Walking, Messanic Whine

Walking

Walking down Rising Sun high,

Ice crunching beneath worn shoes: a siren,

Then nothing, & back to my idle fantasy

of sex and brick, by the old Princeton

Cursing under breath at these “pigs”,

And vomiting through bulimic masturbation's

Of the tongue.

Cheap wine and electric touch screen thrills,

Dancing in the street light impressionistic whirl

Of plastic ridden sidewalks.

I left everyone to find myself,

Excited and cold/a thousand hands

Touching and kissing with the scratch

Of gravel and stench of liquor,

& light feet with heavy heads,

Not as fun as watching strangers

Undress from third story windows,

Under the cross and bread of row home apocalypse,

Foaming at the asshole for carnality's, desire,

And the breath of words scrawled on convenience

Store napkins.

With love,

With angst,

With trying to detach unsuccessfully

From labor and strife,

With phone call promises of

You-have-no-idea-how-fucking-great-I-feel-right-now.

I’m creating a myth propelled by desires,

To break even with debts I owe to myself.

Messianic Whine

The sky is moving ancient scripture,

With clouds burning below the navel,

The slow, steady turning of a hundred wheels,

All spokes returning to the hub.

The battery of time,

Surely drained of it’s roots/seeks water in the desert,

Like a junky’s messianic whine.

Hang over smoke stake bales on 7^th avenue,

Eyes the color of street light fog,

Seeking the divine.