The women are commas, Apostrophes, question marks, Ellipses, exclamations, Brackets, bullets, Vowels, consonants, Virgins, widows, Bandages, electric eels, Spices, months of the year, Deja vu's, the Fibonacci sequence.
"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."
And so it came, sun downing, People appearing from the grind asking if I had a good day. What do you think? I wrote all day you fool. They shake their heads, and I say dare you ask me this same question tomorrow, I have your response here, here in my fists.
There is the factory man and woman, The American woman and the Chinese man, She is large, he is nothing special. They stay on the pavement in the cold, One, with bad eyes, The other pushes a dead ear nearer, Bad English between them, So they settle for nods, A few good nods, Never any … Continue reading That Fine Frown
I am on the 10:15, Dying in the cold, Or pretending to be alive too, Like on a special quest, Mr Somebody pulls himself up, By the steel post, he finds the door, Strokes his moustache, once, twice, The doors hiss open, He looks around for his coming prestige, For evil ashes on his coat … Continue reading Socrates et Dreadful
Even I know the silent corrupt joy of a deserted town with clinking adobe brick alleys, And silent yellow lamps, And as this is no movie, there are no London-type fogs telling of a grave lurking evil. None of that flagrant nonsense, you see. This town is its most miraculous when it is devoid the … Continue reading Donkey Punch
I met a poet today, You can tell it was a party. Sleek, Goodly, Handsome, On fire, She smelled of fog and flowers, Her first line, a dead giveaway, Something about the communistas and the Sicilian Syndicate, Too many feral sons never taken to a punch from their old man, She mined a ricochet bullet … Continue reading Morgue Attendant
Every poet is a god, Every poem is a dog from hell, Every kind of poet will imagine tremendous things of themselves, A mind assassin on Tuesdays, A wordsmith in summer, A gift to nuns in winter, A Buk hater, A Hemingway worshiper, A John Fante satirist. But you know you are better off sensing … Continue reading Every Poet is a Dog From Hell
Theoretical frameworks, Too many karmas, Too many fetishes, I am now apprentice to my colonizer, Things unknowable coming to boil, A desperate wickedness, Things you cannot tell just by Looking at the smile on C. Columbus. Gently we waft, In this grasping staging of academia, Acid heads, Blonde heads, Bald heads, Black heads, Block heads, … Continue reading Academese
I ate the yams from the land where brother bled to death. And then I heard, In their nightly gossips, When sluggish shadows of occultic old men with yellow eyes, Owning thick histories, Spoke a strident Igbo. They camped about a single hurricane lamp, And a wash hand bowl on a low table. He was a … Continue reading Land of the Rising Sun
In a trifling middle seat, On a travesty yellow airplane, A girl with perfect barren eyes is crumpled, Her exhales fog the glass. She is soaking wet. A purple bag strap bisects her frame, Between her tiny breasts. Her nipples, erect against her top, She is dying from the general cold.
What’s good about the morning Hank? You tired old henchman, my good man, I only ask because, god forbid, some libertine zealot happens upon this starched note and perceives me to be less than a proper animal. It’s been maybe three weeks since we last came to blows, I hope your last eye fell out … Continue reading The Death of Fiction: A Letter to my Good Man, Hank
With proper handling, My soul will awake in the dark of a brown envelope. On its chest, I have sweet-talked a mighty god into cutting a deal, I have begged the kindness of greats, Of Mohammed & Buddha & Krishna, Some special gamble. One piece of work, I say, That will seduce nuns, And blonde … Continue reading Death to the Editor-In-Chief
And now at the climax of a life, All is calm that will be. This radio clock is reliable, Alive with crickets, With this bed that grumbles. With a naked woman, On my bathroom floor, A St. Louis export, Snoring and scratching. I found her broken, A diamond in the rough type-of-woman. Mascara trickles type-of-woman, She invents … Continue reading A Lover of Broken Women
That night in May. I did a godlike thing. A tendency to lose my mind, Like spilled buttons in a subway fight. This loss was sure to displease. Ever see two homeless men fight over a winter coat? It is such a beautiful thing. An orgiastic fight for life. Sadly, some of you will never … Continue reading That night in May, He did a godlike thing.
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
This soul is a fickle thing, An inferior picture eaten by fungus, Cooking at the bottom of a shoebox. This soul is a bloodsucking girl from Kansas, With halitosis and a knack for spoon-feeding. It is a steady itch. It will outlive you, of this I am sure. There is a pattern to this madness. … Continue reading This Soul Is A Bloodsucking Girl From Kansas
It came at us like a disease. The first rains. A type of sky madness. Some special gamble. Like bright underpants, In the middle of a church service. Those icons of the front pew in short skirts. It made me mad, A mind once mighty, Now a newborn scandal. The first drops of rain suddenly … Continue reading Rainwater & Other Vitamins
There are few worse things in life than a bad writer in a good mood. And then there are the Poets.
"If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due … Continue reading A Bloody Owl