Abrupt

joy is dead
and the long goddamn centuries
stretch out before me
plastic
uncaring
weigh the world down with a collar of lead
lost in mind games
and vaginas
i tried waking myself up with words

so, so little living
half the space i had before
now the vision
is nocturnal
and kept alive with hope
good intentions
and maybe just a little cruelty

I ride with the children of Judah
on subway cars,
past fish markets,
men with a mission so old
it transcends tradition
Odd, self-bracketing,
with beard-sweat,
red rings on foreheads
from hats pushed back
Alive, beneath the weight of the Word
waiting for a signal
that will startle the dust of Jacob

FORGET
TING APPLES SUCK SKINNY
DOWN-AGES
OUT
HANDED NODE
HIVE
HAND		TAKEN
		WHICH NOW
		SEES
		SHIVERS
		A CARPET
		UNW
		ILLING
		'COURSE NOT

		ONLY
		HOLD MORE

Bushman on the savanna
shaking a rock at the sky
Words like desperate fingers, dying
fumble towards him
In the midst of such horror:
“God help me, it tickles!”
Unformed, embryo,
a naive intake of breath
preceding history

There is a cat face peering
through ferns in that window
distant window seen from
someone else’s fire escape
tiny ears listening
for food-like noises
Quiet patient biology
Cat.

We are waiting on fire escapes
breathing air that
is fresher at least
than the closed conditioning
of weekend offices.
It is Manhattan
and we are quietly afraid,
because our complacency
has failed to produce
even monsters.

Or, endless roaring stations
homo transiens
waiting to move again,
waiting to stop moving
Lost in private digestion
of culture’s thin milk
bitter
with the taint
of newspaper ink.
Black spots dot the platforms
gum once chewed

“Ladies and Gentlemen,
I apologize for the interruption.
I am in complete agony.
There is little you can do to help.
Thank you for your time.”

He is a black man
in a stained business suit
singing off key
and pierced by muttered commentary
Spinning in his private world
like a dizzy spider.
I can feel the date on
every coin in my pocket
as I leave the train.

what words, in turtle shells
arranged
like ruined obelisks
hinting upwards
from the mud
of nothing-said

unuttered dreams return
to the forge