175 MARLBORO ST

whole days with Greg on the porch jutting from all seasons
of the attic, lungs and guts
filled with the songs of terrible birds

fuck perfection, myth, and all
those many other things we don't need
that float constantly around us

younger in spirit each day
feeling both brilliant & stupid
as the town clock falls from the local sky
and crashes through the laundromat,

whole chains in mid-air above monotone autos
flowering neon yellow
pressing through the dark matter of every month

discoursing on the pleasures, watching the luckiest
animals go by, girls swapping precious objects
from pocket to pocket, staggering past the pancake breakfast
for men with thick frozen eyes,
fishscales buried in the lacework of the ceilings,

gold stains on the belly of the ship's floor,
house wagging its 3 stories

until the police fall screaming out of their helicopters,
colors fall short
buds clench and fail
in hard white
circles of spreading light.