A brief salute

Walking the same waking steps

knowing there’s little use fighting,

though the taste of a curse

is most decadent on the tongue.

Knees, wrists, neck, sanity all wobble

in the face of a bastard sun

who’d obliterate us all as easily

as it turns on its great ass

like a giant heading for rem sleep.

Dreams only come in the

resting moments between despair and glee.

There’s not much else to say in passing.

These things come back

Mean streets have become mossy

and I wonder how my feet feel

traveling over wobbly chestnuts

versus urine-soaked pavement.

The whoosh of a fresh fall wind

versus the hum of a subway

with its reeking hot air and rattling grate.

The shadows of trees versus churches.

We pray where we stop a minute.


My view is frost-covered and sparkling

and all I can think

is how I’ve become invisible and irrelevant

because I’ve made it so.

We can be heroes

My hero is a vulgar flyer:

a cynical mass of meat

who still believes

in romance, not like in books

but as in a tangle of

flawed limbs finding a way

to make living worthwhile,

usually with a laugh

and an arrow pointed inwards.

A sweeping of color

to mask the deep green

of summer at dusk.

Friday is an old heavy window

falling on my fingers

because I can’t help

but fiddle with the view.

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