John Lee in Brooklyn

I.

The light moves slower...
Well, this is winter and
discontentment peels from
the tongues of consumptives
like bubbles popping in the chill

...something steely in the mist
led us both astray, doggedly
though our hands were hidden
from its wet wetness

then you told me the famous rumor
about Samuel Beckett
I didn't believe you
No, I didn't believe you
but then the mist cleared

II.

The adding machine is at it again
and the candle is a ghost of
it's once youthful figure
Madonna holding it
and then vanishing in France

clocks cheer the cheers of repubulics
their old battle hymns
their gentlemanly officers
their thirsty scholars
Samuel Beckett encharcoaled
on old brick
(his eyes are getting older)
his eyes are older than all of us put together

put together

put together, we would make
and amazing monster

put together

put together, we would make
a horrifying baby

III.

The worst possible outcome
would be a Bangor mushroom cloud
or a treaty traded for the animal war

...these equalizers make it easier...

While Bob will not be voted off
before the final three,
this tribe is beyond counseling

IV.

A bus blows by like it's the snow
in a cleanly lit city
with empty streets
thankful to their makers
catching yourself bearded in the sick glare
and the dingy glim
and the apricity
is impressive
on Myrtle Avenue

"Obama's already fucking up,
letting in Hillary...that's not
change."

This history of clammed voices.
This symphony of bland wreckage.
This antiquarian age.
This Toyotathon of Toyotathons.

Everything must go.
It is custom, yes.
Everything. Must. Go.

V.

Maybe one day
this mist will clear

And we will be screaming together.
The sound of stiffly quaking trees.