What was it I was supposed to be doing?
This moment is counter-active. Round peg
square hole.

Again, I tread the same water.
Drag out the same dog and pony for no one.
The alternative is Jupiter and Mars.

Spice and water to the lungs,
Flush it out.

Something felt right about that city.
The age of it. The endlessness of it,
on and on, block after block, row houses,
smoke stacks, brick facade, train tracks over
my head, water taxis, cabbies, cops, and
now Sandburg hangs like a ghost. His rage
and grayness.

The fog indeed.

Rain on metal. Cat's eye
Purr, purr. Head pulses.
Hot feet. Emotional
vocabulary fails me.

Family has become a
dirty word. A curse to be
placed under. Cars and
bridges.

Water, fur, hair, routine.
The flatness of every airport
in every city you never wanted
to visit.

Nerve ends. Dry eyes.
Head pulse. Purr, purr.
Boredom of obligation
Obligation of boredom.
And the end result seems
crass, fruitless only generating
more obligations.

Mouth to bottle.
Throat contracts.
Rain rushes to rivers.