Another hour. There is no circulation Beneath the steering wheel for my feet. Outside myself There is the last of the sun at dusk But like the conquering Hsuing-Nu Pushing themselves beyond a Great Wall and through an eternal Gathering, it is hardly felt. There is nothing great to trouble me And nothing substantial descends on my senses, Giving me thoughts other than the fact I'm thinking nothing: Only A flock of birds in the corner of my left eye Blend down with the grey skies As if the fence barricading The farm land does not pertain to them; Thoughts of the center line And not going over it. Days of Gorbechev, the radio speaks of, But not his nights--where, one time He may have smashed A big, red cigarette in an ashtray With an action stiff and slow; And as he stood up the mattress of his bed may have Raised to touch his rear, again, Like a quick and soothing give-me-five handshake; And opening a window of the embassy To escape the stuffy dryness Of electric heat to his suite, He may have let the cool American air Attack him with the smells and sights Of its diplomatic car exhausts, Grey and orange from street lamps And store lights...and how The nation breathed for once as it moved. The third: road; cows, like islanders; Multi-tinted bladed fields broken by acres Of forests and pastures; a black-sun scene with Car lights; a vision blurred and pebbled Through the windshield-- A truck passes my pinto; Muddy water slapping its face; Its stick eyes smoothing it To a duller complexion. It isn't yet Christmas And I am going home. My parents one day drooped In front of all, and were old-- We should be having much to say... I, thinking like them, with The mind of the world, And us smiling unhappily And speaking none of that: But a lot will be said. I am a bum. One of their hearts shall give in And their marriage will be a farce... Even in car accidents the married Die separately. And then the widowed Mother, smoking the cigars of her husband, And coughing them as the husband had done But in the apartment of the son, might Visit away her life: I would Bring her there, thanking God for a reason Not to try hiding all of me in some pussy As in daylight the main part Goes into underwear. This is their town Far from trays with saucers And plates and spoons and forks (Sometimes hardened in scalloped potatoes Or bent) and knives and glasses (Glasses sometime with folded bread inside)... But forever coming down the belt for the Dumping and washing...the trays that disappear In a square hole and come out clean Will continue regardless if I am there. Men fuck virgins; a child-worker Is born and all is holy. There is nothing great to trouble me: The rains that drop and drift next To streets in gutters, take away Smashed Pepsi cups and beer cans Without intent, bound God knows where, But out of sight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - The San Franciscan's Night Meditations