a real montage poem

a montage poem for you. from another unpublish manuscript - The Night Of Hobo Dreams.
a rather morose collection of poems, i have been told. since i mentioned the montage form in an earlier post, i thought i should at least offer one for you to see.


CROW WITH A BROKEN FOOT
"It's not dark yet,
but it's getting there."
-Bob Dylan

1
it is finally evening.

rivers are low.
stadiums are silent.
the ghosts of Greenberg, of Gehringer, refuse to come.
their heritage has been altered.

pigeons on rooftops,
all they ever seem to do is shit on cars
& the outfield bleachers
with an elegance that defies logic.

2
broken steam line,
like the scream of gods gone insane,
& the accuray head going off the scale -
another damned reel of cull.

blistered hands cannot mend these imperfection -
the concrete here has no emotion,
merely bleeds its own black blood down walls,
onto floors.

3
crow with a broken foot hobbles across the orchard,
like a midnight drunk, the pain of living
rewarded with an intoxication that only God will ever appreciate.

apples rotting in an August
too warm for comfort.

4
where are the flowers, now that
yellow skies hang with ornaments of steel?
line-ups change too easily.

the subways are silent now.
what replaced the simple pleasures of our youth?
it appears the writing's on the wall & but no one stops to read
the fine print anymore.

5
will you kiss me now?

6
they cull paper for twist warp, mullin or wrinkles,
recycle it until it meets someone's standards.
no one but accountants or mill workers notice,
or care.

but the soul - when you cull that
it turns sour & gray,
until it has a stench
the body cannot stand.

7
let my fingers be the forgotten rain
down your hair, down your neck.

in the morning, pin my heart to your blouse.

indeed, our sacrifices are in more than one form,
to more than one god.

8
there is no dawn.
no sunset, where concrete sweats,
where fingers are laced with paper cuts & scabs,
where dreams are no longer real -
merely apparitions that dance along thin cat-walks
on the night shift, mingled in vapors of steam
& not enough sleep, in the mist of chemicals
best left unattended.

the ghosts of Cobb, of Kaline refuse to answer.