view urbanesque localest

.
thru the one window, past the greenery growing
this side of the pane
into the backway and cemented-over yard
with its clothesless clothesline no clothespins
past the obtruding dark green of the garage
along the backway to the dark brown gate
noticing the h+laticed greyed-out wood fence
dividing the yard and way from those of the neighbour
jumping the gate and the unseen laneway
to the fresh wood of cross-laneway neighbour's
gateway new and h+er than this side of the lane
to the light brick and green shingles
of the neighbour's add-on, then
to the dark brick windows three-storyed wall
of the neighbour's house proper, then up
my eyes wander to the eavesless tinning
of the unseen roof opposite, a line
separating human habitate from grey sky stretching
its solid cloud-cover above

tired, tried, and terribly morose

as tho you're interested

what a fool to be interested in
something that's no thing, only
a mood and a fatigue
that overwhelms the desire
for vital energy and doing this
or that obsessed with a vision
of accomplishment that eats
into the tiny fibres of the day
pushing for more, for more
something, anything, any no
thing whatsoever

but too tired
why f+t sleep>

Locale

Desperately docking the cast iron
flask of mutinous mute mutations
under the good arm, the right swing-
ing aimlessly to and fro, from mere
habit of horror-movies in the late
afternoon with the curtains thick
drawn t+t to seal the room
under the other arm a book of
pressed insects from the earlier
times when the species were not
so extremely unpleasant and more
numerous as to the number of species
and variety of feces, but not so
many in terms of raw numbers, swarms,
flocks, hordes and battalions of
Italians and Greeks so to speaks:

they spoke many languages but not
to one another, to me it would
seem in the early evening when the
sun suddenly drops below the city-
scape claws and darkness descends
so the curtains are pulled back
and the stars beam in from all over
the sky which keeps the insects
out of s+t, but you can still
occasionally hear their whispers
and the plop plop plop as they lay
their eggs in discrete places in
woods nearby and the fields and
the drain gutters at the side of
the roads where the traffic has
stopped now some years ago
without a warning, since the
insects tolerate only natives of
the place not strangers from
other locales and the city. They
seem to have us all counted
hereabouts, and know us each.
Quite familiar with our habits
actually, and tolerant for all
that.