of gold, silver, shit, love and angry fires burning
like a cats white paw, friendliness crying at my cooled face
lying down being skewered by little effectionate claws curving downward
waking up to a hard stare from green-lit orbs
and i get irritated in my half-sleep when the dirty dishes collapse
the washing machine on, tumbling and turning, noisy and clanking
standard young woman antics are happening now
along with the clogged brass-doored mailboxes
this gate money receptacle of work and welfare
sanctuary of music and computers
blended with poetry, books and collages
there in the black notebooks, electric box
amber light exposes the old shelf in which some of it lies
lint covering the chocolate rug, sometimes vacuumed
the air stale and stiff after a mass comsumption of cigarette smoke
but I still aspire to the the hip blue jeans look
after the surge of masses in their fashion, the manhattan market place
like all the peers and all of the ages, since the dawn of the love summer
dressed hurricane hairdos, ego, carrying the traditon of america
dull-witted, wealthy, they gut my ambitions stealing
my compassionate nature, their oceans of influence
cut down by reality of tornadoes
those made-up sculptures propping metal dust
of tired cliches, and capturing me in commas
chicken beaks broken, me wanting to run away.
