Sometimes, when my health is strong and
my legs are free, I dream the bread on the table
is hard and very old, and I need to leave
and I need to release the pressure on this plot, and I need to move on.
Just move on.  And become a stow away.
I could have left home,
but the timing was all wrong.
I could have been a vagrant,
but the poetry wasn’t there.
I could have left the 50’s behind,
but the noir was everywhere.
So I spend my days scouring the park, sniffing the flowers
and bearing teeth at passers-by.
But remember, life is as shallow as sniffing the flowers…
There was shine, but no polish on the ground that park stood,
The park was tall, cutting
across that concrete-mountainous grain
of a narrow and shallow town.
It flexes like a worm and grows
in the areas shade won’t touch.
When travel has made my skin dry
I merely grow out my legs to accommodate the distance.

I could have been a vagrant,
I could have left home,
and become a stow away.
But the poetry wasn’t there, the noir was everywhere.
I need to release the pressure on this plot
and move on just move on.  I could have left the 50’s, but…
My legs are not too limber anymore
and the leash of years pulls at my throat.
Remember, there isn’t much to me…

–The Naga is the image below the 73rd floor–

It is grey and sharks around the towers
on soled feet and rubber tracks
centipeding around the 73rd floor a heave weave.
The Naga emits certain poisons that accumulate in the city’s ponds and rain puddles.

 (To test this, put a millipede or centipede or any other specie of Myriapoda, on a flat surface; irritate it, place your fingers, a pencil, tree, etc. in its place.  Put obstacles in its way, and watch it shark around, slip through the fingertips and weeds.)

Thoughts circulating within the limits of this City,
I stand posed at my midnight shift in the factory

Pacing in a cage, biding the symmetry;
no repercussions, it’ll be a slow recovery

(The centipede knows its boundaries; it stays in line, hands on the buttons, feet on the floor)

The current day passes in a flurry of confusion,
when the fears of the crowd grow into one conclusion

We stay in our binds, waiting for a revelation,
singing songs of contempt and preparation

But I will not evade reason and disappear
in the propaganda of the mistakes from past years.

When my health//I need to release
the pressure–is strong–and move on just move on.
And
my legs are free, bearing teeth at passers-by.
(To test this, become a stow away)
I could’ve been a vagrant,
so I spend my days scouring
the park, sniffing the flowers.
Life is as shallow as sniffing
the flowers, or
Other specie of Myriapoda.
Slip through the fingertips and weeds.
It is grey and sharks around the towers
on soled feet and rubber tracks.
The specie//hard and very old,
all shine, but no polish
It flexes like a worm and grows
across that concrete-mountainous grain.
The leash of years pulls at my throat,
and my legs are not too limber anymore.