Hallway to Nowhere

on the block where the pigeon died

an irregular bloody smear with a few dirty feathers

all that remained of the unnoticed bird

yet people remembered something

and in the way of the street

turned this into a different reliquary

dropped bitter regrets, each burning a different pattern

cried briny tears, each etching it’s own trace

sprinkled secret joys, each sticking like shiny glitter

soon the pavement was transformed

became an altar to chaotic resilience

and for a moment the clickety-clack of the weaving paused

and the weaver smiled a wolfish grin

streets were clean and safe

likewise clubs and even the drugs

rainbows glittered more brightly

enjoy your favorite oldies station

your prints of common museum pieces

your sanitized fantasy past

I’ll inhabit this grimy present moment

touch the hands of those who are also here

dance to whatever music they are making

watch for art wherever I happen to be

drop poems on random sidewalks

It’s a hot boy summer haute boi summer

many are doing a thing have done a thing things are getting done

boys and bois doing them and getting done

xyz is hiring firing laying off have you heard leaving the area

everyone is worried relieved going to the island

light rail is great overcrowded geez down for the morning

did you see the bikes with dykes you know the lesbian ones

do we call the police if we think that guy on the corner is dead

if you were here

we would live in a building with black stone walls

to highlight your beauty when we went for a walk

the sun would catch the dark mischief of your eyes

the eager joy of your delight

people would see first the impossible shadow

thrown against the outer surface

elongated to make you even more elegant and sleek

then their eyes would find you

they would bow and present their hearts

lay them at your feet

you would smile graciously then dance away

we would continue on our way

the buildings above us lit up

glowing like an ambiguous signal a colorful beacon

that showed just where we are

music insistent as a celebratory warning

beneath the beat we gathered

this year like every year but especially this year

it felt existential

even though it was not a farmers market day

and those days have been the days

I see you everywhere beautiful haunt

the bits of my heart that fell in tears

glittered with such bright shining love

that people placed them as jewels

in each other’s hair and clothing

I heard you laugh and there you were

disappearing just past the color’s fade

once again the sky clouded over and I find myself

bent under the hot metal hood of a broken down truck

changing the oil for the second time today

just to get home from the waster job

the only one available in this broken down town

we had a Main Street filled with stores once

with factories and shipyards near the river

but that was before I was born when gas stations sold gas

not a little bit of everything including sex, salts, and lottery tickets

I’ve seen some faded photographs but they’re ragged and torn

things were bad back then for most the same as now I suspect

it sounds better but doesn’t it always

ain’t no back in the day for me or anyone like me

the day is just the day is just a day

another summer and again familiar

the heat the sun the wind the endless sky

will this one differ from the last or the one before

or the earliest ones we knew when we were so young

these will mark this season in this time and place

holding it pinned like an insect caught just so

the large smile of a street dog as I pour water into her bowl

a woman in a full black evening gown gliding on a scooter

Mount Rainier half-hidden in the evening haze

a man playing a violin under the canopied shelter of the trees

as for you, you must find your own ways

delineate your own your time I cannot do it for you

not good at standing casually with a glass

filled with melted cold side stares

bubbly remarks now falling flat

and the requisite dash of acerbic bitters

hand me this and I get the urge

to throw the contents into the nearest smirk

to justify some stereotype (being from the South)

I always show with my iconic flask of hot tea

for the safety of all concerned

the bitter taste of childhood memories

salty and harsh like someone else’s tears

left on the pillow in a chance motel room

where once you stayed on a lonely trip

though not yours they end up in your mouth

jagged and broken on your tongue

and you dream of digging holes in river sand

where the water line is just at the surface

you awaken the next day

drenched and the bed is damp

when you walk out the door to the car

you feel the wet grit on your shoes