Without the sun, we forget fire
Without food, our doors are impassable
Without companions. we are rocks or trees or abandoned packages
Without rain, we cannot stay
Always coming to a new place, we cannot choose our names or hungers
As I shrink inside my cloak, constellations appear in the domes of my eyes
When a trickle of cold motivation runs the length of my body, I'm uncertain what to breathe
When the only light comes from friction
When the only music is a wind my breath repels
When there's only me and dogs who haven't eaten for days
When i wait when i quake when every direction is uphill
When the rain burns my skin, my bones whistling with termites
When the wind is a wave of armored police
I am pavement i am shadow
I am the last crescent of bun thrown away with the wrapper
clouds are all about wholesale, squeezing the supply til bonfires of umbrellas
promise a seller's market, rewarding rain with exuberant nudity,
cats rolling on the driveway as if the rain is mama's big tongue
cleaning where even the most contortionist can't.
the morning clouds that always vanish by
noon's full sun are like the sign above the bar promising free beer tomorrow.
weathermen base their predictions not on the future but what hasn't happened in a while,
when people start looking up rain on wikipedia, dial 1-800-get-rain,
miles of clothesline flapping with what seldom sees the sky.
sprinklers can't emulate what falling thousands of feet does to water, all the stories it accumulates,
bird itineraries, poufs of rare metals, enough liberated skin to plug a drain.
from the last storm i made contact lenses so i can see rain that's not here
walking faster than the sun-drenched & thirsty, thinking my sweat fell from the bright blue clouds
camouflaged by artificial sunlight.
every week it takes a little longer to get this glass half-full.
the mayor went to the ocean to offer incentives but no one would see him,
they were on a team-building retreat planning the surprises, the inch and a half during rush-hour,
the 30 degree drop making the leaves think they missed their train before they could find their luggage.
as if the sun inside my refrigerator ever goes out, ever stops serenading its contents
to sweat a little more, lose their water weight & be ready to dissolve in the first mouth that finds them.
i'm getting long distance charges each time i open the tap. i won't believe anything the clouds say.
so much rain gathered in so few places, nothing trickling down,
but such poignant jingles & finger-pointing—rain for votes, rain for veterans,
families lining up before dawn at the water bank knowing the naiveté of our empty gallon jugs
I see you on the street: waiting, walking, carrying,
wheelchair, bicycle, shopping cart,
long coat in august, short sleeves in december
the style you wear, posture, angle of head, glaze of eyes
furtive, challenging, yearning to be elsewhere, invisible
my shoes don't match on purpose.
team logo, fashion logo, I'm the 5th person to own this,
I may never wear this again.
my sign asks for money,
my spine says I'm new here, this isn't where I expected to be,
which ways out
the bus stop is my watch tower, I am sketching on air
without hands leaving pockets, unprepared for rain, bus fare in my other pants,
backpack on a mission, backpack that'll keep me alive for two weeks,
the backpack gets its own seat, has a name, must be fed
+++++
when I see you at work I know your name, age, address, where you were born,
everyone comes to the dmv soon after they move here
for jobs, for escape, to reconnect,
throwing a dart at the map, cause no other place said yes
birth certificate, divorce papers, mortgage,
paid cash for a new bmw, took a loan on a ten year old civic,
living under a bridge, in a downtown condo, at the half way house,
in a complex of a hundred apartments, where all the houses have riding mowers
come w/ a child, a partner, 3 or more others, 9 year old translating for mom and dad
surrendering your license because of age, ID paid for by an agency,
you're short a dollar and the guy at the next window gives it
you smell like incense, marijuana, cheap perfume, coconut oil, life without plumbing
your ink, your dye, piercings, foundation, scars, malfunctions
+++++
what's on the inside, the past, working toward, trying to get out from under,
the indecipherable stamps on my lungs passport, my livers,
so many maps pressed into my soles, enough geography in my brain to make several planets
I speak 5 languages including one no one else knows,
who am i blue-toothing, making promises, pleading,
or my contract expired last month but I have so much to check on—
relationships, elations, have I got a deal for you
as you wait for the bus, cross on red, scream at me as if im the governor,
how all we've been through slips our parts out of consensus—
a brooks brothers shirt
& a thinning pony tail, holes in my gut stretched tee and 2000 in my pocket,
the girl next door with a concealed handgun permit & a caffeine addiction.
I saw your face on TV, in a dream, in the mug shot paper
you ever teach at grant high, were you in the army, in a dance class 20 years ago,
we're all waiting for quitting time, for a home we want to go back to,
friends to share their selves and stashes, an us to be against them
if I could spend a night with anyone, if i could break a record,
not have my 15 minutes slivered over 25 years
when the jacket no longer fits, when I don't need the extra inches,
when I'm comfortable with my body's relationship with gravity.
we're just passing through, one of many. the uniform changes but is still appropriate—
camouflage, corduroy, unexpected lenses, incredible diversity
dan raphael's newest book is The State I'm In; last year his first CD, Children of the Blue Supermarket (love recordings with saxophonist Rich Halley and drummer Carson Halley) came out. Current poems appear in Caliban, Otoliths, Blue & Yellow Dog, Haggard & Halloo and Snakeskin.
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