the sound

there is a moment
when the teeth can’t grind
steel anymore
the tongue can’t explore
more cavities
lips can’t
butterflied’ly kiss

at that millisecond
hands are no longer
holding ‘a pack’
fingers are cramped on the
cold trigger

that second
she stops touching herself
next to her laptop
the TV anchor
is ecstatically coughing

this is the eternal sound
of emptiness
of that ‘click’
like the foot that steps on a
land-mine

take the crosstown bus

take the crosstown bus!
please, take the crosstown bus,
which takes you across
your entangled mind
straight up to the North.

the driver will give you
a smile,- or not.
a cross-eyed girl
will stick her tongue out,
& wrinkle her nose.
just take the crosstown bus
up to the North.

take the cross town bus,
up to the dusk.
from this itching City
up to the skies.
meet there a cross-eyed girl,
& buy her ice-cream.
she’ll straighten your mind
w/her pallid warm skin.

just take the crosstown bus…