VERY SHORT, INCREASINGLY HAIKUISH POEMS SCRIBBLED INTO A MEAD SPIRAL MEMO BOOK WHILE STANDING NEAR A GARBAGE CAN IN A DARK CORNER OF A NIGHT CLUB, DIRECTLY PRECEEDING A PERFORMANCE BY A PROMINENT AND QUITE TALENTED HIP-HOP EMCEE WHO HAPPENS TO BE A MEMBER OF THE MUCH CELEBRATED WU-TANG CLAN

Each person must create
a liking
of our own image.

The power pulses:
bass and snare drum combine,
all electronic.

A musical hoax
involves crowds of people
and chances for dancing.

People touch themselves
unaware of silence
and solitary forms.

A terrible wind
thanks you for your comfort
and finds someone else.

Social gatherings
can be lonely as hell sometimes—
depends on who’s there.

Death metal t-shirts
at the rap show shine brightly
like burnt celery.

Temptation parades
in halls as long as castles:
powder blue Times Square.

With table manners
you can never be too sure
within vague temples.

Underwear choices:
some prefer the comfort,
others like the choke.

Sounds on Biggy’s lips
make lots of simple sense
though after the fact.

The smell of ballpoint
means something mental has gone
and captured itself.

Sounds of strange verse
on pace to outrun this pen—
ballpoint’s lonely death.

School tomorrow seems
distant as Juneau or Prague:
sleep and dream and sleep.