the territorial of the

suddenly suspect turns

                                to gas,

                                     and

dogs that would have

barked

            lay down under

            wheels; lay down

            on cold cobblestone

            of newly aged streets.

there is a stovepipe

man of old yellow moustache

                                                     who

props

invincibility atop a

                      hard chin. and

he carries umbrella and hip

flask; credit card and

coins; fleas and blood diseases

           (and he may be a statue).

but the rain won’t

                      go away.

the sidewalk is the territorial

of the crack and

     the crack will spiral

you down in a perversion

                          of

                          gravity

that every muscle fights.

you can imagine

the bludgeon on

                         the back of the head

that pushed the

shoe into a deep crack that

                                                 really

territorializes the

                         broken face; re-

kindles the disappointment: all

turning to gas and robbery.

                                  still and somehow:

i

could be in the rue de rivoli,

the waterfront of shanghai,

the dock of the bay.

i could shit in the snow in the middle

of winter.

and you

could lay down like a dog

and die faster or immaculately slow with

eyes smiling

at mechanized dawn; or at

undeciphered exhaust melting

into

        small hands

                              of mist.

any phase of moon would

only

dissolve the day.

any fool can let

                       the water

carry him

over the falls.