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the walls are an angry oil
with stubs where the photos
hung by tenants long strung
down their roads
Like the grey poles
that hold the thin wires
that moan in the winds
hot and tinged

A fan crawls fast the air
blowing on our emptiness
unashamed uncaring
Down the half mile
a frieght bawls
in the steamy distance

Static so bad on the
scavenged set
I can barely make them
beer propped sweating
on a thigh..

You are typing
You are organzing notes
your shoulder blades
I once loved like
flying butresses
now remind me of
a sullen dangerous
Your sheilds
thrust quick against
and your rush away
digging deeper into
the trailer drawers
for some item only
you recall

For now in the hazy
flicker set against the
trickle of light across
the road...abandoned
parking lot
abandoned nite
your arms move
reminding me of the
camshafts of the
great engines of
Your hair streaming
Your femminine

Like the desert
there are no tears
rare the rainfall
and like the
garden folly jig
your arms move
the keys on your
typewriter work
deft and barely
striking the office
eight by ten

a pack thick as
a glacier
if each dusted layer
was a year we
bore further apart

Ive never noticed
the perfection in
the bones of your
the sweep of your

the windchimes
the beer is warming

the humming anger
in my ears settles
down..curls up on
its ego and lays
its head down

one eye watching
you like a ghost

you will load the Delta 88
and roll
and you will return
shower and emerge
the fan stippling

only when you
need me to massage
the crash side
because you love
to sleep on the right
the one damned good
eardrum not knocked
out by a mothers cupped
to hear the footsteps of
the father long gone

My arthritis gnaws in
the bones and scuttles
the joy of rest
or dressed the walk
in boots to the town
and back

my hands working the
and ropes
no language
no talking


i wake
in slurry of dreams
and a sandwich
is in the fridge

A love poem
rests on the television

was it for him
is it mine
can i wish
nor care
but to strive
to envision
the distance
in this
ache and longing
of being
and unbeing

And beneath
the sunbleached
I eat the meal
morsel by morsel
the hooves of
and soothed
to a purr

In this hot puce
of nightfall
I hear a frieght
for its destination
and meaning...

Editing stage: 


I confess to not having really scrutinize this whole poem but ,man, those last 4 lines are as good as any I've ever read. I'll try to return to this one wham I'm not so pinched for time........stan

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