Victim Impact Statement
1. 89 degrees under partly cloudy skies.
2. I've come home, my street is answering yes to Crack.
3. A rumormonger pokes at a sleeping rat.
4. My street is no longer summering in stippled archipelagoes.
5. I do pity the neighborhood piling ash.
6. If what we get in the end is a child's diorama dropped haphazardly on the sidewalk.
7. Ultimately, a small puddle depends on luck.
8. From overhead, it is possible to address the whole street.
9. Instead of wings, you dream cape.
10. The keynote speaker is a red-shirted kindergartener.
11. Our smokestacks are in peak condition.
12. Here comes the dramatic turn.
13. Sweeping back and forth like a stylus.
12. Any second now the lawnmower catches up to the grasshopper.
11. These days, no one hires a P.I.
10. To watch the day deepen—I found a camera and I'm working backwards.
9. The Salvation Army and the Y stretch everything.
8. In the end the street you can't have.
7. In the end the street was no Electric Avenue, bless my street.
6. The Punks who fuck with the ATM.
5. Appliqué flames crawling up their sleeves.
4. Popping cranberries, optimistic.
3. That an El Camino will come.
2. That they will distinguish El Camino.
1. The light turns green. Dramatic!
Say nothing rises. A raindrop hits a colored pencil.
What interests me, drawn as a child would draw it:
Who will explain the unwilling nerves, the black tire-scratch?
Blurred weeds in the blurred ditch. Triangle of
surgery zoned for pills. Impossible pulses. Science
hasn't heard the metal speak, nor have we. Dumb, I find out
what evening has to do. Why day limns. How
litter rallies in the wind. In the welter, I pass old women
whistling Country. A rebel cell of Hell's
Angels passes me. I shoot my last water pistol of whiskey.
to an under-heaven
in the garden,
the torso of a woman.
A cloud wakes
Birds cheer up
the dry canal
echoing back Verdi
from the flower constructed sirens
of borough air radio
as day samples
you with a bow
among the weeds.