Union Square
Macy's
I stole a bunch of clothes in my mind
Accompanied by a young princess equally fiendish
Threadbare running free hand in hand laughing
We nestled in the tall grass at the park at Embarcadero
There were statues and circus animals and people acting chaste as stalled traffic
Buses on the murderous route assailing the sky blue
Tunnels gray-black, cobalt moons and upbeat tunes
We sobbed and smiled fully fed enfeebled with triumphant spirituality
The dream new to mind and bones
Stretched out in the hotel room
All the insects of the world submerged
The bay the ferries running the bridges the sky
God the poetry of your smile silently singing as we kiss
We are made to love yet take our sweet time
Myself
Alone
Tonight spine bent hair graying and big veined feet
Pining with old songs and cheap spirits
Wishing for you demanding of the cosmos
Wryly unwilling to accept our nights of music numbering once a week
Days followed by wolves panting with impossible hunger
We pressed against the moonlit doorway
She gave herself so freely I thought I might
Fuck her right there in strobes of urban alacrity.
Of course I have a small bit of integrity left
In this calloused soul of mine
I walked her to her car.
There's nothing like the lights of Chinatown late at night
Everyone has closed up shop and the neon's not unlike
Alien stars carousing.
Her small mouth fit mine
a perfect dose of heroin
Once a person has recovered from humanity.
Is it too early to discuss
Love?
I struggle to see eye to eye with sleeplessness.
Mozart sonata married to
Midday construction
One plus one
Equals zero
Socks hang drying
On the windowsill
Warplanes ever ready
Wheelbarrows poised as well
Another sunny morning
Like plague
A couple drinks
At the nearby café
Later, baseball on the radio and
Laundry to despise
A cross-examination of
Carpet versus walls
Feet freed
From gratuitous servitude
For the day
Wolfgang mimicking
Footsteps on high
Jackhammers and band saws
A couple yellow butterflies
Flirting awkward flyers
Dance to some language
Which might as well be
Chinese
Jay Passer lives in San Francisco, the city of his birth. He is the author of several chapbooks, most recently At the End of the Street, from corrupt press. His work has been represented in print and online since 1988.
del.icio.us
