mon21dec98
		(excalibur found.  to a good homme.)
		-----------------------------------------------------------

		yesterday out to the lake at eleven.

		you know they close parks in chicago at eleven.
		my hall-met laundering neighbor says you won't get
		arrested.

		met no cops met nobody but a distant white car
		pausing observing from foster.  not _my_ rendezvous.

		beachcombed for pieces of styrofoam cups
		cig butts.  bags and newsprint.

		did my time at the locked up cuz the city does not pee in
		the wintertime foster latrines per own sign-up witnessed
		by the silent assent of the world.

		picked more butts from amongst the muchness of mulch.
		in sodium glistening butts and wood look like two of one
		meld.

		yeah, the high sodium lamps make for interesting contrasts.

		what looks like trash from a distance turns to sleek brown
		leaf on approach.  coat of evening dews or rain glistenings.

		my big reward comes upon me unexpected.  kicked at it and
		pulled out of the sand a looming semi-straight semi-sabre
		shape: a bent ex-sign pole complete with a bent mounting
		plate.

		the high bright lights make the lake seem hoary and witchy
		scottish-like, velvet in the dark, a loch.  any moment hand
		of goddess is emerging with a _real_ sword.  or nessie.
		or pieces like the wreck of edmund fitzgerald..

		walking with my new weapon or staff i feel quite the idiot
		and actor

		am thinking this is silly yet not.
		had i found a semi-automatic weapon -- would i not take it
		to turn it in.  what to do with a single-whack sign pole?

		used it as sllooow pointer to read someone's "laws of nine"
		painted large in yellow on the storm wall between berwyn and
		catalpa.  my back to the shore front to the water my back
		resting comfortably against the honeycomb cluster's glow:
		my own home

		thumping in a soft eye-breathing polaroid at me behind me:
		the vrooming the swishy the coming the going
		the relaxed midnighty the lake shore driving

		told the bemused polite doormen will use it for art.

		in my apart-ment facing west now rests: a car on blocks:
		on steele's lisp on gray's anatomy.  excellent blessers
		and handlers that they each are.  ports and starboards
		of many an accomplice-student.

		sword-art lake-given easy-pull from ambient sediment
		a new pulley -- mounted on each of its two harsh raw ends
		my mind's make-believe blue plastic whirlies.  then again,
		i see spacetime whirlies in rings of poles on gurneys's
		space snarling ones -- the cutting ones -- the twisted
		round steel ones -- the open hurt loops

		the merci merci merciful i.v. poles.  of hours bed sore
		waiting.  in triage.


			Marek Lugowski
			21 December 1998
			Chicago, Illinois