sinter in america

blades drawn from concrete dust
and old moss overpasses
stab at a night as lit as a dollar store after
all the people went home with perforations in their souls
feet walking and wanting some place to go

and they know
and they know its splinters of america

and aint nobody frightened cause
everybody knows no use trying

seal evils

pens drawling vowels on parchment green
pencils strolling soda foundations brick red
harvest moons rising and setting about
pack ice breaking up in july, settling bones
lobster bottom houses upturn to take them
upsetting scales and casket gills

whip up the band

a fridge I can eat and a
hand I can take to lift up
away and down

wooden backs and lentil screws
jars of olives on doors a far part of going strong

aloha houdinii
ahora tim horton
 hoard of course a cola cannot sushi a quiche or piny apple
yacht - - -ta a ada!

bridge of wet cloths

washing socks

a wet sheet and a worst than rough towell

hang out together all day, everyday
in this way they are cut from the same clothe
most of the time, that phrase makes for bad conversations
but I assume its something they talk of all ways

this one is from the vaults

I am a sick pidgeon -
I know this
Feeling caged and out of place

in this humanity.
Once upon a time we all sailed together
on dirty gray Pittsburgh air
Hijinks and clucking around for food
was my speciality.
They called me Pidgeon #188H33G16


Ooooh, that spiteful day,
as I happened to fly by the radio communication place,
a powerful wave (as I understand it now often enrolling
in molecular biology and genetic morphology that
such a supposed fiction can be)
started to alter the chromosomes in my cells.

One day I awoke
and found I had been transformed into a
giant Pidgeon sans feathers.

A Pidgeon mindset is more useful than
imagined previously.

And with these skills + Colledge education
I have begun to....
feed pidgeons. Regularly as tide

Shhh shhhh little pidgeons.
Shhhh shhhhhhhh hh hh.
now I am not, relax!, going to
take you up in this net
to my basement laboratory
and turn you into a giant pidgeon and
then back again

lord I want pidgeon

cant we all just get a log

cant we all see the future?
cant we all eat the cake? shant we all
shank a fast paced game of ball
in the park after the lights of the city burn out
and the traffic getting in is roundabout and readallabout-it
how a bottom of a can started to move started to shake
started to do the wave up and down the street
the people parted and the sea came trouble free
taking unsignalled shotgun turns at the wheel
stealing copper shoes and todays 15 dollar vcr
and tomorrow piece of jumk filling closets from here to hoboken

consider it that we cant all get a dog
and let the dogs run free the leashers leased too much
till underwater they go, jaque cousteau could never get this though
 

humid

The sun is squelching the water
in the air, it lands
on skin and lungs, drowning ,expelling salt
its sticky

we drink water foolishly
to dry our selves off

racoons are not better at it
eating mud maybe instead

and the birds have a breeze when they move fast

but moving fast makes it worst of all
the stuf that puts you into a sleep for weeks

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faucet notes plink plank plink plunk plunk plunk plairnk
turn them tight or the water drips night after night

echoes of frogs and ducks munching stuff
\ whilst\ forthwith\ withe without side cycles and pliers flies fly to pie\

the stains on the sidewalk of decomposed leaves of glass
of the door handle left untouched, the gears of commerce
the lonely crazed immigrants with the river and the fish, speaking
to the bullrushes and the dirty water, the roar of the bus
driver yawning down on a sandwich filled with germs
and german old ladies get on and get the paper ink on their fingers
 .....
yada yada yada , I can fake a leaf of maple
but would rather have maple syrup for me and me alone on my pancake house
with pancake walls and pancake chairs and syrup glasses

and I cant be with it, I who hates
that fake blind bum who cant see that he isnt blind

nothing special bout the people in the city, the tufts of their hair
nonsense of narcissist slaves all
over thems elevated selves messages selling the pretending
to be olive green or bright blue
or have running shoes for running past lights and grit rocks
old fumes exhausted trees trying to bring in the sun shine
through the grime a million dead souls leave around their half-sad lives
down out bums seiving quarters out of the silver traffic that glides past 

These are the contenders, the black shirts and white men and the dressed up women
looking for cars and cranes and dodging facsimile families with amphibious assault style strollers

the ambulance teeters around corners of feathers, fear and flat head friends standing
with thorns to their two temples the synagogues of quaint bagel size hats, the
mission bell tolls at six and the pots and pans are not clean to eat dinner from
any more. 

This is the mighty sity of the mountain, that mountain a hungry hand
an open mouth, a look like buckets of water are somewhere around, just out of thirst
for the industry and inside job that it takes to sink holes in the road and fill them back up, one
after one after one afternoon and it starts all over again

god slaves the queen

up on a tight skinned horse drawn
with charcoal pens and pepper inks
carriages with fine wood wheels twirl rims steel
feel the rumble in her seat the pants poopy, no longer
neat the grace of god and the servants fine tact, a
crystal ball chandelier balancing act

and where fore to behold but rudolph and the six reingdeer made bold
by whisky and bourbon and american spirits, sunk their post velvet
antlers deep in the reigning soveirgns post-magnificient bottom,
so she went bottoms up to the chears of the anthem
the people who swerved midnight to dawn, slobbering away
with the age old songs, over bridges and card games and salmon tartar
I scarecely could tell them apart from afar from a wavering mob
a beach of walrusus eachoneofthem splat, and with great gobs of goo spat back
whole cans of british sprat, like the good hobbits of books they have little ears
which turn up when you mention the queen's long career is as wide as her rear.

ind at suhmmng

dont put pee in your tea kettle
dont poo in your boat bailer because its salient
saline solution is for Italy and gold teeth

speaking through teeth
fighting through waves
jumping through loops

all three are examples of corn on the cob gone awry

Saturday in Sunday

in the puddle over the gutter position
drain out the window acrid black rain spilled
forming all corners of the intersection
a partially sectioned bright lemon floats
half of it hanging of the other half, which half is the first half
no one knows or seems to care.

just the significance of it, or the unsignificance to think
it doesnt matter is to admit that people drive by or walk or skip jump hop leap
a little bit of lindberg in everyone, and yet, all the same fail to notice
the yellow on black, a pittburgh of fruit situation right there!

its right there!  its still there! who or when is going to do something about a lemon?