b & e

these are all broken objects
images of unsorted sentiment
flesh to flesh or skin
frozen to streetlight on bad
night of plenty
horn player stood in the west
4th tunnel under the
basketball court i returned to late each night from
work to his broken pawnshop sounds echoing on
tile
worked so long at that restaurant I felt the sole witness to the
sax player improving

memory of spending a week's wages on
shoes not for any other reason than to have
a solid memento but even shoes
break and fade or get left in
old homes disintegrate on cheese grater
sidewalks

broken objects that scatter helplessly
points of total recall
long e kisses in the sleeping fountain
at midnight we awaken soaked from
our only night of puppy love

sometimes i think a lot of wet dreams and nightmares
paid for per gram or dose shiver through all aspects
of the self

frogs lilypadding
cross pond mirrors
articulating each
detail in the drifting moss of
time measured in
slow growth
maybe i chose shelf-
space among the broken
objects and memories
found placement
for self-space
box-within-a-box conundrum and
when i find myself carelessly
frolicking in old habits i'm really
bringing in
the shards
of the past for a big
bloody hug

broken objects like
old friend's habits
years later still
creak the door
to instigate the
rotten shit
i did or
merely to
rationalize
when i overstay my
welcome

hip injury

we walk past warehouses whose old must smelling of nouveau riche
motionsense lights flicker past the BQE on the way to a bar with
tequila in a bag leapfrogs hands in the dark excusing through ironic
t-shirt parade stagger change directions meander through ballfields looking
for the last tagger

light tipper for 7 buck beers
yell a complicated conversation in the magma of neon noise give my girl
cheekkisses and point out jukesong
the unknown band was 7 bucks and we chuckled even
the no-cover band was awkard as we angled to
the door leaving

playing arcades i haven't practiced
bad investments last night we were here (not LAST night ya dig) high on PKs talking PKD
to the filmmaker from spain and the west coast producer
drinking homebrew stout, bullshit and jameson
pocketing glossy flyer cards like the promises we made to make
our way out

quiet outside in the snow but it's
actually the first warm night of spring
stumbling boots trace mandalas into the park grass

linda belle

newspaper intones her name, stabbed and robbed like a ghost caught clumsy in the fucked gears. i find myself drifting to the horror and unspeakable stupidity of this cinematic instance, flimsier in newsprint but somehow peculiarly real (like a bad dream of goodtime moments that made you wake up afraid). the K line is probably like many others, crafted of palmgrease and architects, set to hang carefully in the lumbering growth, delicate machinery swaying with the swinging movements of its kin, then frozen and stiff from disuse. Franz rides it like a scuttling insect down arteries of pocked cinder and garish paint schemes, a phantom train whipping scrambled wind into commuter faces - they stretch inches past the yellow edge searching the echoes for the culprit, then disappointed, leaning their weight back to the heels.

they say she was dead-ended by locked turnstiles then jumped by antlions in the dark. stabbed and robbed, or one word stabbedandrobbed, stabdenrobd, strobbed. newspaper abracadabra.
-------------------------------------------------------------
linda belle, patron saint* of new yorker fuckups:
born by real-estate barons
and otherwise by the
reckless decisions of distracted imaginations.
-------------------------------------------------------------




*papers don't say if she's dead

lease

you walk by the old men lullabying aches-n-pains in patient spanish. past the 2.99 ham-and-cheese heros, and the tuxedo cat who sometimes eyed you from the empty storefront now skittering into the truck yard, sometimes steps out for a head scratch, skritch, and back into the splinters and darkness. past the poster of the naked swimsuit model faded by years of barbershop slang, layers of magazine pulp scraped down by long looks. you walk past a garden of bargain store bric-a-brac, the LEDs and mechanical ticks a weird language that sometimes keeps time with your steps. you walk past boxes of alley cat kibble behind bodega plexiglass, and plump seductive waitresses in the dark diner. the old timer sells underwear and gloves year-round, umbrellas in time with the weathermen. you hear the cars tempt red lights through your headphones and stay one step ahead. the cafe you've been to twice even when you thought it would become your favorite spot. the beatnik bar always mysteriously empty; too early for drinks after work, these days you sweat in your office chair in a broth of old impulses simmering. you stopped reaching for the beer at night, the bass guitar you borrowed mockingly silent in its desperado case. youth is an angry womb, emerge a docile consumer. at last at least you know the best pizza in the neighborhood. at last at least the roof is there and paid for now you signed the lease. at last at least you hum to the washing of dishes. maybe you've arrived you sleep in peace and read and go to galleries and learned to shake off the lonely nights. at last at least you always dream on slow walks home.