Chapter 1 Believe it, Faulkner wrote me, He asked for the heads of my sons. Not Aikel - ugly writer boy, Weakling and winner of one essay, Who rocks quietly in the dark, But the golden duo - Ukiah, and Lemai, Fetching. Lovers of new wine, Slaughterers of swine, betters of Aikel. Dandelion-haired in the … Continue reading Faulkner Wrote Me
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
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
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
Wonderful evil smiled in the wreathe-framed picture on a tripod next to the holy water, And the sun was partly on his brow and beard, his master eulogy was a song of waterworks and a choral piece from the admirers of death.
When you first see him, The large man in front of a focused crowd, With perfect teeth, Fists of limestone, And suspenders that stay put, You instantly think, He will never be the type to die for anything powerful, By anything powerful, And the steady noise in his corridors, And the rattle of silverware in … Continue reading There is Melody in Hell After All