I think I will but
maybe not,
I've got a dose of 'flu
I want to write
I really do
but ,
Flu!


I'm sat here in a woolly hat,
a thermal vest,
goose fat rubbed into my chest,
I don't feel well.

The doctor said,
I look like hell and
he would know.


Somewhere in the flow of me, the
sea of ink in which I think
evaporates.

What's left is salt and herbal tea, which
I brewed to drink and
think,
I think.


This cold has got the best of me,
I see a few days in my bed to cure
me of those red eyed blues,
'flu's no laughing matter when you're
getting on and the false teeth start
to chatter,
when the body aches and takes the goodness
out of every night,
when
really, I think that I should write, but
maybe not.

A photograph
pries a velvet kaleidoscope
from living

like flesh parting bone
ripped and torn
by the ravenous jaws of a great lioness

it snaps a fluid stream
with no beginning
no end

it chops to a point
which cannot flutter
because it has no wings

it is only an end
less than ephemeral
meaningless

Clouds shift across rearview windows
Of ten million untouched cars.
Hesitant steps over uneven asphalt,
And the deep drone of interstate
Spanning the continent.

Dilapidated city centers,
Abandoned buildings and frayed neighborhoods
With all those chemicals still inside,
So birth defects are on the rise:
Another casualty of industry.

While there's shiny new shoes,
Couture wardrobe and golden rings
With a wood floor in the renovated loft,
And a computer that knows your face.
This view of the city is nothing new,
Though the price says otherwise.

Rain sweeps carcasses off oil black streets.
Excrement piles in the gutters.
Billboards like clawing monoliths.
The senseless beat of trekking tire,
And a really ******* big American flag.

Endless parking lots,
Suburban sprawl,
Incandescent spires,
Nonchalant death,
Distant eyes,
Mass demise,
Corporate ties,
Institutionalized,
No integrity,
No empathy:
A quiet suicide.