Defining Neuperlach (A Road Map for Marked Souls)

for Radek

it is a grey place

a place built of grey 

plastered with grey

lined with grey

a place of straight roads, of straight corners

of roads & corners fenced with plate glass

fenced with plastic

it is a wide-open place

a place of many openings

a place no one can find his way into

a place with many roads leading to it

a place with only one road out

it is a place of dim rooms, of cramped balconies

of thin walls, walls that echo long after a fight

of low ceilings, looming ceilings

where all feels tight, feels crammed, feels stuck

where no one ever leaves

a place few know how to leave

a place most don't ever think of leaving

it is a place of misery, of dread

a place where dread is shared, is spread, is handed down

handed down from father to son

handed down by every mother

here hips are broken 

legs are broken

here there is abuse, there is cursing

here footsteps heard on pavement send shivers down a grown man's spine

here eyes squint even when it's cloudy

a place the sun doesn't reach

where the shining sun pricks like a needle

a place that makes you wait for the breeze, makes you wait till you're stiff in the knees

a wind-tossed place

a place of sheet rain, of bullet hail

of snow that covers everything 

snow that buries streets, buries men, buries all

a place with a past remembered by none

it is a place of weeping & of wailing

of back-hand slaps & sudden disappearance 

a place the weepers & the wailers never abandon 

it is a place long abandoned

The Trail of Daylight

for Chauncey Brambach

& Jerome Rothenberg

He had seen it all in his day

the town square that afore came decked in quetzal, turquoise & deep gold now turned into a pyre

for the kids are loosed like bloodhounds now & from the looks of it you'd think they're running the place

Sweet little ones turned wild-eyed over night 

laughing out from beneath garbage heaps & running

always running door to door

knocking on some but smashing most

& making a fire out of anything 

Like little Julio strutting the border with his cart of wares

grinning snare to every tourist

smoking his 3000th cigarette while pulling his 300th con 

& at end of day taking his loot back to town with an eye to spend it on the ladies

Hardly a hair on the sack but acting tough in front of women old enough to be their mothers

…to turn your back on this won't hurt a bit

All his life spent wandering

& no end to what he's left behind

He had settled in the forest once

where first bugs got to him & then bandits followed

the kind you spot a mile away

stumbling through the bush & hacking at it blind

another low-down wrecking crew out for sacred sites to plunder

They found instead an old man who hadn't lost his killing skill

who gave them what they'd come here for when he piled their bodies up against a clump of trees & named it

Dead Fools’ Grove

soon strangers flocked to see it, crowding round his forest home, boring him with questions

& so he sought once more to leave & breathe a different kind of air 

He made his way through towns he'd heard of long ago

hoping to drop at each juncture a bit of what his years had taught him

(as is the custom of the aged)

but no one cared & no one listened

no one there had any use for old-man wisdom

& they turned him away

The patient few who sat with him along the way spoke fondly of the beach

& so he tried it

raised a pretty shack on poles just by the shore & called it home

& for a while the old man almost prospered

he hauled in clams & fished for snapper

made potions for his joints from seaweed & what other green things he could find

& by season's end had dressed his walls with shells of many colors

But then the tide rolled in with a stench of slow death

a current of black tar 

& with it came rotting fish, broken bottles & eventually more bandits

He killed pirates on deck

he killed pirates on shore

he killed pirates until he was knee-deep in their gore

& didn't even bother washing then but set out for he knew not what

Came to a patch of desert in the end & sank beneath the nearest tree

laid there one hand upon a rock & put the other to his face & when he felt a likeness

knew at once what spot he'd come to

knew this place for what it was

knew then he'd see no further stops along this trail of daylight

knew better too than to look for his reflection in a pond

nothing there he hadn't seen before in dreams

or long for house or tent or temple

& so he left it at a makeshift stove

cooked himself some beans & coffee

didn't even bother adding hooch 

& drew out a cigar he had carried with him for a good long time 

He sat then on a folding chair & faced the setting sun

lit his smoke real slow & 

blew it to the south

blew it to the west

blew it to the north

blew it to the east

blew it on himself

It is said by those who still remember the old ways

that what they found on that chair by sun-up was only some of him

yes, only some of him

& that most had gone up with the smoke