Can I Be Your Dog?

Caleb the Canine, yonder window-plane,
iridescent yellows, playing the glass.

Sung-spoke in soloist intimacy, to a deaf
tune, “Doggie, pretty doggie”, why they

call it–The Stroll. It’s Montgomery and it
isn’t, back of yolk-yellow signage, has it

now turned a Hunter-Green? They can
capitalize on a color, in a few words

when repeated, often enough, is simple
jingling. His hair-curls, off-white white,

my dress shirts never looked so white.
Sung-spoke out of a tube whitening

my tar-stained smile; black is how I like
it, after dinner for a treat. What’s on

the menu, it’s rough out there, Caleb,
just now skewered, for timeliest

perfection; yonder window-plane
Caleb, but be careful of that fleece.

It’s Getting There

I don’t often
talk about it.

The Depression of my days.

Nights are something
else. Bombs

and noise, speech

and sound. Nights
are something else.

Laden, leadened.
A body. The work


I don’t often talk.

We could be anywhere,
by now. I’m here—

working in a way,
no one can say.

I don’t often hear.
The Depression of my days.

Nights are something else.
Music, silence

and song. Entirely
like the days.

Nights are

something. Darkening;

to a working,

How It Feels

Frank, wrong reason
our candyman got hurt: cheaply made

myths of the self Rock n’ Roll
can never cry.

Huddie over Woodrow Wilson
Guthrie, a rich-

timbered choice;
each stepping stone hell-

hound voiced Chester Arthur
Burnett aahwooing(moaning)

after Rodgers & Family, in the light
washed rim—

His most infamous song:

a rhetorical question in a dark,

dam below the swell, red moon.

F Train Ruminations

Viral illumination in the hands
of a southbound citizen beside

a sky-blue soft, paperback copy,
having opened onto early pages

an English translation. The Inferno
yesterday. Figure-shapes, occupations

obscured. Figure-shunning faces opening
the focus of energy I won’t

comprehend in original Italian form,
the source-term “Getto”

delivered here, visually;
black dots, white dots

insert in my evening’s paper,
tactile consistency—

tomorrow’s ground-blue-brown dregs;

gratifying; grafting; hoisting
a dwindling poet’s

relationship with a limply prophesied,
true political-cartoon

unreality, prone to dis-figuring
and shadowy effects.