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.
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
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
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.
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