What the stuttering microphone

wants to say: anything goes.

Someone better check

its disconnected cord.

The bridges are lit and strung

out below this tight-sealed

cabin of recycled air.  Listen

as the flickering noise

yields a map, the bones

of an imposed song.

There is a statue of

Abraham Lincoln at

East Orange City Hall.

He is in a trench coat

holding his hat

by his knee.

The Mental Health

Association building

looks like a disease,

the perfect place

to off yourself.

on a bus in transit strangers catch me better in moments of concern.  I don’t care if my stomach puffs out. I am whole and I control compulsion a river slick with oil like Saran wrap

crumpled up between NY + NJ who is this stranger on the bus? oily bird knows no better home + I’m growing old. what will outlast me?

the Universe may be

a lineage of stars

sown, tilled and plucked

in a never-ending

harvest of Godstuff*.

 

*Where God=Love=Universe=Human Consciousness, or something like that.