Some Kind of Employment

The job of a fool
Is to ride the bus
Till the heart becomes a circumference
Suffices the world

The job of the poet
Is to put earnings
In burning buildings

Look look a macho moon in reverse
Parks in the eyes of city gulls

Go ahead and honk for doomsday

I’ve the summer grass
Tattooed on the shoe strings of my brain
Between the toes of my heart

Seagulls

I walked to the city limit
And played volleyball
With some seagulls.

It was a no nonsense game
With plenty of intermissions.

I headed west
Up to the river.

In my coat
I stood at the water.

The posture of dusk
Ransacked of belongings
Looking over its shoulder. What if it could
Be squared?

And though the stars
Come looking for alms I have only the cents
Of infinity.

If I knew how to spell lasso
Or pumpernickel. But I don’t.

It is a reluctant light
The hardware of the self.

Concrete Blinds

Post-windows in the industrial blank.
And robot militias that percolate.

This is the future, on photograph wings.
Sunlight like a cheap poem through concrete blinds.

Every human will be known by their mask.

Except for a few.

The ghosts of numerals for pocket change

Rattle like a few stone foxes in a giant’s purse.

Except for a few.

City Block

Same smeared face

Of the moon faints

Toward Earth

Into the rain that pools in the broken cups.

The kids in the street

Bang their hands against the old

Can lids

Imitating stars.

They rattle with a fierce

Cunning

For transcendence.

It is as simple as that.