mr speaker

let's bend the bracket

and roll it towards

some misplaced comma,

an escape to make in these

harsh sentences,

we can give ourselves

space to breathe

while we let out the seams

growing fat and old

and joyous in our

predetermined defeat

let's bend the bracket,

those quaint little cubes

at the chopping block

of time where hours

are portioned out

to a 40-hour/week

combo-meal served fast

while driving the distance

between here-nor-there

only to stall out midway

in midday traffic jams

it's true what we heard,

I have charted the holes

in the landscape

tailor-cut for each shape,

yes a hole for everyone:

they get squeezed into ink,

the existence of the capital I

the finality of the period

let's bend the bracket

into a parentheses--

we can live as afterthoughts

in the grand scheme of things,

commentary to history

and footnotes to progress

where one might stand

a hand on his head

and beg mr speaker

consider us,

his two counter-points

let's bend the bracket

and define the space

where we smoke

the obligatory cigarette

and say it's not you

it's not about me

it's about Them

it's them that's the problem

it's true what we were told,

people speak there,

digging eloquent graves

to lay their desires in

packed and parceled

and distilled as they were;

they would make mummies

of us if we let them

let's bend the bracket,

we can trash the yard

and claim it as a step

towards revitalizing

the neighborhood;

we can whitewash stop-signs

to protest the laws

made against motion;

we can be the blight

to the whole block

so come

I have a curb to sit on
and a boombox that plays
just one beat
too loud
for all eternity

Theogony

Transubstantiate
the unsubstantiated
and bend to receive
the miracle--
you are the wood
I beat into paper
the paper I stain to word
the word I make law
the law I sinew flesh
and the flesh
I petrify back into wood.

Hangover Moon

Even the sky turns to rust

just before the moon

shuffles in with yesterday's

lingering hangover,

punching in late

to perform his ageless duty

as the gears grind back

the clockwork

of a working man's day.

Early birds' early bed,

still wet with dusk's rust,

was not fashioned for us,

not while the city slips

into its dizzy dream

where even death can sit

unsolicited and drink till last call.

I can see him there.

At the end of the bar.

Been mean-mugging me all night.

But that's alright,

for now we're both into our beers

and no one seems to be moving.

And I know how life's shortness

could feel so long

to human hands.

I know there is hope, too,

hope that rusts

as well as the pipes

draining the sky

of its quiet relief,

spilling out unto unsung vistas.

We would collect there

some nights,

but those nights

never felt so light

as when the world

would stop to sit in them,

perhaps mulling over 
some question

in the dark.

And I know

that there are beautiful women

in the bar

across the street.

They're sitting on barstools,

sipping on cocktails,

drinking in the room.

They want to be spoken to.

But if I found the message

in the bottle

I've been slowly nursing

back to health,

I would walk right in,

take off my coat,

and be at ease.

But most nights,

I drink the words too.

And I heard the call-notes

of a song sung

from some sobbing saxophone,

belted out

like the breath he had been holding

all day to play

for the moment

the world

would stop to listen.

Oh, 
and being is no easy thing,

after all the hope

and all the women

and all the music leave,

one must still stumble

out into the day

and fumble for the keys.

Oh, 
and time,

time too decays,
and often the breaks

needed replaced

when the passengers feign

their use saying,

“not so fast,

and not so close”.