the name of the spirits

the reasons for their commencement

  and the latch

on the coffin

give me the reason

  I won’t speak of it

I’ll bury it in my ass

for the passage

  be still, and tell me everything

I want to know

who you have been

what was it that kept you here

  who made you come

  how may I reason with it

and what curve

shunt you into the pace

churning

churning

    how made were I

which cart did I fit

the huge one

the load for the dead?

  give me your dead

give them to me

  give me all of your dead

I would reason with them

  canada

  canada,

give me all of your dead

I need to speak with them all

Give our name under the board

  I haven’t seen it

I don’t want to look at it

Just polish it up

and put it on the mast

I take a step 

brick bats 

I tread on someone's 

toe 

eulogies follow 

I turn around 

death snickers 

bravado is seeing 

something happen 

A King size ground marked for burials, restricted entry, only for the blue blood, said a signboard.

Times have rolled, with palaces becoming tourist spots, their belongings decorating museums, all slowly turning from blue to brown dust.

Royal burial, now a forgotten place; weeds, thorny bushes grew happily, proud to be among royals and a lone caretaker, reluctant keeper. How different I asked him, was the place at nights?

Oh! Royal ghosts never stoop to cheap tricks, but say they are lonely, he said;

feeling lost without attendants, they wait to have some common ghosts for company, which are rare as no commons is buried here.

who heard me

was it you?

the paint flowed over your face

iridescent

calked with brine

arbor and rift underneath the glee

carbon birth for watch and fate

cart bake and turn the youth underneath the barrier

underneath the naked will

bent and unattached

luminous

  rising over the fog

lightning and sun

  the marriage of the dawn with the remnants of your dreams:

  exotic knife with arms

and legs

  fleeing the city of your birth

and your name

Although it’s been ten years

since we first got together,

I still like it when you walk

  near the pavement’s kerb,

between me and the traffic

protecting me from damage.

  So when, in the mornings

we run along the track

between the park and river

  how do I need your shelter?

From people and their dogs,

or the swift dark water

  which sighs as it courses

towards an eventual sea.

The path’s this land’s raw edge,

  the park teeming with life,

and the river black and bitter,