Switched on and swaying with the wind,
I am pulling my shoulders back, feeling tall,
And striking a pose for a passing car.
Headlights are eyes at four in the morning,
And my eyes are wide...

I hear the hum of the streetlight calling
From beneath the muffled clang of the thin white cords,
Brass ringlets blowing against the flagpole across the street.
Old Glory ripples
In an indigo sky.

Working the night shift; this is my prize.

Tall standing in the early March wind--so late, so early, so quiet
I can hear a generator kick on
Somewhere in the patchwork surroundings.

I know my time on the porch is done.
The stream of consciousness recedes,
Revealing riverbeds which time will crack
Under weight, heat, pressure.
I follow an imagined vein a moment more
While eyes take in quickly moving clouds
That threaten a move south.

And I'm not just standing tall for the flag,
For the pose,
For the Hell of it.
I am done with this cigarette break
Of flashing

12:00

12:00

12:00

On the VCR.

I am moving underground.
As soon as my lease is up.


--Corey Mayo

Feb. 30, 1998,
or What It Feels Like To Die

Copyright (c) 2000 by Corey Mayo