Armageddon reruns

have you heard the grass
twisting at Armageddon time,
shaking out the snow?
or heard, at quarter to three,
the drunken hearted man
dancing in the street? --
almost the best of both worlds
stuck in the middle,
between lass and lock,
gluing dark and dawn,
a royal funk

goodbye to all who
turned on the love light,
the poor substitutes
lost in place, in the sun.
so long to the blue valentines who
so lonely, so long gone, lonesome,
cannot say what they mean
funny they should say that

goodbye to the blues
goodbye to the woman
what a shame she caught the last motorboat
goodbye to the only living boy in New York,
Moses on the Hudson, 
to Little Marie and Wendy on the beach,
goodbye to the free man in Paris.

Ammonia onset has dropped anchor
they won't need this kind of loving
each avenue so tired
each dirty little girl
listening step by step, to the
rock, the rip, the pony stomp,
it's nobody else but me
praying for a miracle
for peace in the neighborhood,
a little cleaning action.

but the metropolitan slide
glides so steeply into harbor
that the dark teardrops
fall and the scene
bounces, rushes
permitted in the lens --
a perfect lie:
next in line the burying ground, the wasteland,
no long road promised or demanded --
another week of Wednesdays
more days to be alone with you

then the sun comes shining
through the keyhole
and the streets could be wonderful
people working together
playing at their tennis strokes,
their sports and divertissements,
a girl with a guitar, a little angel,
I believe her more than she'll ever know
and it's crazy man, crazy --

but I awake to sunlit shades of gray:
the ones I love are gone,
they don't matter anymore
the songs that played before I went
went out with a heartbeat and a fiddle
staggering down Vine street
with a heart attack drum
that rang out like God's song
the last time I was here
down by the sea, where
the water finally empties
with an oily cough,
it spits into the sea

- Jim Esch

UP THE BREAKDOWN EXPRESS

start up and take stock of what you have got
it doesn't take a special analyst
or a salesman dressed in navy blue
with Florsheim leather loafers on his feet
mouthing platitudes, copping attitudes --
verbal strip mining, hauling off your slag.
You're never going to find your answers in
the newspaper. Newsweeks never admit
those secret truths. They only recycle
past crimes, yesterday's toothpick relevance,
not good enough to floss a dirty truth.
Flute music's more what you crave -- plenitude --
and the dance of shutters during a storm.
Pondering's more what you thirst for at night,
fine snowfall chutes to ground infinitely,
muffling the traffic's stomp to whispers soft.
In night's streetlight, reflect. Thoughts multiply
brilliantly. Gems from rooftops tap the ground.

- Jim Esch

hallucinating toothless man

yes, we laughed
damn, we tried so hard to see
the pools of blood spreading on the subway floor
I was on the edge of a hangover,
beyond guilt or good sense,
the bench seats tilting,
the shuck and jive of the rails,
we were ice rocks crushed in a shaker

I couldn't stem frenzied chuckles --
his pink gums glistening bazooka,
cheeks shadowed with sandpaper grit,
dilating eyes, scouring the floor.
See it everywhere, he shouted --
watch your feet, where
does all the blood come from?
the gummy words running fluid
don't stain your shoes, it's getting ankle deep

I forgot to get your name
but until 69th st.
when we hopped out of the train
we were joint partners in joy
our after hours wedding the essence of fling
these random elopements never lasting,
our hips rubbed together, warm and safe,
smiles unglued from fear

you worried: our laughs
would make him snap
yes he picked up our ball
of knotted nervous laughter,
rolling towards his feet
skirting round the seeping blood
he took the fraying seams that stitched
sense and sensation in his dirty fingers,
frozen in a fastball moment
looked back at our bobbling heads,
fluorescent streaks on our skin
and thought, frog-style on the bench,
I guess they don't get it.

lift your feet he screamed
wanting to save us despite ourselves,
his big chest heaving,
not giving up on us,
his arms grasping the severity,
don't get contaminated
you want to get out of this car alive
we played along, yes,
and lifted our sneakers.
looking down, my smile leveling,
I swear, you could see
bubbling swills of crimson
everywhere

- Jim Esch