The girl who smokes by the bay window. Excellent kneecaps disturb dead clouds, Black birds fly clean through her head. "How'd I do now?" I demand. She smiles. Little button teeth through puerile smoke, She's going to give all this Brooklyn some cancer, "You're a'ight Mr. Nigerian Man, just a'ight." "I told you I found … Continue reading The Girl Who Smokes by the Bay Window
I abide a guitar solo, By Gary Clark Jr. who is a demon, A demon, If I ever saw one, With a wide-brim hat and banjo, that boy. And his unhinged, epileptic crowd of whores and hippies in my ears. This becomes my strong reason to resist devils. In the crowd, One watches me watch … Continue reading Nice White Polo
Nobody would know that back home, In chest-high elephant grass prairies, In places where the earth was forever red and bald, We were worse so, Little, roaming nothings.
The first time Papa cried, I stole away to laugh. Another powerful man had been put in the ground, After a thorough life, Oily men dug a grave in the front chamber, And added his golden spoils to the mix. A portrait in the sun, This dead man had the face of a dying plant. … Continue reading The First Time Papa Cried
“The boat spews its affliction, Many of them in colorful buoys, Of Kobane Syrian women in damp burqas, Of Olden women clutching prayer beads, And Pakistani men with little pride, And little g… Source: After a While, We See It
Men are allowed to cry. To leak into damp dreams, To long for the one never gotten, Hunt down the ones hardly so, And still smell the ceaseless vacancy, It’s all right to talk blades out of open wrists, And be finished in a quaking crowd. To be just drained enough, And still supply sound … Continue reading Men are Allowed to Cry
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.
I caress the battle scars of your open city, Moping faces turn concrete, People nursing little disgusts, Little sicknesses, little envies. People forcing God to bend this way, People doing yesterday things in tomorrow ways.
There is a garden of calm skeletons, At the bottom of the Atlantic, Bleached now in seafaring serenity, A fraternity of skeletons Held down by limestone luggage, Skulls with deeper sockets, Higher cheek bones, Permanent smiles. There is a keepsake gold dagger that fell in by error, And a three-hole button that baths in rib … Continue reading A Fraternity of Skeletons
They float like most, They wear it well, That fine gloom, Mornings, It catches the subway lights, It is inexpedient, For truly, there are not many things to laugh at now. There are those, in spite of life, Who smile for reasons unknown, Laugh, though needless, Giggle on contact, Ask of your sciatica, your pickled … Continue reading Life is an Orgy & Window Pie
I nod to the comrade in his ghastly green jacket, That wily New Yorker nod, He gets this respect Tight fish-eyes and all, But would not, for god, nod back, Not to a lesser man. Perhaps because finished souls have teeth sunken in an ending fraternity And this need not be broadcast In pulpits and … Continue reading Misery by Inches
On a street of red doors, I am a red one. See what you will, Try that you try. I will always be both ends Of a solitary shooting star. One fine end will slice thru god’s sides. The other will betray The trimmings of a lifelong lie, That I was all right in the … Continue reading Little Red Doors
A method to her madness, Echoes trapped in doorways, That stench. Never surprised by dead neighbors, They beat me to it. Much is gifted in a death bed. Two small barbiturates did her in, She, the lush purple wig above a laundry basket, Whose gluteus maximus killed good sense, Is no more. If I be … Continue reading The Lady Went Out With a Bang
I cannot, With the fingers of god, Endure the rich here gathered. The sweaty priest. The abiding misery of high-society weddings, I have graced the funeral of debtors with better spirit. I abandon the fragranced herd, And the mariachi in fake moustachios, And the honeyed vino, And the tight bulimic wives, And the bloodripe daughters, Prettier than my … Continue reading One Fine Galloway