A whoring fiesta
The angel of the day sits as stone
and cools her forehead against the gray of Sunday.
Someday, but not today.
She will rise up, stretch and yawn.
Someday, but not today.
She will raise up her hand from its languor,
cast her robes aside and show her splendor.
Someday, but not today.
In Cleveland, after the rain stopped.
We wanted something different, didn’t we?
When we were children, just learning the un-fairness of rules?
Didn’t we want something other than this?
The sun passes over
through days that are new
yet filled with antiquities.
Our crack to the sky is fleeting.
Dragged through the winter swamps;
Lightning in the desert was easier.
We brake and bend and break,
staring into the distance.
Here in this place,
we make our only bet.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about friendship.
I have so many people in my life now to be grateful for,
which is kinda new.
Whether it’s the people or the gratefulness that were lacking,
I don’t know if I’ll ever know.
Do you?
On the day of my birth
I sat on the inland sea
and watched the whelming waves
and the setting sun
from atop a shelf of rock
having not the first clue
what would come in the weeks after.
Time is funny like that.
Masquerade at midnight,
it is the mask and the unmasked,
anticipation and happening,
truth and occult.
Here’s a wave to those who’ve traveled through time with me,
and those who still do.
Senseless faith
as the sun dips
and I think of whether
you are above me
or still under the ground.
When I was a cable installer I came to this place
to set up cable tv.
Later, I went back and it took me a moment to remember
that
I had been there before.
Stuck between the Hell’s Angels’ clubhouse and bad Ohio wine,
we walked the carnival streets,
got a corn-dog
and in the morning there was a breakfast joint
where the owner screamed at my hangover about Cleveland city streets.
Each time I enter a city
It is a new foundation for
excitements and errors.
I found the Lost city across
the bridge
and gorged on Tapas
instead.
Stay on the trail.
A buzzing insect visits me in the shower, crawling up the pipe to the shower head. I slay it viciously with hot water and watch it swirl away. It does not understand my politics, and I have no patience for it.
I am america, both in my balance and my sum.
Dancing the daughters of flimsy men away as the sun shines down on defeated ideals that were only golden in the mouths of politicians anyway.
A slain insect, an aborted movement, an encouraged trend.
Each second, brings less human recognition than before, the methylated masses search for every sign in the old ways
and disbelieve the new.
The fly on the wall did not comprehend,
and I didn’t either,
until now.
joe zero 