Untitled Morning

The rain has stopped

Morning sky the
tired blue of
exhaled air and
seagulls eyes

Tuesday feels like Friday
near the warming orange light

Stretching on the dirty carpet
hands in hair and left
foot still sleeping

Found your picture from
a time farther away than
last year

And now I've gone back
to some little-known spot

away from the jukebox,
away from the
others

Their cigarettes
and their ashtray
laughter

the tired blue of
pool lights

and this
Morning sky

Picking Up Becky

Cross the line
into a world of free-standing
Breakdancers

I'm addressing you,
Miss Cookie Crumbles

Dig down:
feel the indian burn
on your bare ass cheeks
as you skid
across the wrinkled
black velvet

And don't kill
your monkey,
Love it

I love your--
not funny-- silly
sighing drunkenness

I'm running late
again, running
toward...

San Rafael, then?
Petaluma? Santa Rosa?

Inside, I'm a hillside
full of
half-buried lights
and a whole neighborhood
of wringing hands

The phone is 20 miles from here
and it's ringing

Relax with me
breathe out and feel
the whole party

either stopping
or going on

Without Us