four

to witch


I say: New York, New York, take your

time and brightnesses. I will

the ground none of you, having lost

a very new year to gargoylic pigeons

on the school front, thumbs of no

nonsense roses and pain. I take minor

leaps into the rest of the bed, my hair

ripped to tickets. New York, sounding

bored. The way to the station smells wet

and dangerous. It will be elegant, always,

to live this live.



trains

You lay me beneath the city & I keep up
with the dinners, the many keys around
me, placing myself like a white billboard
in the hole. Jiggling accordingly, my family looks
around in disbelief. What the, says them, seeing
the roofs slapped at with snow, big faces
of children sticking out of their coats,
accidents accompaning the smell of
cream. It's no place to be. Between our
feet, there's my bag of books and kinds
of food, and the feeling of feet below this
sounds like the sea. You hate it. If only
in my mind drunk, you're drunk, the object
of conversation going home.





sun no shine

It's Tuesday and you look back
to my pockets where my hands are
fitting. You've documented all kinds
of activities, free as we are, and I'm used
to that about you. Several escalators down,
I describe the guy you'll look like: he seemed
very pink with a plaid hat and braces attached
to his blue jeans. Was he alone, yes he was.
His thin legs held him up and Brooklyn was no place.

and or

They fall away. All day they fall in love. They have these thick peices of pilfered sandwiches and huge coats on. They largely own the corner stores, some air is wasted, and their teeth look like chalk. They can. Attendents, rats, women; and they survive by falling, as everyone. That man on the subway tells you it's true.


ex; curse shun

Reminding me of this, the poplars & maples grow
back to the ground, as do the number of faces
at nightclubs. The rain embossed on the road kind of
retreats into whispering, as before the rain.
Your sweater worn out all evening, stumbling about
your shoulders now, is of your head & hands
& hangs up. Out, out of my ears; the orange sling
of morning, of traffic, my falling steps
down the stairs; the reasons I work hard run
out. The smaller this apartment gets in our place.
It’s like a white plane. We back into the bed, back,
ending the yellowy sheets, not knowing each other once.

loudness and length

Dogs baying fortissimo in the sea shelf of our wanderings down midtown, 1st Avenue, down Clinton and gristle. Your favorite bar is lit. Everything about it is red and dark. Kevin backs you; you are beside the dark interior. I'm on the fourth wall tonight, fine. A dream is lipping my head. There is music through it and we are walking, though the picturing is different for me now as with the city, streets, poor girls, your order.

braces

I sleep on the couch in the kitchen. There is this window in there. The couch is dark, as all the tile is dark and dirty, and black bars cross the window this city is through. At night I'm running screaming towards you you fix me like an insert. A peice of my white dress. You are picking me up in the dark and setting me down.

tastes

Through the kitchen window 'the city' appears. I want to know nothing of it all the long day. We listen to Dylan. Cats bite flies and their pink jaws gleam in the afternoon light. The perfume sooner or later and cars come. The fires next door. Of course. The alarm.

the time








1st Avenue. Hands in our pockets. It was the street of whispering, some moments of sun, and we moved at the end of August.