Never take the last bus to North,
stay that late and it ain’t worth leaving, not for that ride
not for the noise, not for the crowds, not for the last guy
the one who lost
who can’t understand
--please stand behind the white line--
that there is no room for him on that bus,
compelled to argue with the driver, that under the influence,
there exists no such things as time nor space
until the arrival of Public Safety

Not that bus, not tonight, not for me
I took leave of my friends and pushed my way out into the black,
others like me making their way down the sidewalk
reeling like tethered birds, all up in line with simulated bull’s-eyes
floating atop our heads
as we move from field to field, lights of the highway

beaming from behind.

Even in those shadows I still carried that music,
I took it and moved with it, into the strange silence that greets you
at the soft earth--in that field--on the way to the bus stop.
It’s colder there, a sole memory of ages past,
of towers, steeples, rock, and ivy
a memory that you never had.

There’s so much time in the past, the few seconds
you spend now seem as long as they are insignificant,
spinning, taking in this fine night, where at long last you feel
--a part of something, all as one
when everything blurs and
stepping back, there ain't no backspace key. Not tonight.

so you move on and on, seeing no clouds through the darkness as
it hits you moving on until you embrace yourself in the plastic of the
bus stop, shielding you from the elements that just ain’t there,
and you push off of it--gives you balance and reality,
tear down a fucking babysteps poster.

More time, the bus might be on time if I knew what the time was,
but I was there, the bus was there, and that beats no matter what
any clock could come up with--or some pencil pusher
with a schedule--who's always finding me a way to miss my ride to
economize on the gas.
It's all about efficiency grand central station or whatever

falls under your fingertips, rain, windshields full of rain,
ain’t seen no rain yet today, dodged thundershowers
and tornadoes, dodged them suckers by eight hundred miles can't feel no
pain, not here not now. But we say a prayer,

it's only fitting as we pass by those big wood doors,
doors of the cathedral,
almost makes you think catholic, big white hats, and
imagine if they kept those door open at night to admit sinners like me,
sinners so half-assed as to only commit the deed in their mind,
half assed all the way
pleas’ Lord give us some place to stay open
those doors, keep them big white lights on and let us in,
but the priest sleeps tonight,
he ain't up with this,
with me, with all these things we
got to think got to say go deal with before the sun comes up
and banish us all away.
bus plows up and on, windshield full of rain

Three of us on that bus, three brothers--I one--just sitting there,
hand holding the seat before us, left arm back around
our own seat, empty, as if we cradle
a woman.

Shocks, ain't no lightning
but bad brakes, bad brakes moving insane vibration more than
music more than the dance floor urination as your bladder vibrates
full still untapped this night, feels like you’re on the circus ride, the
freak show Ferris’ wheel, feels better than any woman, just you and a bus
bouncing in the night, just without thoughts feeling that
sensation as it comes thinking about place

prick

You get off one stop too early, to walk off the ringing in your ears,
and maybe find a toilet--leaving the two quiet men on that bus
with that solemn driver, the one that: only you spoke to
and encouraged with good night, whom you called “sir” twice
for whatever reason--think--unspecified.

Something once happened to someone else, but I tell the story better,
because he ain't ever around when I tell it.

I exit that bus,
two sirs, twice I mention to all a good night we leave that couple with
that poor man but that's another story, and not one fo’this happy
night, no sir no twice, no not this no happy night no no not now and not
ever not happy night. I have to remember to go back and to separate to
make sense but no time now, not no time now as my head starts to clear.

So I march onward, triumphantly and alone,
quiet alone at this dark night,
wondering what another might think,
wonder how many anothers I could be if
I were to take the time to add up and cruicify them all out one by one.

Rain is coming down now, down don’t smell quite right, kind that burns and
leaves its mark as it purges souls and fenders, little pits--little leaves
leeches till nothings left, but onward I walk, why am I in Baldy?
Pissing clear, ain’t nothin but still it leaves a yellow stain, there's still
something left of me, something inside

Biding time, remembering,
calculating the slim margins between
gatorade and a fast shower to recovery, cigarette slacks still
a dim memory in the hamper. But that's not quite enough and it sure
ain't fast enough not now, then, forever or in which ever order you like.
its good enough for those who are hungry enough,
when you’re hungry you don't ask questions.
Just like that.

stupid
look in the mirror, need a haircut, think I look like Elvis ‘cept you
know I don't--I know I don't--but Elvis himself just ain't that sure
because he keeps talking to me,
egging me on.

So I go back out into that rain, my nostrils and skins' deadened to it,
my memory forgotten, forgotten as the apt-tern of it is all too
familiar, enough to not notice, notice it's part of me and me in all its
acid, all its waste, all its remembrance of history, condensed,
fizzled, and left to ooze it's way into the future no matter how sick
how same how what it seems. But when I pass by the clover, I hear it
dancing , rain moving washing over, bouncing backs of clover,
these child’s shields passing clover my only last soiled
defense, so green, even in the dark bouncing light, off rain, off
memory, off whatever made me remember

I'm sopping wet stupid in a universe that is mad,
not for me, for you, for rain but for so much
that's forgotten in the heat of a dead moment
off in the midst of May, my very own brother’s
birthday, something that just ain't right--so old he is now
but I forget that too.

Leaving, fleeing building’s for the
damn simple sidewalks, worrying about the threads on my back I remove
them, casting them off at once yet around my waist,
just above the navel,

Every red, every blue, every police light reflected
in the clean lines off striations of my shoulder blades,
shadows shaft inordinately high, do something:
do something, do this till I can't remember.
Thinking of mamma on mammas day and how she would never approve but how
still she would be pride still how she would exclaim the power of my
breath in the wind, barrel chest moving in perfect abandon,

alone at this hour in the night

Striding slickfist through’t the night, too powerful for the air or
traffic to stop, door is to doors are, moving entering swaying close
enough, but just enough, fifth floor half way home, across the night.
Just enough, just what--I do not know,

but a silence that at last long
seems fitting until the Bumble bees come again once tomorrow to try
their luck at the screen fastened window. Enough nectar to keep my
spider pet full, not knowing when his season will be up as well, when
that window closes up for good,

and a new tenant has his first dream.