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Alone Under the Viaduct

Alone Under the Viaduct

A change of identity,
after being beaten down in an art gallery on Broadway,
then sitting down on the curb,
somewhere between 7-11 and The Composition Department
leaving behind my recently purchased at K-mart
ten dollar camouflage fanny pack,
credit cards, driver's license, pager and tools.

A few blocks later, I parked the shopping cart
that I had been pushing home,
against a building, so I could go find my fanny pack
leaving behind a 12-pack of Pepsi,
a Snickers candy bar, Ben and Jerry's Wavy Gravy
my notebook, mailing and telephone lists.

I wandered around the West Side for two hours
searching for my two piles of belongings
and the other side of my face.
Found myselves in Denny's
washing off my face, and thanking the gods
that I still had a right eye.
Took a taxi back to the Composition Department
broke out my dysfunctioning Chevy
from its hiding place
and drove around looking some more.

Despite the black eye, I went to Chicago on the train
meeting nine people from cyberspace, in person.
New year, new image
single and solitary
after the restraining orders
and a night spent in Denver General's psychiatric ward.

Doubled my space, when we divorced,
doubled it again when the Broncos won the Super Bowl.
I claimed more property from the slumlord
and stopped paying rent.
It is called the Breeze Way
an alley between buildings, really
with three rafts, a refrigerator,
abandoned filing cabinets,
and somebody else's junk inside.
Here I am, alone, under the viaduct.