He kept repeating, “It’s
not real,” but she climbed out
of the cab in traffic &
slipped down the steps into what?
Another world of the afternoon.
That would be all the books
on my shelf & others I have
not opened, yet to read, spines out
waiting with the dust of
futurity, bad television,
shit politics on the radio—
Another super committee stalemate,
another set of unsellable lies sold
downstream to those with the buckets out
for runoff. The unknown plots haunt
the watcher in his bored looking. So,
what am I waiting for?
Rain? What would
the stories do here but
bring me more moons to
harvest, more characters
to try to shake off in a ride
to the bridge, in the shower
lingering, or in the dust with
a sad rake, waking with the name
of one—Gomez X. Palacio—
between the tongue &
the ear drum, so I cast the net
out and dismiss a few. Note
a few marks, & scribble into the work
of an unforeseen archive.