The Stillness

The days say to go away
You say no things you are not here

With your songs,
There are no movements, no effort

No one gives a crap anymore
For your dreams and slow-like skyscraper presence

A slow woman like a whore,
Just like the day to give up on trying,

NO WORK has been done,

Not even my shoes are warm

The laces are loose rounded and fallen

Down hair in long striding walks
Around the old cities I despise
With no poems to read or write,

NO LAUNDRY has been done,

The walls are empty
Give me a glass and shrink

Ask Baudelaire what to think,
Of their roomy little hallway envy
Of gunshot-sounding thunder lovely headache
Of their closing windows tears in their eyes
From staring hard at the wind

Staring and staring at three in the morning past
Pornographic angels and lights in ceilings far off
In someone else's bedroom;

And I have nothing to do,
And I am down there a rough-edged no-sleep thinker,
Down there a clown without its make-up
A coffee cup imaginary

A boy with no shoes on

Who hasn't touched anyone

In a million years

Or slept

In a million years

Like some heavy-eyed turtle with too much weight on its shell