The train driver’s shades
twin mirrors over a beard
making us matchsticks
☯
Keith Jarrett’s pipe organ
am I the sole Earthling
afloat on its swells?
☯
One a.m., jailhouse
lamps no longer glow yellow
a prayer for the moon
☯
Dad in ICU
I took time out to stare at
an oil on canvas
☯
Everything exists
as a pushing-back against
that silent surround
☯
The chalk tiger’s eyes
and one forepaw–all that’s left
after the rain lifts
☯
White boat churns white spray
lead-grey waters, soft storm clouds
the rain hesitates
☯
“Found!”–a note stuck on
the bus stop–and how happy
I am for this one!
☯
His splay-foot shuffle
to the #2 bus; but
what else has he lived?
☯
The gyro food truck
no business today beside
Main Street and Second
☯
A good friend tells me
to fuck myself–still, cream cheese
cupcakes on the bus
☯
Shredded window shade
locked-up halfway down, lets in
what nature conjures
☯
Four hundred souls
Chichikov’s buying; and would
you sign his contract?
☯
Water seeks a fish
to remind it of motion
and perhaps a kiss
☯
Hundreds of CDs
but the Psychedelic Furs
only on cassette
☯
Poster pinned backwards
on my door; I ponder it
from the other side
☯
And just maybe
their divinity, indeed
a twelve-pack of Schlitz
☯
Bud Powell’s solo
the oculus of a snail
which one more complex?
☯
Spin cycle dying
“red lips of the octopus”
keeps me company
☯
Exasperated
my head-shaking won’t change that
football season’s back
