Undique

Spun the Corner Storm to an old radio tune with tamborines and a violin. I tried while I could to sing her a silver verse, but it always seems when she comes around in all that malice, I try to keep her on my wrists for as long as she'll stay -- covered by my coat sleeves. I couldn't tell you why. I can never write it the same as I can think it.

Had a Dream. I was Eternal -- with a span of wings. White; dirtied from my language. And everyone acclaimed these poems. Not because they were any good -- they're not. No, people read them because the rest read them. Trying to be a part of something -- part of the Eternal Poet.

A gentle wind will carry a Bird -- carries sails on a motionless ocean. Egyptians wrote love poems with the Swallow at the head of their ships. Each shining star was the Bird, carried on gentle winds -- to leave the restless. I'm waited down through others; pushing and pulling through crowds. I'd want to keep my sight, when shining bright. This dull scratching is wearing on my tired fingers. "Tap tap," rapes the Weatherman. "A cold front is on her way." Lay my nickel on her meter. The epithalamium to her and him -- when I wouldn't ask. The Harpy for a Widower. No children to carry on my name. No tort

Sitting at the water's front man; homeless; asks me for a cigarette. "I'm trying to die," he says. "Jump that bridge;" hand him from my mouth, after another breath. Another morning -- here comes her afternoon. Another man -- here comes his story he's persevered to tell strangers. Stains on your hand; or coat, if you wipe it off. Following like the pigeon to a crumb -- a dime -- a half a cigarette.

Was insane, once; for a night. Always meant to write of it. As though a war profiteer. Never did. Time and all his children playing sea game with memories. Write it now, and put it out of mind. Jump ship, and move on.

His father was a music man with a Swallow on each arm for is 10,000 miles at sea -- singing the siren's song on an old damp guitar with only four strings, and a voice of smoke and salt water and 10, 000 years of verse to match. Compass with no needle -- "One side will lead you away," said the his grandfather of his mother -- "One side will lead you astray; the other will bring you home, as the Sparrow's call; home to my daughter and my grandson." Compass with no needle -- candle with no flame, and a compass with a round frame and two sides. His father ne- ver questioned the old man's direction -- and after trails of sail

New neighbor upstairs; moved in a couple weeks ago. Has this dog that pisses off his balcony and onto mine. Each morning -- with a smoke and drink before leaving, it lands on my work shirt. At least the man has decent eyes.

Staying low close to the ground with three tongues and one old yellow map. She's awake -- I'm awake, though pretending to be asleep -- still in her bed watching her dress careless. Pull tousled and rude hair from her face with her hand behind white neglected neck. Breathes eminence -- dripping in it, behind arrogant obscurity. Crow on the balcony; open window. Watching with me. She leaves. He leaves. Clothed and I leave before she returns. Take a black and white photo with me from her mirror. Memento, I suppose. Back in my apartment. Photo to the collection. My own bed. Finally sleep.

Woke up without the night. Blood on my shirt -- spit more from the lip. Drink still on the breath. "I'll call you Maiden, you call me Jericho -- and we will drink the sun." Hands bent and fingers holding angst and hair unwashed in three days and the Devil's making his brilliant bright speech and I'm laying in bed at noon only waking and nearly still drunk and a head bruised and broken widsom illness starting in the same place it ends. Getting ahead of myself. Wash up -- clean some. Leave the rest. Back to bed. Smoke. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

Pardon me; I've been drinking. Struggle for something tangible. Each inconsistent metaphor of a purpose for higher learning -- learning to control one's thought- less internal chatter; or reason for habits. How calming and serene a thought of the young man who could adapt to this aptitude of for- ward motion and war -- left promptly to death within the first charge over Dead Man's Land, lead by the Christians and the Jews and those with a higher purpose and means of a higher learning -- or probable and excepted excuse for deterrence to even the ideal of thinking for yourself. "Leave the room; don't use the door! We are only