songs of the sumday

below broadway

there you are
pinned in space
another half drawn crayon star
stationary fool waiting on winning
don’t you know the real ones don’t stop spinning
motion stokes the magic of the burning
don’t you know the real ones were born churning
no credit counting revolutions half-way through the turning
don’t you know that time is ever-bending
proofed both non-existent/ never-ending
your perfect manicure inspires pity
lotioned palms unscarred by blister’s sting
fleshy calves accustomed escalators
stuck now stranded broken elevators
hard to blame a button for not blinking
pointless pointing finger at an arrow
don’t you know the way out’s right behind you
stairway to the reed fields for the pharaoh
screech swift trains along the rails
clack high heels the career chase
wail brass horns old buskers hustling
silent as suspended thought you wait
registering no detected decibel
pile of clown clothes painted tears to match
remember how hellbent
full head of steam
plunged cocksure into rapid stream
eroded now a pebble imperceptible
someday a single microscopic sand
do you struggle with the pivot or the swivel
grease the joints with guts instead of nerves
did you get all of the ‘rithmetic you need
do you figure odds of failure cannot odds success exceed
no guarantees of what waits on street level
possibly effort wasted on an errant steered pursuit
the crucible of steps ensures no payoff
sound retreat there’s not a slide to shoot
ever see a butterfly hanging on a twig
when first he climbs reborn out of cocoon
how’s he know the hour’s safe for exiting
how’s he know its time and not too soon
how’s he know what fancy new wings do
that when he first leaps will not tragic fall
the secret of the butterfly’s he doesn’t know
just trusts and risks and flaps against the flow
don’t see a lotta butterflies in Oakland
seems like a lot of caterpillars though
lamenting as the yellowed leaves keep falling
clinging to creaking branches mid the throe
how’s that freedom sandwich taste you scraped up off the floor
how long ya think it’s been there gettin trampled
do the notes of piss pair well with zinfandel
do you wonder if handmade is any healthier
is the elevator coffin not depressing
is the cityscape not picturesquely vast
are you still the type who curls up in a fantasy
and rents out mind’s raw present
to a rose-highlighted past
can you recollect what sizzling sunrays feel like
the charge of wind and wet thrill of fresh rain
not tired of this greenhouse full of concrete
phosphorescent tan session while waiting for your train
blurry smeared resemblance
on twin dividing doors
blinking back at you with quiet blame
or is it you all smeared and blurred
staring at a door that’s conscience clean
mind-fibbing a campaign alibi
flexing all your muscle to force an unbought smile
root rotted once-inspired inclination
determined to never leave the twelfth street station
unsure if you are real or a reflection
lucidity fragmented by flickering faulty lights
waiting on a promise out of service
fists in pockets clenching figment rights