To Boston, then Space, and home again.

strange stars
hanging from liquid silver beams
stratus clouds perpendicular as telephone wires
transmitting confessions from beyond
in their unnoticed buzzings
every drop of gutterwater synonymous with the nightbirds chirping
and in time
the train against the tracks
a soundbowl whirring its purrs
in a swirl above my head
destined from its remote origin
i should be writhing
i should be writing
the wind is in unison with the freeway
cars are machines in their rightful place in the dark leafy streets
and every cigarette butt you're about to put out
is a microscopic giant of a volcanic mount
that actually does exist somewhere in hell.
but his elusiveness annoys you
so you must do away with him at once
sending all those sultry smoky
cloud banshees back to their
cages within your blood stream
boiling and hollow

the colors weep, for reasons
you cannot ascertain
no matter how much you try to reconcile with the objects
upon which they are resting -
as the water evaporates
back up through the tiny tubes sustaining the stars dripping wet
with tears back in the sky

but anyway, the glass was quite
clear and direct with you in the first place
regarding its contents.