commute i steal into a window seat each evening on the wmata red line train to glenmont,someone’s greasy face print on the glassblurring my view of the outside world.the metro slowly wobbles into motionlulling me into a b-movie dream sequence,where your smile widens back to the molars, making a chiaroscuro of my ill-lit mind.
WRITING POEMS IN THE NIGHTIs writing poems in the middle of the night a"guilty pleasure" after allwhen the fly that wants toget out the screen door andcircles round and round andcrashes sometimes into the lamp andthe sound of crickets out there in thenight calling for mates or whateverthey may play those rhythmiccastanets for may ultimately bethe only audience however inter-speciesafter all to all mypen scritch-scratches in the night and then me reading back to myself in the morning what drowsily or deep-consciouslyI might have writ?Is my own "guilty pleasure" the only reason for it?
fuzzy wuzzy, amber and inchwormnaming a fewnostalgic scentsshivers a slight smilewaxy, stale, bitter tobacco tin hides pipesoap, hot magenta and dirta gulity pleasure, indeedan anamnesisthat's mine to keep
aw stink, on a reread... it should be guilty not gulity, argh!
Flashing lights in geometric patterns Puffs of man-made fog cloud the dark roomObscure European melodies pound through cheap kickersBlurred bodies and misguided movements I take my place among themMoving lesser goers to the sideCheap beer wetting my feetSweat oozing from every poreI dance, until I cannot dance anymore.
children's booksare for children.
arriving home to the end of daymail still clinging to the slot too fat to fit throughcatalogs - the grease of my secret longingto covet colors and fitwhich shoes to get, how muchthe angst of creditand terminal want