Hole in Ohio

someone has gone and poked a hole through Ohio,
and all the rivers are circling, circling and
burning and rushing, down through some bottomless
insubstantial place;
and they’re washing us all away, all of us,
bitten through by fleas and asbestos,
we who sipped on sweet waters from ancient pipes,
washed away like particulate, like sediment,
settling down in some hole, somewhere,
where we can get by just fine,
i guess, just fine,
somewhere foggy and freezing where
someone important won’t have to see us, somewhere
dark and dreadful, dark and dreary, a real
place called “home” by the starving,
somewhere in Ohio,
and – who knows? –
everywhere else, too.

Is this?

Is this another winter day in Cleveland,
gray slush on gray street and
gray skies above?
Is this another sunrise, rosy and watercolored,
beaming down across the gray lake?
Is this your face, your smile, your
eyes when mine are closed
(and mine closed, when yours aren’t)?
Is this another wintry, gray day,
or is this a day finally worth remembering?

As Leo Sayer Sang,

“You make me feel like dancing,”
yes, I feel like
I have become a part of the rhythm
that beats down from the speakers,
through the head and through the heart,
I feel like the sway of hips and
the harsh thump of feet on floor, the
slur of drink and the sweep of skill,
yes, I feel like
you are there somewhere in the riot,
other feet and other eyes,
other hands pushing through and seeking,
finding, joining,
the clasp of a warm embrace,
and the slow, stuttering swing of some
long-dead bandstand audience;
and we are there, too,
in the courts of old Europe,
and the fresh-born bustle of Kingston and
everywhere in-between and apart,
and you
make me feel like dancing,
like the first dancing around a cave mouth to
keep the demons of night at bay,
you make me feel like dancing,
like something primordial and natural,
like something eternal and refined, oh,
you make me feel like

Dead Seconds

millions of millions of dead seconds,
heaped like leaves beneath the punch-clock,
spilled, poured, discarded carelessly
and purposely;
and still, piling higher with the passing
of each afternoon,
more visible every day, and still,
no-one will bother
to save them.