A Generation of Yellow

A generation of yellow

maple

leaves

forests the sidewalk

I trek toward the bar to watch

the important game on the large

television. Later, a blue sleeping bag

jutting from the shadows of an entry

to a shuttered petstore

bedrooms

my

way. It’s hard to know

where I am sometimes, but

I keep going

anyway.

I Ran Into Joe

I ran into Joe

Gould

on

the corner

of Broadway and

Pike. He was surprised

to see me

in the world.

While you’re here,

he

said,

you should

go deeper. Where’s

that?

I said. He

pulled a hammer

from

his

backpack,

and pounded

a rectangle of sidewalk

till it cracked.

We’ll

need shovels, he

said.

I Heard the Protestors

I heard the protestors

again last night

traipsing

down

Pike, toward

the Sound, with an

entourage of police on

bicycles following curiously.

“What do we want?” “Justice!”

“When do we want it? “Now!” they

sang,

furiously.

I paused my solitude

for several minutes and

finished my dinner in

the good company

of this broken

silence.

Claire Was Sitting in the Driver’s

Claire was sitting in the driver’s

seat

of Darin’s

jeep outside the

theatre arts building, waiting for him

to finish rehearsing The Play, which he had written

and was producing with Jared and some girl

named Dar.

She was trying, and failing,

to find anything to look at

besides the front door

of the building.

Never (After Godard)

Never

do

two

gazes

meet, said

the almost ripe

avocado in the blue

bowl

on the counter

to the almost

yellow maple

leaf shivering in the

afternoon wind

outside

the

kitchen

window. In another

room of the house

a boy stood

listening

to a white telephone

revolver against

his

head,

as she shot

him

down.

For Years Loyalty Bummed

For years loyalty bummed

my

cigarettes, and drank

my beer, and ate whatever

she

pleased

from my fridge, until

finally I was like, you need

to get your own stuff, or start

paying

for

mine. And loyalty said

okay, and she burnt my

house down on the way out,

with my cigarette lighter she stole.

Potential Civil Warriors

Because I remember

the weird

feeling

of

a cold

black barrel

of a shaking hand

gun

against

my winter

skull on the corner

of West 43rd

and Spruce,

I cross

to

the south

side of Union

Street in the pleasant

darkness of a still

Seattle

night. The three

potential civil warriors

quietly

eye

my

decision.

Odell Beckham Jr.

Odell Beckham Jr.

just

made

the greatest

fucking catch

I have ever seen,

is the consensus

among

those

watching

early in the second

quarter of the Giants

Cowboys

game

on Sunday night.

I tried to break

up

with

the ghosts

of Bukowski

and Dickinson

last

night

during a conversation

with a stranger

who

got

close.

I Am Like an Unsanctioned

I am like an unsanctioned

fire

burning

in a vacant

lot

out

of a barrel,

warming the hands

of the sky

after

the last

vagrant has

found a home

or

a grave.

Soon the barrel

will be done

and I will

catch

the dry

grass with

my ardor, or run

out

charring

into the dirt.

In Thy Orisons (After WS)

In thy orisons

be

all,

said

the shore

to the cold

water

between

it and the western

isle where the land

rose

into

mythological

peaks among clouds.

I need a god

these days,

said

the man,

sporting his fourth

different facial hair

configuration in five

weeks, to

himself, as he

climbed another cup

of coffee.