01.23.03 . 7:33 p.m.
32: coming up

our father who art in a penthouse

sits in his 37th floor suite

and swivels to gaze down

at the city he made me in

he allows me to stand and

solicit graffiti until

he needs the land i stand on

i,in my darkened threshold

am pawing through my pockets

the receipts, the bus schedules

the matchbook phone numbers

the urgent napkin poems

all of which laundering has rendered

pulpy and strange

loose change and a key

ask me

go ahead, ask me if i care

i got the answer here

i wrote it down somewhere

i just gotta find it

somebody and their spray paint got too close

somebody came on too heavy

now look at me made ugly

by the drooling letters

i was better off alone

ain't that the way it is

they don't know the first thing

but you don't know that

until they take the first swing

my fingers are red and swollen from the cold

i'm getting bold in my age

so go ahead, try the door

it doesn't matter anymore

i know the weakhearted are strongwilled

and we are being kept alive

until we're killed

he's up there, the ice

is clinking in his glass

he sends me little pieces of paper

i don't ask

i just empty my pockets and wait

it's not fate

it's just circumstance

i don't fool myself with romance

i just live

phone number to phone number

dusting them against my thighs

in the warmth of my pockets

which whisper history incessantly

asking me

where were you

i lower my eyes

wishing i could cry more

and care less,

yes it's true,

i was trying to love someone again,

i was caught caring,

bearing weight

but i love this city, this state

this country is too large

and whoever's in charge up there

had better take the elevator down

and put more than change in our cup

or else we

are coming


back . forth