Dove grey in pigeon packs
the swollen sixteen cigarettes flock
to greasy fingers,
smokerings molting in seasonal shades
on the curb by signs which warn
radios at play;
they have broken their garage-band best.
Tape-boots stomp instead,
sandles slide and
wingtip oxfords shuffle by;
in buswheel counterpoint we find
the brass band section of car horns cry--
but no one listens any more.
indie ru(l)es the day.
Hobo Bob has got the blues-
bird, songlike in his brown paper crunch;
time to trade the tricky tink, then,
of glass for something soft and real
(like Judas lips at a long last meal)
except, maybe, this tune is what he needs.
Red lights move off the eyes,
and yellow is gone too soon;
nothing gold can say it hung here
in the starcrossed wires of crows and doves
who splatter-paint the world with grey.
Our harmonies roll even on the river Ninth Main
in blackbeat, white noise and grey matter because
not even trees turn coat around here;
everyone wears their feathers the same.
But never fur.
The sky is as foreign as seasonal shades,
modest veil-dancing in smoke
and beatmachine steel up there
where the drumrolls drop;
everyone comes to watch the sweat stain
her heaving hips except the crows--
they know that whore too well.
No more Big Mac communions today
where witches don't like the water
and radios play,
but hiding from the rain in Starbucks
is like seeking salvation from Babylon;
the way the scent of Sea-Tac
follows you home.