The Extra

I’ve traced the ellipse his walking often forms
the stepsounds that follow him to the river

There are short films which feature
noise clusters in stadiums
built with sugar angels

In his strip booths
male torsos hanging from reel to reel tape,
a millisecond’s gloss for some shady producer.

It is useless to pursue him.

He spends most of his time
plundering the deserts,
lying in the bus stations.

He has celluloid tumbleweeds which play back
the alphabet which has shaped me

A skirt’s semiosis where alphabets contort
your head in willed meat hunks.

These years of windows opening on TV
These years of colgate clown faces
getting so close