2.

i feel the third rail reaching out to me
five and half electric feet away,
dragging metal serpents hither and
thither, through the quivering intestine
of america. and there is much
space (the empty star-filled sort)
between the come-and-go-but-do-not-come-as-you-are.

my very own carbon dioxide
fills the void.

am i Zeitgeist, crumpled like a filthy
poem by the grafitti? or am i flea-bitten
welfare flesh? or both?

the male Washington, powdered hair
cheeks and hands, powder in his boomstick,
fell to Martha like a cherry tree, felled
the cherry redcoats, spoke always truth
through false teeth.

i am a liar. water crystal clinging to my beard,
the gust of winter sets my dentals
chattering.

i belong to the skinny greyhound pup
licking at a cheeseburger wrapper,
to the indian woman, her rubied forehead,
cream white halls, orderlies and flat lines,

the pallid cement, the fricative hiss
of passersby.