Beyond a certain point, movement itself changes…
…aim for the point of no return…
Walked to the drugstore
to buy sports drinks
(swimming pool blue and red).
The knock-kneed girl stood
on the overpass railing
stepping into the nook of the tree
overhanging the creek,
her face red that shed tears
over some rec center cruelty
On the opposite street-corner,
two adults beamed on an infant
sound asleep in a carriage
then gazed into their eyes
silently, still, smiling, the cacophony
of the parking garage,
the street and the cars,
as nonexistent for them as I.
The recounted familiarities
so there when passed by
on one’s way, in an OTIS vehicle,
to install an elevator, escalator or moving walkway,
moved; we tilted our helmet.
The jungle crosses the threshold.
We contact our friends.
“Jungle Boogie,” obsolete machetes.
You should choose your place in this
bush adjacent to my screened-in porch,
birds. Because only the strongest gusts
jostle the wind chimes, there.
The last time I was heard
I had coughed,
no one within 100 feet of me
(I was being polite).
I blew away a red spider
hanging from an oasis
in the midst of the parrot man
and the parrot man’s enthusiasts.
The plumber repaired the jumping water jets
on the stone hill near the masonic lodge
as I lit a Parliament Menthol Light
because that is what I smoked then.
I was in a 3000GT
with a decorative spoiler so slick
I was too hot (by which is meant sexy)
to be a terrorist.
I was too polite to discard my cigarette filter
into any neighbor’s garden
because I believed litter belonged in the road
and I was alone.
On sleeping pills, paint in the painting moves
when we focus on areas of the painting
the paint moves around
You cannot forget you are falling asleep
with your disagreeable hand on your face,
the fingers smelling of odd creams,
soap, smoke or dough.