///No Title///

I know someone
Who speaks in riddles
Got tall tales to tell
Got time to spit
Got nothing to give
I smell the jasmine and my head spins
When it's all done
Where have I been
Will you find me?
I can't be here
anymore
please

Attention Span

The teenage boys, smoking on the parking ramp
proving each to each who’s horniest of the bunch,
not really by anything they say, but by an attitude of standing.

There are enough strollers in sight for a stroller factory,
and enough babies for an orphanage, or a nursery.
Abandonment or growth, both alive here among the many
futures to be lived. The shops counting their numbers,
and the crowds throwing theirs away, and still their children weep,
but not for anything in particular.

It’d be clichéd if it weren’t true.
It’d be stale but their hypocrisy is mine.
And that lesson we must learn, but don’t
or won’t, not in time
that in between getting rich and wasting away
is a road where the leaves are bursting
with red and orange, brown and gold,
where the wind breathes onto the night.

///The Afternoon///

Stiff wind blows

Shatters the bottle that held my flower

I'm staring at the broken glass

Water drips down

I take a walk down the street

No one walks there, really

I do, though

And another hour has gone by in another day

And I love it

//Figuration Nº.3//

//Figuration Nº.3//

She runs her hands over wine stains
fondly -and saves dead flowers

Minds her p’s and q’s
and dots her I’s
as she slowly,
packs away.

These are getting to be a bit out of order. I mill over some longer than others but they're all tagged under 'figurations' for quick reference.

This one's a figuration of someone I know captivated by life's abstract impressions and expressions in the form of stains, spots, dried leaves and flowers or funeral offerings and what-have-you.

//Figuration Nº.5 (in memoriam)//

//Figuration Nº.5 (in memoriam)//

A man fills himself with dog smiles
and dies a dog’s death.

This is a poem about an old guy I knew growing up that lived on my street, and below is a bit of prose from the initial notes I scratched out on my memories of the guy.
---
He somehow wound up stuck living with his two invalid sisters in a clapboard house the entire time I knew him surrounded by a yard with a slight fence populated by nine crazy shelties, crumbling birdbaths and one of those gazing orbs that look like an overgrown Christmas ornament.

Consequently he shuffled around town most of the time chain-smoking from dawn to dusk, and dusk to dawn in these C.W. McCall type sunglasses with a perpetual marmitic-sepia sort of sunset cast over his eyes, taking out the bins of people that had let another trash day slip their mind 'because he could', 'because he was shuffling to the doughnut shop to get their day-olds anyway' he'd usually say in the tone of a concrete mixer chewing something over.