three poems

The smells of oil from the clack machine, clean, the lines, and
the binding sound of the ding, dinging and the just-cleared
space where I am making many noises
alone in along time, with a beer, here, in the white noon
after stalking, unplugged and looking for a match-maker
to sell off the possessions of my co-worker
the one who sells herself too short
too short, or average-below   a cohort silent on the other side
of the city





                     slanted from the other side of this city
a fire-rock amalgamation, eat earthen cowboys green slicked
oily touch to the heat of the palms and molded
the gut, the heart, the moral fibers of the head, black
faded to the much-touched, i wear a hat this hot day
and further on I see the same big plateau on which I had kissed
and took a pic, and make--what I made of this, I need this





Neil my friend practicing his many monologues like marlon
lacking the genius of him but still, with true conviction
and the manifesto a la projection, by olson, of which I gave to him
in front of my old work Amada, and the young man who was homeless
and wanted a cigarette, I gave him that as well as my zippo
a royal flush concealed by the thumb, one I had found in the hostel
lost-and-found, he found that too gracious, I needed a crust
my columbo coat and our acting husks
father needed his car back for the morning
Neil left, we switched parking spots
I work
I go to work on the tiny street next to my old work
and think of the young homeless man who sleeps on the other
side of the block
clicking that zippo throughout the lonely night
and the fuel, the fuel was running low for both of us
he needed a crust as well, Neil! though! speeding up kelly dr
almost home, me, the hobo, the young ones, us three!