write this, effable and ineffable both

write this

emmer effer

a pretend genius broadsuction

some days are better than none

the message board

Ivan Passoffski

RIVER BORN

wet words, billboard crush

city flushed, rain blessed

rain and river, bird song wrung,

some brief hope for break in cloud, sun

slanting across 3rd street bus stop.

homeless vets cackling from wheelchairs, smoke slicing air

mothers gather bundled children in a flurry

of scarves gloves grocery bags,

downtown bustle in every direction nowhere.

arrival improbably persistent, youth

aloof and stumbling, glance about furtively,

sodden as if river born, exultant-

headed for the Rendezvous off 3rd

cross river-stone intersection resplendent,

avoid oil-tainted puddle, an oracle.

LIMBO

I always check the cockpit

boarding the airplane. Usually I don't

catch the pilot's eyes but

it's worth a try.

Say! What if he’s drunk?

Have I filled out the proper flight insurance forms?

And to whom shall I will my rags

my cereal box watercolors

my cell phone haiku?

The pilot's eyes

merrily in the future

chubby cheeks hot and vain as forests burning

brain wet loam teeming with worms-

my seat belt's buckled good.

Thirty thousand feet above the ground

thirty thousand feet below everything else.

The sky blue, a newborn's eye

unblinking.

RAY BAN

it's been awhile since I've rapped with the moon

we used to be pretty close we hung out and drank

while punk rock flayed and spat, I slurped cold draught.

the moon siphoned cold space

we talked baseball light speed time travel

and the questionable authenticity

of certain historical peregrinations.

I remember we used to whisper together

shoulder to shoulder hunched up at the bar

conspiratorially.

me and the moon got a good kick

out of giving shit to the classic postcard sunset.

THE DEAD

Glenn Gould plays the piano sonatas of Beethoven

mumbling in his creaking chair.

I profane the music with nervous tapping

and blue jays out the window

interrupt

and the water pipes in the walls

have their say

and the cars in the street

making demands

and Gould

grunting and moaning.

Gould interrupting

dead genius

with the mad con of the infinite.

Glenn Gould’s dead and Beethoven’s dead too.

I am quite alive.

I bought the CD.

Me, Gould and Beethoven.

who’s dead?

the rest of you.

A MOMENT OF INTROSPECTION

I love my flannel green

bicycle, Peugeot ten-speed

Swiss knives, my pot and pan

the Uni-Ball pen

morning gulp of cold clean water

comics and sports page

an old Impala say 1963

my brothers

baseball

beer

a good scratch

the polished pool cue

old leather shoes

and my specs

in order to see

what I

love

all too

well

and all too

fleetingly.

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