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 seldom know the lines for the widow, You see, I am a poet, I see death every night, I die a little, others die in conclusion, And the sun comes up at half past four. Sometimes, I go for the jugular and squeeze, Other times, the war is extraordinary, Heaven opens a window, I … Continue reading Lines for the Widow
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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
"Jesus and Co. Great Rose of Sharon, Take me now mighty man, Don’t let her take me whole, Save the heart, Save the face, And the fingers for the art."
Sunshine, Delilah in the boulevards, Night latched onto day and dragged on. Shadows walk past the windows now, little dogs follow little girls, taking little shits. A fabled twist, this is that taboo they speak of, She will consume you whole, Wrap you among moist thighs, That passion will ignite the sheets and start a … Continue reading Delilah in the Boulevards
Lola is fast asleep, You would never know in sleep, "The stuff she is made of awake, I look out the cool window, The radio starts itself."
"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 girls with pink backpacks uprooted from sleep, Another boy, recently broken, is lifeless, purple-lipped."
I once saw a man, with the head of god, The voice of god. Fire in his eyes, eyes of god. Power in his tongue, tongue of god. The face of a wasp, This he owned well. The thump of speakers behind his head, A powerful sensation. Our very delight. The words in his sermon … Continue reading I Once Saw a Man With the Face of a Wasp