STREETS Project > the reader

the reader sits on the bench
book in hand, but not reading
watching the people amble past
with their dark jackets loosely flapping
hurrying at times
wandering about at others.

i am watching the reader
as he watches others
as they amble pass,
the red socks he is wearing
flash as he shifts
little signals waiting.

he left a pile of orange peels
on his right on the bench
i casually wonder
if he plans on leaving the peels.

the stark blue sky stands up
behind the buildings
holding up the clouds
and the stars
which we can't see
when the sun is out.

and the buildings
which surround us;
reader watcher, watcher of reader,
make stone canyon walls
cold, dreary grey,
sitting like a crowd
of old women at the wake
of their favorite friend
or the town gossip;
the buildings whisper too.

as i walk away
my reflection glints back
in the amazingly clean
windows of the department store.

STREETS Project > the end is near

The end is near.

There is a street,
A not too busy street
Where I can see
The end of the world.

There is this gap
Between number 38
And number 42
Where there is a walkway
And at the other side
You can see the end of the world.

Grey little ladies
Come streaming into the street
They remove their shoes
At the entry of the walkway,
And walk down the alley
With their heads bowed and covered
The place feels sacred.

The sounds of the street
A purring lawn mower,
The neighbourhood kids playing,
The aggressive hiss of a moving car,
Are muted till quiet till in the end
Silent and gone in the hush.

As I walk towards
The end of the world,
The light grows colder
The air smells like clean steel
And I think of you
Briefly, lonely, the ache
And the pain and the world
Slips silently into the noise,
And I step into the end.

STREETS Project > dee street brickwork

dee street
small rose bushes
congregate in compact gardens
bricked in, iron railings
white bricks
edge the windows and doors
in a chisel cut pattern
as every other brick
is left unpainted.
harland and wolfe welders
on the corner of wye street
across the street
from leebody fuels,
they carry arrow oil
and the street workers
section off the road.

thin walls, sections of wall
poke up with vents
chimney stacks
marking the division
from house to house,
you can almost tell
where the pensioners live
cause the coal smoke
is always there
no one else runs a fire
at all hours of the day,
the satellite cables
sketch their way
across the bricks
straight lines shape
a modern crest;
level line structures
following the flemish bond lines,
round bullnoses and
the occasional kings closer
headers and stretchers
forming the english bond
that works into the soul.

jean's grocery caps the row
holding court with sweets,
newspapers, and christmas cards
the glaring powder blue tile
and roll shutter front
feel all the more sudden
in contrast to the aging brick
"i'm not a sullen solitary man
but you'll not find me in there!"
exclaims roger from number eighteen,
but he seems to be the only one
as the rare person moves slowly
down the pavement
headed somewhere else
or back to home
on the quiet night
on dee street

excerpt 0346

even with the clouds, the angle of light coming in the window is stark against the dark back wall of the apartment, the room is too full of furniture in the haphazard way she collects stuff, with no real notion of decor the pieces bump up against each other in the eye, a running line that the eye moves over, jumping this way and that, makes my head hurt. and under foot the occasional pile of clothes, dropped where she took them off, to bother with a hamper is too much work, but you couldn't really say the room is dirty, a clean sense of untidiness maybe, a disorganized, accidental way of living that speaks of energy, intuition and a sense of believable candidness towards others. "take this shirt," she would offer, "it was herman's, but he doesn't want it anymore." not that she has heard from herman recently, in fact she has been cautiously avoiding him, but in her mind, the location of the man, his absence, however prompted, however goaded into leaving he might have been, is lost in her casual giving away of the shirt that makes me think she is right, always right. "but this is herman's shirt," I still reply, cause this is me, still waiting for someone else to show up, carefully maneuvering my way closer into her life, taking the smallest step into this wilderness of clothes, furniture and windows. i glance outside, it is raining, a slow misty type of rain, with clouds stacked up, one on top of another, in a very real way mimicking her apartment, inside outside, everything is grey, tumbled, tossed around. i want to say something else, something about herman or his shirt, say something about how funny it is that the clouds outside are like her sheets on her bed, or how i feel about the uneaten muffin perched on the arm of the chair, but nothing comes out. "okay…" she draws out the vowels, arches her eyebrows, then knits them together. and then, turns and drops the shirt. "you probably would wash it, fold it on some horrible t-shirt folding machine, and return in in two weeks anyways." she moves into the hallway, the light shifting over her form, changing her. following is difficult because she doesn't have the lights on, houses are built on the notion that the lights are turned on at night, when it is dark, but architects don't seem to plan for darker days, overcast days that blend into one another, and make hallways in houses dark and dangerous.

STREETS Project > the blue gate on holland gardens

the blue gate keeps the crowds out
of the frumpy front lawn.
cause people run riot
over useful things
that are easily accessed.
and the man at 18 holland gardens
stands solemn guard
at his bay windows
with the half sunburst
pattern border on top,
glimpsing through
the vertical blinds,
tearing himself away
from the daytime running repeats
of deal or no deal.

we're wired to jittery
human needs,
innocuous enough i suppose
yet when the kids are daring enough
to run and shout
and swing wild arms
the man at 18 holland gardens
takes the time
to roll the papers
into a tight blackjack
and stand by the door
waiting, waiting
for the moment
when some unfortunate boy
enters the blue gate.

the blue gate waits
at 18 holland gardens
like a tiger in the grass
silent and still
with sharp eyes blazing in the sun.

a dusty southern road

filled with food and sitting
at the edge of the road
staring bleakly into
a sodden, lonely red sun
dipping into a late autumn
cloud bank.

a shadow plays
across the pavement
at your feet,
an orange joker
jumps from branch to branch
twisting the late
evening rays
into slow syrup.

there is pale southern
molasses in the air
breathe it in slowly too,
it fills your lungs,
slow and full,
you can feel your ribs strain
trying to keep
it all in.

someone next door
has put on a tom waits
record; scratchy, broken,
the needle scraping
at an edge,
brawlers lifted into the air.

you look lonesome,
as you stretch your legs
and lean back
to watch the leaves
of the southern live oak tree
flutter in the evening breeze.

you never really dry out

you stand there waiting for me
in the half dark hallway
perched on the step
holding the narrow door open
behind you all i can see
is the rain and dark clouds
roiling in the sky.

why are we going out today?
is there not a better way
to get our errands done?

but such foolish questions
drop slowly, gracefully
to the wooden floor
like ashes in the air
leaden and intricate.

you walk ahead of me
your raincoat is soaked
my socks are wet
i can feel the rain
creeping up into my trousers
it rains alot this time of year
and you never really dry out.

but the puddles are there
and the rain keeps pouring
and purring and hissing
as it falls,
and because it does
because it cannot care
or see the cars pass by
or the pathetic cats
twitch between drops
it is desolate, empty
uncaring and sovereign,
and because of all this
i walk with you
even in the rain.

cold winter working blues

the sky this morning was pink
and black and grey and subtle hues
growing lighter by the minute
as we work our way slowly
into the waking city.

cause i got a chair there
and a desk, a computer too
some pencils, a pen or three.

i spent a good part
of yesterday doodling
on some paper
that i dug out
of the recycling bin
seems such a waste
to throw good paper
in there,
printed with someone's email
on one side
so i draw on the other.

and yet,
the sky grows uneasy
without anyone
to watch it.
the blazing sun–
which at this time of year
it not so much hot
as lukewarm, tepid,
but still nice to see–
but the sun
wishes you were here,
to suffer
the cold in the office
with me.

instead i will
turn on the little
ceramic heater
i have under my desk
and point it at my cold feet
and wait for the day
to end.

old dreams

i've had unsettled dreams
and have woken up
in a hot sweat, fumbling
the blankets off
with a fragments
of feeling
slowly sloughing away
like a receding tide.

i guess i am old enough
to try and divine
some non-mystical reason
for having such dreams,
our world has passed
beyond the times
when portends and omens
carried any weight,
now we seek and prod
at more definable causes
some psychological tick
or hidden desires
lying just beneath
our subconscious, poking through
just enough
to disturb my sleep.

as if we have
any control over
what we dream about!

and yet, the dreams
still hold me,
and more so
as i grow older
they seem to carry
over into the waking
hours with greater
clarity and force
than they have before
and i hope
that is the reason

because i can think
or at least picture
in my mind
some subversive demon
or fantastic alien brain
trying desperately
to contact me
and since i am asleep
they never get through
and they are getting
quite annoyed at me
frustrated to the point
that they would rather
move on to someone else
than keep trying
and that might mean
that i never dream again
and that would be sad.

STREETS Project > round avenue cafe

ah to be about the town
running through the rain
to some sort of small shop
anywhere really that is dry.

past the hair dressers
with the girls in too high heels
and long flowing hair
that look out at you
with narrowed eyes
full of malice and forethought.

as if cutting your hair
is some sort of punishment
for them in the bowels
of some carpathian quarry
prisoners of their own regret
and solitary decisions.

and to be honest
looking in at them
as you hurry past
it is not hard to imagine
that the young harpies
trapped there under glass
are suffering.

but lets run
turn the corner
and bolt across
the half full street
splashing in the puddles
getting your socks wet.

the cafe on round avenue
is full; i suppose the rain
has driven most indoors
but there is a table
a single table at the back
with a view of the room
that no one wants,
cause you're by the toilets.

the murmur, low murmur
of voices and clatter
of spoons on crockery
coffee cups clacked
back onto dishes
it's all so french
or late victorian
i'm never too sure
about the period,
but it feels revolutionary
political in it's fullness
and the voices drone.

it's still raining outside
the door of the cafe
comes open,
someone comes in,
we all wait to see
wait for something to happen.