Wandering Jack, A Sad Fellow

pickle loaf bologna
"all i know is
i brush my teeth everyday
the same place
foam soap
fast food bathrooms
wash my face"

Cinderella pool cues
fool you
out of work

"i don't know where i'm going"

blue eye blind
fold over the second son,
rising Christ,
squinting
through a slit
of sight.

survive survive survive

a rhythmic mantra
to whisper
beneath 40-oz beer breath
as you side step, superstitious,
to miss sinking into cement cracks.

watch, tap a dance,
clock hand hold.
silver, less noble than gold.
buy time,
bide time,
'til you're allowed to die,
last putrid sigh.

It's the Indian in us, he says,
that drowns us, draws our
mystic men
to the river bends.
Or maybe
it's a biblical sign,
baby Moses,
wrapped tight
in his basket like casket.
torrential currents carry
restless minds
through day to day
nose stone grind:
soup kitchens,
river bed nests,
courtesy coins
for coffee and calls
to people that can't
or won't
call back.