Saturday, February 07, 2009


in this room lit only by far off planets
bleak as a poorly attended meeting
now imagine a poem, and nurture it
while downstairs the vendors cry

downstairs the baby cries and
downstairs the mother cries too
flies sibilate happiness
or staticky radio messages

my body is out on the street
bright as light bulbs, falling
inwards, charred on a log fire
an eternal series, persistent

as the flash of television's reality
chronicling tiny, enduring details
food for the gods though not fit for them
speckled skies, four kinds of dogfights


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