Saturday, August 11, 2007


he's sure to have secrets, that brown haired boy
sitting in his hunched and sloopy way
crossing and uncrossing pale tufted legs
showing thready bare, garnished with rips
his pants found somewhere on a dollar rack
and i believe his thoughts go rolling
sometimes bouncing awkward unfinished
what does he know ?

we share the worn wood floor, scratched
splotchy but cool to my toes, warm to my
wintry way, endless in our confined place
bound by walls some other day threw
comforted in our minutes together
and i try to imitate his senseless dishevel
his abstract layers of joy
what does he know?

saturdays can be jealoused up by mondays
free form hours, dangerous pasta lunch
in unfiltered sunlight, reading neath
unpatched ozone, dreaming at the bottom
of the open well that reaches straight to heaven
grasping angel feathers from their drift
pesto green, squid ink black, aioli cream
we share a few glances

i sell my secrets, unfiltered, unearthed like
truffles, or leave them strewn where i sit
loll on corners, someone to catch a gaze
cross a speculation from stranger eyes
i lend them if you have none, or they've gone
forgotten, bedside tables collect them randomly
noting our indiscriminate hours, compiling lists
readable by the public, serial

what does he know, staring left, wrapped
in some moody angsty thing, hacking into
kerouac, driving studebakers, tuning old v-8's
pbr's in jersey, mad dog in maine, this
otherworldly fella, but we could go chemically
enhanced, rouse something outside these walls
or we could sit, and i'll forget
and so will he


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