Chapter One


   Come up from the subway
   and there it's just glass.

   Light from the ferry's window
   mixed along the floor.
   Alone we wait to be delivered.

   Two new sparrows-
   the tourists don't know
   they're new.

   That Russian boat
   goes everywhere
   and then sits here
   still and peaceful.

   They'll spend the summer
   crushing the garden-
   a steam let off slowly.

   Seagulls beside ferry boat.
   They're people-watching

   She thought there were too many poem-
   now she's lonely
   waiting to write one.

   Mr. Crazy stands
   in the elevator
   wanting my opinion.

   Up on the fire escape
   I was thinking how to live
   another day without a job.

   He died so young,
   I should tell him
   what happened.

   Oh atlas
   look
   you forgot my island.

   They keep calling
   but I'll just sweat it out here
   in my little apartment.

   Antic motorboat
   we're not impressed
   with your speeding.

   Lightning hit the island
   so I left with the birds
   to watch it from here.

   A quiet rain
   soaked my books-
   even the dogs
   didn't see it coming.

   Late at night
   the TV flashing.

   No money left,
   then just tell a good story.

   On couch,
   searching for nickels,
   storm echoes.

   Too tired to write
   and this hot apartment
   keeps me awake.

   Mice in walls.
   Better there
   than here.

   I won't miss that gnawing
   but I probably won't forget either.

   Rain over Jersey
   we watched you
   from the roof.

   Cigarettes will kill you.
   She said it so sweetly
   I wanted another.

   They could take over the place,
   but the mice can't tell
   when I've gone away.

   The sound of children
   outside my window-
   come and listen.

   One song after another,
   those singers
   seemed so lonely.

   Why want quiet
   and then
   keep asking that question.

   Mouse on two feet,
   your time come!

   On boat
   with umbrella
   feeling practical.

   Indians swimming
   in Manhattan Bay
   years ago.

   These poems won't work
   with memory,
   so why won't you call?

   A Filipino freighter
   filled the city
   with Filipino stuff.

   Ferry moving quickly,
   blessed fish's memory.

   Over Kill Van Kull
   Jersey stacks smoke
   all night long.

   Yeah I live here,
   but so does that rotten television.

   Sweat all day-
   the sun doesn't
   like you either.

   Rotten pad,
   you're too small
   for so many poems.

   Manhattan, gathered by water,
   you are useless buildings
   and only slightly salty.

   Sure
   you're waking up somewhere strange
   but I do that every day.

   The air is always there
   and my fan
   knows just what to do with it.

   Those people were like ants,
   waiting for me to say something stupid
   they could drag back home with them.

   I'm no better than anyone else,
   but I could be less afraid.

   Don't be concerned,
   live another week
   and then be concerned.

   Chris can't even remember
   what he said to me,
   and now he wants something new.

   Hum of the universe
   I'm trying to sleep.

   Sad story,
   my shoes sitting at the end of the room
   and me looking at them.

   You didn't know me
   so why did I think
   acting like someone else
   would be more interesting.

   I wanted contemplation
   and foolishly
   grabbed for my pen.

   Now that I'm older
   the hot sun reminds me of other hot suns.
   Years ago it burned.

   The missionary on the boat
   was so beautifully patient,
   but it wasn't his God
   that made him that way.

   After dinner
   the missionaries don't talk about God,
   they talk about us.

   I will sleep
   and you will tell me about it
   later.

   Spring in sandals.
   Summer in sandals.
   Who do you love?

   Mr. Crazy
   knows it's summer-
   why else sit on the corner.

   Jonesing all day
   and kids on the boat
   playing with a dime bag.

   It's a chill
   and a rain beyond the island,
   mostly a chill.

   That memory is so crushing,
   why write me letters
   I already know.

   Foolish boat
   ignoring the water
   you push through.

   Getting mean over quarters,
   then tearing the chicken apart,
   is it really me?

   Light darts about the cabin.
   Out from the coast
   waves play, unprepared.

   I keep thinking
   of that one time over and over again.
   Is that shallow or deep?

   Plants in hallway
   near empty elevator
   I'll save you.

   He imagined a satellite
   passing by nightly.
   I'll look too.

   Talking about the weather
   became trite,
   which was sad.

   Someone planted all those flowers
   and I like them.

   That's perfume.
   I'd know it anywhere
   by its smell.

   It stopped raining.
   Now let's bring the moped
   crosstown.

   Mike's late to the bar.
   The park is warm and empty.
   He better not be there.

   Foreign kissing couple
   you could have done that
   anywhere.

   The bird was more interested in them
   than I was.
   And I knew what they were doing.

   Even the mean waitress
   feels the breeze.

   I think you will hate
   the neighborhood,
   but visit anyway.

   I was early
   and watched the people rushing.
   Be early more often.

   Some man on bicycle
   playing his radio.
   What world doesn't he rule.

   No one sleeps
   above the water.
   Let's try this summer.

   Behind the building
   summer's bitter grasses
   and afternoon approaching.

   Tiny plants
   slightly folded-
   a stream let off
   the sound of birds.

   Twisting river,
   from up here
   your deception seems honest.

   Every time I leave the house
   I write a poem-
   but I was there all day.

   She was so sweet
   and happy to see me-
   all because of some little story
   you told her.

   All day on the ocean
   without finding anything.
   That will help them sleep.

   Sun off the heads of a thousand cars
   and one white van in a ditch
   with sun shining off it too.

   Mad happy swallow
   where'd you find that friend?

   A new boat sleeps in that place
   each night.
   The current there must be mild.

   To watch you open
   and to know you'll open and close again.
   All is flora.

   It felt so good
   to get my sunburn,
   but now I've got it.

   Flying a kite
   off his roof-
   I'm worried he'll fall.

   So hot tonight
   even the cops eat ice cream.

   A bad accident
   preparing to meet me,
   it knows how I think.

   The fan keeps me cool
   and outside light
   burns all the dead weeds.

   Sun, today
   the smart made shorts
   from pants.

   In my new apartment
   this morning
   someone different.

   Fog horn
   and empty freighter.
   Along the coast
   a mild sun.

   Train rushing to Chelsea
   is thinking like me.

   Waking late
   in the high gray morning,
   traffic passing.

   What's so funny
   about peace love and
   understanding?
   Good question.

   Some barge called The Maya
   pushed through the bay.
   Our promenade was the sweetest promenade.

   Don't be mad,
   I'm in bed thinking
   of you at work.

   Are you enjoying
   getting in trouble
   for what we did last night?

   It's just a season-
   they always come back.

   Leaves rotting
   out beyond the city-
   a dog resting in that heat.

   Storm waiting
   for her to leave,
   then raining.

   They think school
   will make them smarter.
   I like how they think that.

   Some guy trying
   to get the game on the radio-
   now we all want to hear it.

   Did everyone skip work
   today
   or is it just me?

   We could power a city
   with this energy,
   but it'd be a waste.

   They let me out
   of the bar to think
   but I went right back in.

   Long night
   and I'm crying for home,
   wherever that is.

   Those drugs don't have anything
   to do with our happiness.
   Now I really sound like a junky.

   In the hills
   light filling the hills
   a moment before I meet anyone.

   We went on what we had to go on.
   The sun and thoughts
   similar to older thoughts.

   Clouds casting small shadows
   on fields.

   Behind my parents' house
   wind moves ferns
   in chorus with singing birds.

   Hidden in low shrubs
   the stream still flows,
   though now it's the birds we hear.

   They say the sun will burn the fog off.
   Long days of that happening
   to come.

   River by highway,
   year after year I forget you,
   but someone doesn't.

   Before she returned
   I stepped slowly through the yard
   as if to say, here an entire hour passes.

   Morning
   and deer quietly crush herbs
   as they walk to the river.

   Branches down
   in harmless bunches.
   Phone lines and rain.

   The smell of them painting boats
   and of damp shade, moss.
   From this car
   we watch everything.

   Acting crazy
   after rain
   the birds
   just like home.

   What if the fog is gone
   when I get back?
   I'll probably forget, that's what.

   If a tree falls
   in the woods etc.
   and so too with friends.

   Hour after hour
   of hot sun,
   all I have left-ideas.

   When you return
   and perfect your stories
   it seems so sad.

   Quiet birds-
   we still have hours of sleep
   and of wakefulness.

   One layer after another,
   lush trees set the stage
   for some green play of birds.

   Today they waved at us for fun.
   I wouldn't have any of it.
   That's me, all self-important and lonely.

   I need to get out
   from under all this thinking,
   where've you been hiding?

   Returning to Staten Island
   and that weak moan-
   a foghorn miles away.

   They let the TV go all night
   and just sat on the stoop ignoring it.

   Are you gone
   or is it just me
   paying attention to roving drunks
   and laughing with them?

   Two bikes in a pile.
   I've been away
   and they've been waiting.

   Clouds gather
   over Wall Street
   for lunch.

   Some hippie
   thought I was an accountant.
   Maybe he's right.

   How strange to be fighting
   this voice
   when it spears.

   Friends meet in the city.
   I'll wait here for two days
   then start writing.

   I love how people keep dying
   and I can spend all day
   thinking about her petty comment.

   Everyone's got a lover
   waiting to come back
   mystically changed.

   So my day is set,
   I'll smoke something
   and walk around.

   Who knows what everyone's doing tonight.
   Well, I'm in bed
   trying to write these poems.

   The phone just waited there
   to pull me in
   to your sad complaint.

   Sore feet.
   I was so stoned
   1 walked all the way home.

   Twice a day distrust,
   twice again tomorrow-
   no wind can blow it away.

   Hot concrete
   after rain.

   Today I'll spend the day
   stopping myself
   from doing what I want.

   Arcade of light
   laid down on water.
   A sea of strangers
   stand around.

   I don't care
   about anyone else this week,
   but I'm not complaining.

   Back to the city
   the cool wind
   and the cleanest air
   seemed so temporary.

   I wanted to stop writing
   and the poem said
   it's a beautiful blue night
   stop writing.

(Continues...)