Village Grievances

As the weeks
and their distinctions
fall
as now
loose and recycled
paper across
the ground


I look about me


Just as
self concious I would a
literal situation
the center of a suddenly
attentive
crowd of complete
strangers.

But for this metaphor
there are no page
numbers
and only
stranger
after
stranger in each
possible
retreat.


It's been one month


(yesterday and counting)


since I've seen the stars.


I'm starting to remember them
only as you would
anything
you once
ignored
only as a
romanticized impression of the most magnificent form
you can
recall


(and that was next to you, in the hated california sand)

There are SO
MANY
SIGNS
around this
city but none of which can tell me which way to look
UP I

awoke
uptown one morning I can hardly
remember

The sun was
too bright
the view
too vast too
many towers to take
in I was suddenly a
name with no origin too close to
the sky
(since becoming foreign)

but then
a plane flew west
and I
wasn't
high enough

the bohemians have left me
and I feel like they promised
but they all promised no one
(The appeal, I conclude)

Outside my window
I only hear
echoes
and out on the concrete
see echoes of
echoes

Drop
the
names

yeah



wear
the
clothes


yeah


drink
their
booze


yeah


ensure your persona is screaming

"I'M MAD TO LIVE!"


yeah



but I'm dying
trying
to dig it.


One day long
before I was
born Bob
fled 4th with his
hollow body enough
was
enough
and
if the troubador
of troubadors can't
see the stars
where
is the light
for a
slowly
muting
poet?