Dear Editor, Maybe, just maybe, There is a compulsion to your immorality, A humanity in that chair even, An earned diploma cello-taped to the wall. A man making a buck by digesting another still, But dogs will eat dogs if the conditions are right.
There are those who are quite content with lightning in the distance, And those for whom quaking love is an absolute compulsion. I am thrashing. I am deadly. I have lived.
When this art is good enough, When it is nearly sufferable, With a good house wine and a little more salt. Hunt down my missing teeth with the lamp, It must have been a good nigh
Americans constipated across state-lines, Red-eyed men with dog-tags and paper roofs, Men missing teeth, with limestone bunions, Women and tangled spawns bent under the constant humility of immigration, Lurking along the damp edges of this fine America. Welcome. Fresh Africans sprinkled in Galveston alleys, Like broken glass on Saturday walkways, It was the absence of kindly lack, That did … Continue reading America in a Brochure
For every third woman I broke, I got mine too, from a powerful fourth.
I remember those poets And their fervent love for typewriter summaries, Little cut-outs typefaces and such, Signed with lush aliases and tiny black hearts. One last rush for some academic honesty, Little typos too for golden realness, Some marvelous subterfuge. One must admire this fancy with some overt scorn and salt. You cannot write, Of … Continue reading Little Typewriter Summaries
Hungry for the reward of private tears, I cannot be further damaged, Trust me, I tried. My wrinkled soul would not fit an open wrist. We are all not equally deserving of that quiet, easy death.