A Dream

Should have written this down when I first woke up,

after living away,

came back,

charged by some vice to take notes:

about, candy wrappers and sunflower seeds scattered on the subway tiles.

Too tired to gleam,

or shatter.

God was a sexy chef

cooking up atoms and chicken.

I complained about having to go to work,

and she said to look for the words somewhere else

before it all became too much.

Small

A man with a thick accent bums a smoke.

“Do you believe in god?”

So much for the small talk.

A child is crying while the prize machine entices like a casino of soft dreams.

It’s hot outside,

sticky even.

The cries are softer now, the man

sitting next to me gets up to get coffee as the

wheels from his bag

tap, clicking every few feet.

We are looking at the clock for relief, sitting silently,

or playing with anything to be out

of

here.

Grass Tastes Like This

Too far away from these or those,

the quiet chirp.

I’m not nearly as mad

                             when I inhale & catch the liquid

& sit & talk

& remember when we swore off this

life /

praised the sun

naked.

Caught the light off of leaves we chewed, listening intently to nothing much at all. We said more than once

that the speech we used

would only be exalted.

Now I sit here away from home,

with work, bills, my rough hands

& blunt tongue:

content with this cigarette all these years latter,

the music is still there but the mode has changed.

And when you sat there

tying an arm around yourself,

when I woke up with

that scent in my blood &

adjusted my eyes to the

steady lack of light,

put on cloths & set out,

I thought about not thinking

until I laughed.