the first law of thermodynamics no. 6

he thought about how his shoulders are broader
than he would like them.
that this makes him feel like he is a man now and
‘it’s either that or I need to get shirts that don’t fit so tight.’

it got cold as soon as the sun was all gone
and everyone went in side to wait for Jeopardy to come on
because they all wanted to yell at something.

when he sat down on the deck each night
listened to the waves crash, and break,
and it was so dark that he couldn’t see them
or anything really past the deck
which was well-lit and had a cooler full of cold beer

when he sat down on the deck each night
he thought “now the heart is a muscle so it can’t really
break or crash like the waves and really
the sand, it just gets displaced goes some where else .
everything it seems has a place to go, even if it’s not where you want it to
be right now so maybe shut
up just shut up and sit in the dark,
on a deck, listening to the waves
,which you can’t see,
go crash, break
go pull, strain”

things about how oceans are just great big puddles that move
or really one big puddle with a couple bumps in it
and how the oceans is vast and contains multitudes
of things, all kinds of things! pirate ships and submarines
and other things made of styrofoam and cookie cutter sharks
which have bioluminescent bellies and sand and molecules of hydrogen and oxygen
and other things from the periodic table of elements,
and plenty of skeletons.


months later with a veranda on the side roof, the one out the kitchen window
he is walking along looking for fairmount park
which may or may not be on a map
and he thinks “and there is something about telephone poles
that reminds me of birds.
this is something that goes both ways,
like a vcr,
like a midfielder, a tennis ball,
box-office opening weekends
or at least half of the conversations I’ve ever had.”

and yes, there is something about telephone poles that reminds me of birds
and it can work both ways
and I heard in japan they erect buildings literally over night
or a fortnight or however many nights it takes to get to three,

what I am saying is some times things go quicker when you don’t notice them
or because there is something enticing about the periphery
which is something I have found more than learned
when it’s cold now, the sun has little to do with anything
and the leaves were bright and on the trees
and now they’re bright and on the ground
and when the wind blows
(which it does) they are bright and everywhere and in the air
and in this weather we all have scarves and thermal shirts
for to keep the warm in
and he sends her an envelope through satellites asking her
if she’d maybe like to go see the dylan movie
and for once that there is nothing old about what he is
and that things go on forever until they stop
and this yes has a deal to do with skeletons
for there is nothing morbid about death and dying.

or maybe it's the weather,

this morning when I took a shower
I didn’t get to wash my hair,
because of how the hot water disappeared
both gradually and suddenly,
and it was very uncomfortable and quite a little tragic
and I wondered if this was how people felt
on the titanic.

on spring garden tonight there were trees
and one of them was losing its leaves
in a way just like isolated snow falling

big, orange, isolated snow

and on 17th street there are bricks
laid the way a knight moves,
and the homeless move
like they’re pulled ahead on strings
and I like how my electric fan moves back and forth
it could be scolding me
or scouting the perimeter
or rheumatic.

five years ago we played a lot of kickball
and there was this one game where the bases were loaded
and dave weeks lit a cigarette
and kicked a grand slam
and circled the bases
and finished the smoke by the time he got home.
this was the pinnacle of his life, and many things
went downhill after it, and sometimes I want to take the feeling of that game
but without the outfield
all of us close together
in a box
that I can close up and ship you away in
so that all of my memories of us
are represented by a series of carefully selected polaroids
that I can roll up like a fruit roll-up
and store with somebody else’s cigarettes.

the other day I bought a bar of soap so big I cannot get my hand around it.

once out my window I saw a car with bullhorns
telling people what to do.

have you ever looked out your window and seen someone give birth?
there are times it feels like that,
but maybe without all the blood
and with us all being pulled ahead
bother gradually and suddenly
and with all of us screaming our heads off
and watching out for the icebergs,
they are dead ahead, and mostly hidden,
someone once told me like a Hemmingway story
like hills like white elephants,
that was how they described an iceberg.

the sun also rises and it sets too

there are flood lights in the windows,
we have strung damp underwear from
our building to the next,
in the hopes that things will become cleaner and clearer
as the night goes on
but also to better see the bulls
who have begun their running
and are trampling down 17th street
after god knows what.


and who says you forgot what the stars mean?
the other night I left a walkie talkie on
to see if anyone else was there.
tomorrow I am trying to build a bridge to connect something
if this seems vague it’s because it’s more about a bridge
than the two points.

possibly,
I should have asked when you were coming home
but I am trying a thing where I place my faith in gravity
and other events people have proven with science.