sometimes it’s wrenched
like a blasted flower from the
soft fur soil of a tender garden

a harsh wind or a
hungered storm or a
gardener’s cruel spade

sometimes it’s thrown
by the roadside watching
cars whiz by as it
wiggles blithely on concrete

gasping for life
writhing with day and night
waning with sun, waxing with moon

a word
a morsel
of nourishment (then)

it grows
again
on rock.

A magical yard with
dead trains that
are not dead but
just not moving
suspended in an
eerie light in the shop where
a transit worker man
hung himself that night --
by the sign that says
No Trespassing.

when I hear the word March I hear
march
               march
                                march
                                                   march
and think of my former roommate
who used to chant it while imitating roaches
marching slowly with his finger down my
naked
             back...
Fine, we were roommates and lovers
Fine, we had sex he also saved my ass
from the streets of New York introduced me to
Humus and couscous creamed linguine
clam sauce and that rascal Alfredo.

He also taught me to look both ways
before crossing the street since
people driving in New York ignore those
One Way signs he told me the
statue has liberty
and the ears have walls.

If you see him
you can’t miss him
he’s a big black muscular man about
6’2" & last I saw him 303 a big black
bountiful man with a shaved bald head and a
clipped goatee who worked as a bouncer
in some of the best clubs or worst clubs
depending on perspective

we drank we stank we careened together living in
hotels motels sublets with barred doors and tchotchkes
you can’t touch

we had a dog named Sadie
a rat named Dali
a super who smoked crack
and that thing called love.