April 23, 2005

  • Graffiti Tunnel

    How do we ever find the way out?


    The
    evening air fresh and blue

    lies deeply pooled

    in a stairwell, waiting.

    Sounds sidle past me,

    turning over engines

    beckoning, honking horns

    play about the walls.  

    A fluorescent light

    stutters a peace sign

    and dies of exposure.

    Wet peeling paint

    screams loudly in

    the last lumens  cast.



    My train rumbles darkly

    overhead screeching

    a good-bye till tomorrow.

    I walk with neon bloomed

    after images, shifted sight

    the nightly tunnel

    daily taken home.



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