The night is alive
A cicada symphony
cut with speeding cars

Lightening flashes through
burns a wild, erratic fuse
the stars are scrubbed clean

I should walk a mile
on another man’s egg shells
before I can crack

If I drew a blank
then how could it still be blank?
I got nothing here

Soaked in summer sweat
can memories leave the skin
just as easily?

Fireflies flit and dance
a slow, cautious teletype
erased as it’s made

Oh, late-night TV
robots eating my fast food
this is what I see

APOCALYPSO

Can you feel it? The sway to the earth’s
slow grind, that tight-curled magnetic
girdle trying to muscle in and hold
everything down? How much
can stay bound? I could break
a jaw bone to break into song,
I could break the last canary
out of the coal mine,
I could go with the flow
and be drowned in rivers
much larger than me,
I could sway in breezes
and watch the beats hit
like muzzle flashes just outside
the limits of prescribed sight,
I could break free and still
be left empty-handed…

This dance you do, what do you call it?

TIMES SQUARED

History repeats itself because
that’s what written into its’ contract.
Check the sub-clause. It’s all there
in black and white, or sepia tones;
whatever steps of removal leaves you
comfortable with what can’t be undone.
It’s a self-generating property, it’s
transcendent real estate. You’re on
the ground floor of a value that can only
go down, and down, and down…

My faucet’s dripping
air conditioners still hum
a Brooklyn silence