The subway is always crowded with riff raff,
businessmen, dirty people, punks, nuts,
businessmen are the worse,
kill a baby for the deal,
the bag lady munches on old bandages,
dry blood is still good she smiles,
a black man hand in hand
with a big white girl,
she laughs pyramids I wouldn’t claim.
I wouldn’t claim them unless ordered so
by the wife, a bell made of yesterday
blocks my way, I search my pockets
for the sky, whose panties are these
you ask me when you do the laundry
oh never mind I forgot I bought them you laugh.
I panicked and it too a minute
for me to realize my innocence.
At the North Pole, a puddle of ice.
In Africa, my giraffe neck shortened quickly,
here, the pulp of my manhood
waves down traffic at a busy intersection,
my married daughter
knocks on the door with grandkids.
I drink broken glass and smile,
I boil the features of the moon, I scour
the shoulders of the sea,
hilarious love in a nightgown
would only disappoint
as it whistles its favorite color.
I’m too tired to argue with war and peace.