Boy, ask not what it be to be a man, Black, Here comes the white casket, an excellent fiction. Here comes the bastard in the story, The ballad man they called, Mr. Black F. Masculine, Seize a stool, boy, B. F. Masculine, will daze you.
Jesus, the old lover whispers as I piss red, Parting the red seen in the cistern, And with his, I smell an editor's disgust, As I compose for that nice rot of fancy and glamor. Dance, fool, dance. And for good times, dance. When the stove is cold, Long shall the fool dance, Long shall … Continue reading Dance, fool, dance
FADE IN: INT. HONKY TONK MOTEL, BOILER ROOM - MIDNIGHT There is a fire that licks the bucket’s rim, There is a clunk in the copper pipes, There is a Frida forgotten in a river nameless, There is a con-man in my round yellow window, Swollen in my favorite chair, By the candle, he swells, … Continue reading Fucking & Punching
I care about echoes, karma, and the butterfly effect.I assume the worst of my best efforts,I care for eggs that don't hatch,For goldfish that move too fast, for people too kind.I care for what you think when I do all I have promised in haikus.I care if your death will be better than mine.I care that the eyes of the Devil are trained on the pulse of my aorta.I care … Continue reading Son of Ham
The women are commas,
Apostrophes, question marks,
Bandages, electric eels,
Spices, months of the year,
Deja vu's, the Fibonacci sequence.
And the baobad and its sparrows, And the feminists and her riots, And the books and its fuse, And the pope and his flask, And the king and our daughters, And the fire and the cornfields, And the market and the pickpockets, And 72 virgins for the terrorists, And the mistress and my bastard, And … Continue reading North of Naught
New York is something, taken with a broken heart,she whispers. Falsetto whistle in her gullet. Medals in tobacco teeth. Fingernails of lost boys etched on her face. The bruja woman owns a marble eye. We are rats, she swears. Fucking rats and gypsies, Dogshit sniffing dogshit. Hacks. Except you. No, not you. I smile. I … Continue reading Rats & Gypsies
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
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.
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
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.
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
And for this,
At the end of another donkey day,
My next fight with a blond mistress,
Will transpire in the wee small hours of Tuesday,
Her ignorance impenetrable,
Of the things I have stuck up my business end
And this will be profound satisfying.
After an era, One fine day I at last Composed the true milk Of my greatest, Most imposing toil, The one final yarn, Short the uproar, Short the activist, Short the insignias, Short the anarchy of ambition, And the tremors of self, While my bowel moved. What remained of the empire worshiped me then, And … Continue reading Elephant on Wheels
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