a scene undecorated by werds:
behind the cardboard
one brown cat insults one other
with (what sounds like) the mutter "who? who?"
th' blackin-white cat stands up from his pillow-gut
and follows the fucker down to the corner station.
there is a bus arriving at the bus stop, and the lights from the inside
make televisions of the windows, each a different program:
a man bites his thumb, pulls his eyelids over his knees
and blocks himself from a hungry widow with an open mouth ––
she is aiming at him.
a big woman rumbles the bus with her swinging thighs and bubbling elbow pouches, swings her flesh.
knocks a brown bottle down the throat of a guzzling man
drinking a liquified version of himself.
in the back of the bus there are women wearing beehives
and inside of those there are terrible noisemakers:
young girls scraping their metal voice boxes
against the puckered dripping lips of trombones;
a chorus of birds singing in the hot spotlight to find injury, a bullet,
to release the pent-up wanting from the tips of their shoes.
The bus sets free one man with a rosary swinging from his back pocket.
When he opens his mouth to speak all I can hear is jazz.
On the streets there are giant insects crawling over one another
with stiff lips snapping the legs of their neighbors .
they are mumbling to god with an echoing
"rumba dumba, rumba dumba," and from their hind legs
comes black smoke swirling up,
and the sky sucks it, inhales deep.
The pussies are blasting their front teeth like bullets behind the dumpster.
there is a man with crazy eyes lighting a fire.
'i won't hurt nobody,' says he
he is waiting for someone to disagree.
you been out too long the sun feels mistaken,
she comes like a nude woman
before low-a-man of red blushing flesh! and he feels ashamed.
in the house-colonies the people file out into the daylight with paper bags
gripping guilty intentions with wet nerves
digging their fingernails into their palms to make indents in the skin.
they make their postures to be uncomfortable
so that satan will not be tempted to wear their flesh suits while tap-dancing.
the alarm clocks ring to the tune of amen, amen, amen.
While the tired eyes of human beings weep to open so soon,
the clock-screams are a chorus of wealthy men
having nice dreams and no alarm clocks.
there is a shelf against the horizon
where the day becomes organized like canned soup:
each item marked with the names of people I know: D--- G-----, E--- D------, A--,
myself sometimes –– a can marked Alex, I am ashamed.
there is an occasional figment between one factory character
and another of the same:
a human being between the peas and the peas –– some people do complain.
I'd call it necessary unless I were lucky enough not to need it.
I call it magnificent.