Stars
A river of cars, yellow lights
in-coming, red out-going.
So this is Hollywood; wonder if
I will be mugged.
Dust under my shoes walking
over stars in the sidewalk, 2 a.m.
back to hotel/motel room where
I wake to screams, shouts, and
a helicopter overhead shining
a pencil-thin spotlight across the
parking lot: this is not Hollywood
it is LA, big city of broken dreams
and arms--
the chopper lifts off
into the dark
where the stars
shine brighter than
any on earth ever could.
On the Wagon
in Junior High School
for a weekend or
night, standing in the park
after dark, me and
whomever else on the wagon
too--
shooting the shit, watching
cars pass, laughing about
how bad those who went
drinking will feel in the
morning; wondering too
what they and everyone
else are doing...
The traffic light of main Street
turns green then red; the
lights of the drug store go out;
a lone car rolls by; the yawns
become more frequent than the
words: "I think I will hit the sack."
My feet scuffle along the sidewalk
under half a moon.
Thor
a sliver of banana moon
sunk in mist of
starless
sky blue
dark--
the moon rocks in the
foamy sea
two-hundred thirty thousand miles above me, but
a stone's throw for me Irish cousin
Thorblad, from Cork, who
bobbed-up in the Irish Sea
lash March deck-wise on the
fairy float from Holy Hog
through avalanches of
waves like mighty
hillsides, to dock
with Harp in hand
in dark dirty Dublin
cit-tee.
No comments:
Post a Comment