Passing through, / passing through the sea’s afternoons

Back at San Francisco Greyhound, leaning / and I’m not thinking or yearning / I’m just leaning.

this is Walt Whitman speaking

The old Hudson is an odd lumpy cock
standing on its nose in a ditch full of mud.
I want to think that you’re asleep

my muse wears contact lenses, 
 maybe she’ll never see 
  past suburbia 

The branch of stream and law entwine
lost rail to the stars and back again
while the dandelion sits on a weed

my father rung poetry up on his typewriter
typing me to what he wanted to be abstract
even fancied me as “son” when me and my girl screwed

Elmer Fudd 
by the fire 
bald head shining 

Jean Vu 
Lived in Paris 
Rue Rimbaud 

The cops don’t carry magnums of champagne
in the backseats of their cruisers.
In my town, seven year old kids know how to steal motorcycles,