a thousand muted cries behind glass of pains,

screens of intoxication

The pigeon man runs his private circus in the sky above the clamor

of trains, frustrations, the small broken glasses of wine

and big fights for space

There is a general and confused impression that the rich are doing it all

right

as we all of us sit side by side, traveling together,

pardoning the indifferent fur coat

while shunning the one who has less

the one in the corner offering out his evening drink.

Dogs scrapping trying to find some relief

in an ecology of only human invention.

Pay a visit to the most difficult city to live in

only to stare at gold on the ceiling.

i smell time
in the wind
turns the leaves
leaves me
on the couch time lives
where time stops
the couch we made to hold our bodies
when we tired
from the rising
birth grave gravity rising tired
bodies and chairs to sit

look upon the world
beyond glass
moving around the world changing
house on a hill
3 years ago held a family of people
now sits too gaping
the forest and field have opened it
rot brings things down
doubt brought him down first then her
then him then her

floor drifts toward the basement
the couch slides into the ground
the whole house does
babydolls, exercise weights
and books on homosexuality