i. morning
i live bluetooth world, constant poetic static.
i respirate verbs, gargle on superb blurbs,
in relentless streams of deepening dreams.
i play only for losing teams
and like to invent
hyper hippocampal schemes.
24-7 eleven, treat this broken puzzlepiece curb
like my own urban preserve...
big bites, corn dogs, the bathroom key jogs
around the beef jerky aisle, 24-7
without an inclination to smile
and the beat goes on
the beat goes on
the beat goes on
as the beaten grow strong
working hours too long
the whole world up in smoke.
the ocean is the plastic bucket
of a gravity bong:
cluckhead throng, church bell dong,
she is wearing dental floss thong,
ignoring buddha temple gong.
the peasoup of smog
is a bit more
kong than hong, the star ferry
to kowloon
purrs under a tumor of moon.
i live bluetooth world, contant poetic static
ignore subway turnstiles that pretend to be automatic
mood swings erratic, the golden dust in your attic.
italics are emphatic, hopes never static
as these impossible alleys open
up to the vastness of atlantic, and skyscrapers grow frantic
now that soho is a nogo, yuppie mofo bagel shop bogo
another pair of jeans, ripped on purpose
with a bright corporate logo, as my mood swings
like a gray matter yoyo.
manhattan: schizophrenic; bangkok: frenetic.
the whole world is now a metropolis
and the city is the wilderness
and i went to scour las bellas artes
in the back of my mind, restock, rewind
doodle traces of rivera
are never hard to find:
volkswagen taxi bind, smiling zapote rind,
the purification of pulque
as a mariachi
now goes blind,
from a constellation of flashbulbs
making his silver sombrero
feel like a newfound distant planet
brought close in the feverish pursuit
of a ten peso note, or three
as los borrachitos grumble, and fall from a tree.
coyoacan frowns, with an old kahlo crutch
and a metro junkie's needle
is still deadly to touch.
ii. afternoon
the tag on the wall says, simply,
yanqui go home,
but we are in the heart of englewood
and, sadly, have no place else
to call home.
my smallest bag is packed, the atlas outspread,
this journey began hours ago
inside the castle of my head.
the nearest neighbor stops by, for coffee
and cake, and my mother-in law
makes a crossword mistake, and my wife
has to step way too hard on her brake,
as another ignorant driver
pretends a red light is green
and that, pre-birth
and post-death
there is life in between.
iii. evening
querelous quiz, spilled cheezy whiz:
gelly hair frizz, trying to look like liz
taylor is an abysmal failure.
alex trebek must be in jeopardy
because the cancer never spread,
and now, when we set the clocks back,
the rivers will reverse, and the fruitful plains
are carted off in a hearse.
migrants disperse, as mosquito breeze is terse,
knocking night nurse, our headache is worse,
as a lost and found purse
is emptied of all its contents:
photo id, cell phone, faded boyfriend portraits,
miserable minutiae that cannot be pawned
even way across the pond, where the palms like to frond
at the arrival of a blond, while all the coffee-stained locals
are maids, cooks, and drivers.
now, i see the garish, shag carpet of sea, unfold before me,
even though
i bought this speedo at a thrift store in cleveland
and in the water i shall be, soon enough
in this day in the life, of a mind that is lost
because there is nothing left for free
but a penny for my thoughts,
and a salad buried in the dumpster,
most merrily tossed.
