Celia Guggenheim. I turned a corner, Finally, some import for wander, Red Sunshine Girl leaning over the balcony Smiling, the mutiny she started, Breeze lifting skirt, Doing us terrible favors. Bush swing set. Single hibiscus, Curling, blood red hair. Yellow dress, gusted and stopped, Thighs make an appearance, Ankles, white and pained. Dangling feet behead … Continue reading RSG
How you still read these things willingly, Is baffling. Yesterday, I booed, And clapped, And told a room full of them: This moving darkness called poetry Is never your romance and your cupcakes, There will be no heaven after the open road. It is the smell of your private pain, The color of your nightly … Continue reading The Smell of your Pain
"Jesus and Co. Great Rose of Sharon, Take me now mighty man, Don’t let her take me whole, Save the heart, Save the face, And the fingers for the art."
Sunshine, Delilah in the boulevards, Night latched onto day and dragged on. Shadows walk past the windows now, little dogs follow little girls, taking little shits. A fabled twist, this is that taboo they speak of, She will consume you whole, Wrap you among moist thighs, That passion will ignite the sheets and start a … Continue reading Delilah in the Boulevards
And so it came, sun downing, People appearing from the grind asking if I had a good day. What do you think? I wrote all day you fool. They shake their heads, and I say dare you ask me this same question tomorrow, I have your response here, here in my fists.
Lola is fast asleep, You would never know in sleep, "The stuff she is made of awake, I look out the cool window, The radio starts itself."
And because man is by some Tiresome architecture, A political animal Or he is nothing good, He will go all-out to matter well, Or just for his own sake to matter somewhat