sometimes i think the most human thing a man can do is rip a huge fart from the urinal where he stands pissing while someone shits in the stall at the library
someone is always shitting in the bathroom at the library
and this can set a man to-thinking
that people aren't all that fucking hard to understand after all
you just gotta crawl over the crust of the city and see
how different everything really is, like
pumpkin seeds scatter up the against the stiff little
scrappy growth lining sidewalks
children run and jump unselfconscious always
unanxiously in a hurry
birds in frantic circles around
tree-bare silhouettes but shining sun!
three songs in a key of A
"I just gotta say,
this window isn't the same
without BJ sitting here"
"She's buried in an Ottumwa cemetery"
strange outbursts from what, really,
are we total strangers? never! not
when he needs a cigarette or
misses his birth mother
this doped up or cracked out chick
wailing in Tobacco Bowl started crying still
can't defeat slurry drawl
her friend translates -- bums in window
look on nonplussed missing teeth as
some Jim Jim runs in, presses his friend's hand,
not, as i first thought, as gesture of affection:
i hear the plastic crinkling
into pocket under shouldered bike lock
taking stock of surrounding madness makes
the inside seem quiet and lo! i know
why i came back to my home, which
is ever AWAY -- to say:
i am not so different, because
of the very fact, by god, i AM!
i have nothing on common but
a passing lust or need of water
and that's just what makes folks common
i guess
in the truck down Doge St. mindlessly tuned
to classic rock radio if i had to guess
ballcap nods over bumps lips
tightly pursed next to
silent son or hired hand, unenthused to
be hauling trailer across town
stops at intersection of Burlington checks
the time on stopwatch burning thighs
inside black tights, jogs in place
awaits the mandatory obligatory
presuppository light to change
bends slightly again over cafe table
fills up my coffee cup knows
always that he's keen to dream of
her bent yet farther, after hours
love affair, doesn't care she smiles
and serves, hips swerving in avoidance of
perverse preening, sucks in the vapor
from steaming pot prophecy:
she will not be the one
to make me believe
tense changes in concordance with
consumption of various stimulants,
phone BUH-BLING in the clamoring
streets or cafes where S I L E N C E
rings out otherwise, all the louder,
more disturbing
smoke-addled scrambling for perspective
amid screens, blinds, double-backs
and loose alley-allusions
dwarf in the window reminisces skateboarding
with aged black distinguished street-scholar
stiffens up his collar -- "In another
two weeks, it's gonna be COLD out there!"
one-armed crazy arrives on schedule,
that is to say, whenever, to babble and bawl
to himself in the corner chain smoking
while others look on into laptops
unperturbed
one chunk of the crowd leaves in lieu
of imminent need, that is, for nothing,
maybe get high small blue pipe
in his pocket (looks just like
one Pat used to use) while the rest
sprout beards in multi-tiered
simultaneous entropy
proud of new hat, old shades, corn rows
or shiny rims, mid-afternoon beer toasted
to the barbarian who wins best
application of tossed pigskins:
effort rewarded, desire slims
muffin-top long term girlfriend
jogs and eats right can't seem to lose weight
as previous hospital inpatient excursion
meets downtown for collusion of
psych ward war stories
amused curls lightly tossed in wind
looks in, curious rodent-like mouth
just starts to muse
and whose lost notebook, rubric,
cell phone or car keys lined up
front lawns like gourd seeds
wasting away from rotten flesh
as winter approaches
stare into tinted windshields of
every passing sport utility, penetrate
the taut cotton sorority headbands
waistbands broadband wifi feeding
signals to students sucking tea-steam
prophecy: i will not be the one
to make her believe
someday i too will take a long shit
in a stall at the library while someone
pisses awkwardly on, in fact i have
been this man in Missoula circa three months ago
a week without a bath asshole chapped misery
3000 miles or so, the wild West,
at my miserable behest, as good as a home
(the most honest thing reaching under
table as you write to scratch nutsack
indiscreetly, tucked neatly into jeans)
what about you? dressed to the left
i presume perhaps well hung?
old bird-like crone black hat long
blue coat, who knows, a prodigious
seductress once, long ago
drives by head up one hand high
on the wheel, generic broad in the seat
beside steals all his vital essence from under
makes him pleased, from behind nightly
or spits out seeds while aged veteran counterparts go on
limping out of wrinkled eyes into
lecherous designs (someday this is all
will keep bad author upright, moving)
and leg warmers worries about her hair
and steps in the door, stares blankly,
walks out
and people! keep on rockin'!
people keep on living as such, and
having awoken from repeated horrific
dreams of the apocalypse, struggle
into tight jeans, stylish scarves,
smart snappy strappy heels or
tasteful tie, hasten to fasten belts
or fix flies, run in place to deface
desires with muted demise
and of course coffee for all concerned
tries to retain dignity an adult at
child's height or plagued by cock scars,
hey there you lost an arm!
or a foot to diabetes left untreated
or knows he was cruel to stuff her
head down farther on the thread that
wound away from the spool
little girl alights on light post
leaps so close to cracking her skull
on concrete edge of flowerbed --
only some would react with chagrin if i said:
i might like to have seen it happen
actually the little girl is a boy
as they crowd around just outside
the door ball caps and hooded
bike locks and squares
phones always leading them away somewhere
cousins at home avoiding reality in
the vast digital expanse
of unwashed dishes
aunts discovering new symptoms mom
looks for cat adopter becomes adoptee
as son sees empty nest
no different! his head slightly declined
occasionally stoned brow ascends to behold
old oak tree-majesty! looks angry,
isn't, mutters under breath happy to be
awake in the sun, in the wake of
winter, sees the many become one!
yes water gathers around cold rim
of his eyes as she passes, alike in her
ignorance as alone in my awareness! talks on
phone sweatpants makeup fake tan
as i descend on the great suspicion
he i they them the vision of great
plural godhead, one! never the exact
same trajectory, not wholly alone, every
fart at urinal meant to maintain
total entropy,
the most human thing --
on a theme of Ginsberg:
"The vision of the great One is myriad"
The most human thing. . .
- 30/11/2011 09:25:41 PM
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