Kicking the shit out of

the blaze of glory left

from the spark of static

from my shuffling feet.

I don’t know what to do.

Every person is a wall

without grappling hooks

or even hand-holds.

We slip by each other.

I don’t know what to do.

Piles of paper and numbers

and letters trying to compete

with nature’s fractals

without any sense or humility.

I don’t know what to do.

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.

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.

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.