For Litopolis

There’s a socially acceptable way of being crazy
when it’s in the public interest to keep everyone comfortably numb

lets just say I needed a walk around the block
hustling the sand for a stake next to the weeds
a yellow you can’t quite rub off the curb
tawny until you spend an hour at an angle

there’s the ruins and the way new things ruin
every good old thing you ever came to depend on
when you dimmed the lights and your room crept in
or sometime later you learned to sneak out

your window’s not only a west facing portal
the best sex ever had was across the street
totally impressive how far the softest cry might
just carry if the moon weren’t so loud

nothing particularly fantastic in a name
it’s the kind of place to hide in your pocket
hoping to fill another page of a journal
that refuses to write itself

you could burry a poet there and watch the sand
scribble a note from the one in his breast pocket
that he kept hidden so that when he died
he’d have something to say to the ocean

while sitting at the beach you forget
all roads eventually lead you to roaming
the thing is that its all quite literally behind you
something is planned mathematically

and eventually appears flawed
when the maps are straighter than the streets
you can’t quite depend on human hands
and you’re content to trace a word in the sand.