A Poem I Can’t Remember Writing

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Of a thousand dreams before, I thought, they were
only remnants of desires—latent in tree stumps, street corners,
pigeon roos over my roof, white sheen of canvas openings into
the blue sky—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀All of my maniacal memories burst like shotgun
pomegranate bleeding synapses flesh—broken matter between
my brain halves—amyloid proteins popping—stowed from vision
consciousness—impressionist gaps between Brooklyn Heights
and Today—

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I looked around and saw all the
Windows and trees and hairdos
Brick, recemented, old, different
Heights and browns and entrances,
Rusty bikes; the Mediterranean grocery
The organic butcher, Turkish Barbers,
reaching corners, drinking tea in hourglasses
In front—and knew
That all of it would not reach the other end
of this poem.
The cold stairs were mine, the days,
the years, the cats on the window sills.
It didn’t matter.
Tom Waits was no Radio DJ in this world either.
So what the hell.

August 2019