late night pizza from jonnys famous pizza shack

it's no doubt the worst in the city

but they sell beer illegally till it's almost morning

i heard a rumor they got busted

today the pizza was better

a straight week of rain
but toady the sun comes out

stuck in the library doing a research project

riding my bicycle in the rain
i stop to warm up near a convenient store

two old men are happy that they don't have to wait alone for the bus

the sound the pencil makes when i press it against the wall
my neighbor is made of microphones

i forgot about the first time i saw the ocean
it must have been made of seagulls

the smell of leaves falling asleep
the sound of bicycle tires sliding across the pavement

i heard from some place but i dont remember where
the evidence of mankind is in the belonging

chances the washer in the kitchen sink will be changed by sunday
probably small

the color yellow painted in the hallway of my apartment over time has turned brown.

split open
one hundred at least
the smell of chestnuts.

the feeling after my bicycle has been broken for three weeks and then it is fixed.

a dog confused
on the street corner
waiting for somebody.

the anticipation of eating too much pasta and wanting to fall asleep.

umbrellas hang
from fingertips
the sound of rain.

the humming in the dark after a long uneventful day can be an event in itself.

making cutouts of
dolphins from an old National Geographic
thinking i too could be photogenic.

the beginning of each street corner
taking from a bicycle
watching the sun readjust

the bell on my handlebar is broken
nobody knows that i am here
each window passing in silence

changing sleep patterns to early morning
pockets full of change, little scraps of paper
photographs, pictures, snap shots.

remembering rainy day autumn.
living room window pale and gray
the leaves feeling heavy

fasten stories to the building facades
tall thin trees in the hills
sun setting, arranging thoughts under clay shingles.

wıtness

those little breaks
in the day read like through
a woven plant basket
unwatered and dusty with age

walking sometimes to find water
sometimes to remember
the kitchen sink everyplace we go
is empty and waiting for dishes

sending postcards to distant friends
the air is dry
i pick fresh figs from the trees
the pommegrants are still not ready

lost in a bluish mad circle of sky
lying on my back, water trickles all over
the view a hundred miles atleast
its easy to pretend