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.

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.

The wind is the best partner

for dancing by yourself.

.

I dropped sadness in the rain,

and torment in late night,

muffled in the pillow.

.

I’ve never seen a pollywog

dance atop a coal heap,

but I do have a mirror.

.

Look at any disaster

and you’ll see yourself.