Good Thing

out and about

while sitting

down and all

worthwhile

and bile

pickin’ up

where you left

years ago

good thing you

didn’t leapt off

so many times

ago

good thing

you keep going at it

One of These Days

how come when

you walk the

streets you get

tired but when

you plant down

your roots don’t

take hold one

of these days

you’ll get

arrested

for public

defecation

one of these

days you’ll be erased

Where the Usual Strangers Walk

whenever it’s about to

rain

your bones get

tired.

spending the day

working.

you were in the back of

my mind.

where the usual strangers walk.

sitting, listening to Spanish

music,

but through a boombox

in the center of Rittenhouse.

on the corner

watching

Big Pete play chess like

an invincible African king.

Drunken Singularity

Drifting up the street then down these all too

familiar steps, but still bound by the bowels.

There is no beat to this century, no

post-modern fragmented plurality, no

logic, nor even justification.

There is only a beat to this heart, and

it has no rhythm.

Casting off the Self

On the second floor of a center city

building looking out of glass and into

the past. The heat forges defined lines and

carves shadows into cement. Our sun as

the primal sculptor, shaping life and death.

One of many stars which are the source,

the penultimate creators of all.

And you are also made up of everything,

but only aware of it in passing,

so the split second when you commune with

the universe makes all the difference.

This sound of heat is a still wind tunnel.

As humans trudge through bludgeoned streets, melting

as they’re walking, you just stand and take it

all in. Passing time and chance up with no

qualms. Searching for language in order to

make light of external intangibles.

Granting memory and reflection rest.