Boogie waltz or martial arts
on grimy Frisco street
pop and locking
mutter talking
Dance! is on the schizoid wavebrain today
one man blocks Market street
with smooth butter moves
forearms spinning like drone ‘pellers
catching his glimpse
in the marble pane of a scraper deli
zig zagging Battery a frantic shuffler
left hand gripping his jeans
ass fallen out the back
cigarette in the careening right
pirouetting, blaspheming
“FUCK… BASTARDS!”
breaking the unspoken “no contact” rule
as he bursts past a lady in the bus line
saggy soles rubber every
inch of the pavement -
Stomp and Wheel!
a kung fu master
feet squared between
lamp post and newspaper box
clutching a bag of baccy
elbow strike,
chamber,
combination punch,
swooping knifehand,
ecstatic, magical tai chi
building an energy ball,
summoning change
Today they break out in dance
on the Frisco street -
schizo crazy
movement
livens gloomy techhead
as the moon waxes gibbous
they swing wild arms
jitterbug down forgotten lanes
bare ass in broad daylight
with a swagger no sane
square can stand to
applaud.
mercedes pulls up
dude gets out
big belly, red shirt
nike swoosh on his white ball cap
black shorts and he got on flip flops
goes straight for the Chronicle
and heads to the register.
suspense - will he get a drink?
orders a small dark roast.
whispy white hair on his thick neck.
little does he know!
little do they know!
little does the man with the big sheet of
NEON PAPER know
orange highlighter - he’s been to Walgreens
He nibs the page, middle aged!
Starbucks at 6 in the morning!
In they pour! Out they jumble!
OOH the drinks!
OOOH OOOH OOH the drinks!
the snacks
the WiFi
little do they know!
little do they know!
little does the blonde barista know
probably 17
his hair waved in a doo
straight from 1950
green apron on, he glances ‘round
his tattered blue shirt
looks to be passed down.
little does he know!
lttle does the pigeon know
that quarbles in the muck
drinking sludgy water from a
shallow puddle in the lot
puffy mantle iridescing
in the dawnlight.
I
am plugged in
charging
on the power mat.
she
giggles as she reads
a poem by Craig Raine
page 832.
now
she’s onto Rita Dove
page 862
Modern Poetry.
all
mond cappuchino does
is sit be sipped and chucked
the lid’s a total waste.
the animate swallows of
tahoe wood meadows
drift pine top to pine top
on carnival wings
they squeak across blueness
announcing existence
and twirl through the breezes
quick moths of the day
dive, glide, and whistle
white breasted as penguins
then outstretch like aerocraft
slicing the sky
the pines thrust up heavenly
no death about them
lusty green needles
buttress every spare twig
men in the distance blast
something post-Beethoven
kick drum, guitar, bass
a car door slams shut
her atmosphere cherishes
all that it caresses
pines, larks, a poet,
the stones by the shore.
in the office, shirked my task
broke decorum, grabbed the flask
immoderate I scanned the hackneyed atlas
for an evanescent buzz.
pigeon holed, a techie mole
hunting for subterranean bugs
back at my house, I met a man
told of childhood effluvium
sewage leak his father fixed
but all years later still smelled piss
in every bucket's flumchuck
left to fume in dank garage.
McCain's brain tumor: fresh news gore
he'd dodged the firing squad at war
but now stood trial by combat with
his own neuronal stew:
the terracotta warrior shattered
to reach for mending glue.