Rejects of my seafaring intelligence

A river like sequence
     of old cars
bought in colors,
   of the houses
       they sit in front of

Potatoes 2

Edge of the brow
  i see signs
of the gulch brightening

All those winters
 wash stains,
on the sun's towel

Monday,a bout of
dejection behind
every lip

Two birds
magnificently in love
only one dives

Phone rings,pens clip
Pads open,ransom
pens clip again

Hunger,faces
hang,over the chest
of mother

A nail in the coffin,
sticks out,
wanting to be last ?

Early spring,
three bodies
found by the river

Flashlights,
the house
across the street

Night,loud voices
on the street
calling my name

Afternoon,bars
of the window
i try to squeeze my head through

Men who drink

Umpteen shadows
    in the alleyways
        inseparable,naturally
Men who drink
are key

Separation..'Billoo'

our slates clean,stood at the same edge
   as judgement,having an age,grew
    tears came off like white strands
    combed off of the skull of reality
     and to not jump,wasn't a way
        to persuade a proper life.
         lived by the solitary ear,
    on one lonely side of the face

City

It pours,the traffic
 like an assault of practice
on psychological termites,
 like tearing posters of endless
roads right from under the sun's frock

 places of birth have been
misplaced
  One after the other,in memory
for there are no lions
in this place,who return
   to be kings

  Cardboard boxes on the roadside
 shudder with an emotional capacity
       the short, thundering lives, chase
 on a stomach full evening,
    when the gay overlords of town
  smash sleeplessness into
     awakenings
   from the boredom of imagining
 better lives,
    A middle aged man,sits
by the street tossing his one good shoe
   in the air,feeling warm
  and unsound with a fear
     of being asked to cross the street

Early morning architects

Rest assured,
  the paunches as they deflate,
 young and old alike
    disbelieve their luck in
  having the sun split image of the morning
     appear beneath them

20 something days

On the 20 something of November,
  no sooner than the cold wind starts to appear
in everything i write
 with each chill and its progression
   down or up the spine,
      an obvious diagram
  the science of which
        a fear,more than a fact
   i believe will arrive,
totalling the oddities i carry
      in my impregnated womb of verse,
          the misunderstood women
     and children i speak for,
   the trees and their unmoving behaviour
       the sky,the moon     their shadowing
apprentices all putting in their
       uninspiring shifts,
   and men bent around them

    into believing,
         if they already didn't
 that a poem is often baseless
      and i wear it
 for 20 something days a month,
        like a hat over my heart