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Each Rub
Too many night time regimens
have driven through me
like driving through East L.A.
Too many certainties
have crossed my face
leaving trails of bitter juice
(Don't ask what it means . . .
I don't know.
It means something
I don't know . . .
yet do.)
Too many moments in the day are
well lit through and through,
like saloons at noon,
with the shades up,
light hitting the dirty floor,
with an immutable fist
and no one there to see
the drunk laid out
like a metaphor for the city.
Too many dreams
are cadaverous jumbles
of this piece not fitting
with that one,
long arms of thought
falling over the edge of my bed
in a wrestling match
between me and
my beloved homunculus who knows
every f------ thing there is
to know,
yet tells so little of it all,
and so arcanely when he does.
Too many days of . . .
earth quake
set traps
blue breaths
world jitters
ozone fever
fears of hitting
splitting sidewalks
machine gun reality
flashes of wonder
new blood
on old bricks
thunder of dead news
weeping blues
echoed songs
of bad night
last night
all wrong
windows burning
hovel-hope
deathly steam-in-the-eyes
finger tips pressed
on cold skies.
Too many lives
rubbing the air,
getting greedier
with each rub. |
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Evans Experientialism 
