Margin
Citys shut-down for the night.
I ‘in traveling the black-ice interstate
round a curve,
past another freeway meridian,
calf-high yellow grass
of no exotic phylum
glazed brittle with frost and glistening
in the pale-gummed bat-light
like driving through
a refrigerator,
looking for leftovers
of anything.
The margins are wide in America.
If you don’t like driving,
pullover,
but parking’s
illegal.
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Poetica Verite’
Pissing in the restroom
of a mediteranean deli,
unserviced building
üü a marginal corner
of the metropolitan mapbook.
Standing smugly
in that uncondoned male position,
towering above the cracked porcelain,
toilet running,
float sunk like a freighter,
my spray joins
anonymous bowel movements
entwined
with reams
of toilet tissue,
steeped
ma
yellow amonia
lemonade.
As I look down
the eighty-dollar RayBans
perched on the bridge of my nose
slip,
slide,
and plummet
with a ploop.
I roll up my sleeve.
Amazing what money
can make me do.
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