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Description
he sighs loosely,
stamping out a cigarette on the
forbidden asphalt,
smoke still:
obscuring face,
vaguely erased.

he walks through cities, towns,
the steady tide carrying him, moving him,
a vaguely shape,
blurred, inanimate, slacks and a suit,
washing him ashore on the concrete sands
of some steel skyscraper where he stands,
9 to 5, waiting
for something to happen again.

I awake,
as epitaph,
a thin white line etched upon the dark --
switch, current, vague fluorescent light,
stamping out a cigarette,
on the forbidden asphault.

And this is
the new America. This is:
what you have earned. Dreams
are a thing best left at
waking, smoke is a thing
best left curling from a
clove cigarette, dangling from the lips of some
new-wave cowboy, rugged Levi ghost.

America: today I wrote a litany
for you, America: today I saw
a ghost on the TV and
it was you. America: the other day I
looked myself in the mirror and found
Not I, not me, not even a
pale facsimile, but only
noise.

America,
why is this?

We have killed all of our idols and
borne them again,
from dust, from smoke, from
snatches of radio. We have
noted all transgressions, but
transgressed them.

Inside of his closet are
several suits,
and a single sweater he
got for Christmas, made of
scratchy wool. On his
bedside table: remnants
(photographs, poetry, bits of
old letters, snatches of
emptiness, her
wedding dress)

Sometimes he finds himself in
the midst of crowds, and yet
completely alone. Often times he
realizes that he is surrounded by images, but
with nothing in sight. Once he
looked up at the sky and saw only steel, and that scared him, almost
drove him mad. He bought a drink instead. Once he
looked down at the ground and realized that it was once dirt, and
twice now he's come near to breaking…
out in zits. None of the products never work, he
has tried them all, even
the stuff they keep behind the counter at
certain Macy's stores.

He thinks this, and recalls
all of the shops named after people
but holding none. All of the possessives left
unpossessed. What did they say at
Macy's funeral? Or is she, perhaps, still
alive? Did she ever
exist at all?

Sometimes, the
city drones it's song, and
it is like this:

Description
he sighs loosely,
stamping out a cigarette on the
forbidden asphalt,
smoke still:
obscuring face,
vaguely erased.

he walks through cities, towns,
the steady tide carrying him, moving him,
a vaguely shape,
blurred, inanimate, slacks and a suit,
washing him ashore on the concrete sands
of some steel skyscraper where he stands,
9 to 5, waiting
for something to happen again.

I awake,
as epitaph,
a thin white line etched upon the dark --
switch, current, vague fluorescent light,
stamping out a cigarette,
on the forbidden asphault.

And this is
the new America. This is:
what you have earned. Dreams
are a thing best left at
waking, smoke is a thing
best left curling from a
clove cigarette, dangling from the lips of some
new-wave cowboy, rugged Levi ghost.

America: today I wrote a litany
for you, America: today I saw
a ghost on the TV and
it was you. America: the other day I
looked myself in the mirror and found
Not I, not me, not even a
pale facsimile, but only
noise.

America,
why is this?

We have killed all of our idols and
borne them again,
from dust, from smoke, from
snatches of radio. We have
noted all transgressions, but
transgressed them.

Inside of his closet are
several suits,
and a single sweater he
got for Christmas, made of
scratchy wool. On his
bedside table: remnants
(photographs, poetry, bits of
old letters, snatches of
emptiness, her
wedding dress)

Sometimes he finds himself in
the midst of crowds, and yet
completely alone. Often times he
realizes that he is surrounded by images, but
with nothing in sight. Once he
looked up at the sky and saw only steel, and that scared him, almost
drove him mad. He bought a drink instead. Once he
looked down at the ground and realized that it was once dirt, and
twice now he's come near to breaking…
out in zits. None of the products never work, he
has tried them all, even
the stuff they keep behind the counter at
certain Macy's stores.

He thinks this, and recalls
all of the shops named after people
but holding none. All of the possessives left
unpossessed. What did they say at
Macy's funeral? Or is she, perhaps, still
alive? Did she ever
exist at all?

Sometimes, the
city drones it's song, and
it is like this: