Friday at the Fountain

•May 12, 2017 • 1 Comment

Men with long hair, curled locks faintly faded,

like pirates on a long pier, drunk on rum and

forward in thought, who carouse and unfurl

their thoughts upon each other, and on those

fairer and nearer, even if to no avail at all; cats

on the prowl, on the fence-dark-alley, tepid

smells, garbage cans-sitting-grayly, for ever

in continuum; sunken ballistics, each pheromone

a sick note for siren songs, opposite the bar

blast bagpipes, situated among locked doors

and brushed whores, bait lickers locked on,

for the night ritual bombasts and ages well,

the better moments in life is the onlookers joy.

Money; Dirty

•May 4, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Like a baby asleep in a bin, tufts of hair

swirling to the back, of the lightening

platitudes, sorrel soirees, angry urchins,

perched in the middle of the street, a

cup in their hand, they get more cheese

than I do, under swill wills and motives

under-swept, this dance is old and gray,

yet I still take its hand, grip it like we

are falling fast, to the deepest cairn, the

sepulcher pulchritude, then they watch

me make sounds, like a chimp, chuckle

at my words, throw firm advances, yet

leave the bananas at home, too good for

art, too good for work, too rapt up in

self-pity to pay, but here’s a dollar for

your street troubles, sir; here’s a quarter

for standing statue still, in the sun, warm,

with a plea; I missed the boat, so I’ll try:

 

Poet                Unemployed            Any

Amount           Will                   Help

 

From a Wobbly Drunk to a Dynamo

•April 25, 2017 • Leave a Comment

And it was told, in secret,

once upon a time in the trenches,

so many like us, bled and died

and bleached and lived and wished

for beer, and wished for sex,

but only got shelled, until

the next men came, and died

in the pits, lost and covered in mud;

 

on that stage, once, in the night’s smear,

I took myself home without blinking,

I read out, cried out, and the girls

still thought I was skinny,

but I learned to tread water, like

my greatest relatives, sunken

and covered in shit, I took a drink

in the closet, and shattered a mirror;

 

I remembered then, when it was red wine,

and when it only took two, but I

always wished for more, even

after I’d fight with her, and cry

for her, nothing is reflexive about

being drunk, but it’s a ticket to

discovery, and an arrangement

taken out of order, for kindred men

 

stuck in dikers — I smell them burning,

and I see them coughing, but the booze

is for us, it’s the wound we have

and a blinking light, I always reach

for it, even if it is too high, and I

will always take risks, for it’s the

same, whether you die in a foxhole,

or drown in brandy, home is home.

Foul-Mouthed and Flustered

•April 20, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Then, in the breeze, the sun bright

and her face lithe, flaxen hair sway,

moments bricking and setting up

the last, time after time, eventful

summer Sundays, wasting away in

delight, fires on the porch, her

mouth tastes like wine, breaches

no test, with reckless paramours

like us, shanking the ellipses, stun

and awe, but the fries burnt, and

it went too far, nothing sacred will

stay, and everything that rises

always converges, I trust her sage

wisdom on this, the spot on the sun

is where I die, and it dies with me,

like that time, and this one, and

that one, and you, and this; all of it.

In Madness, Lilies Appear Brighter

•April 10, 2017 • 3 Comments

She felt the goosebumps grow,

“It could have been more,” she

thought, not now, though, not

in a tin can bus, fused together

electrodes, tempered and fast –

like her father, baring the brunt

of quick wit and burnt tents,

trapped together, her buddies

blaring needles and pins, cat’s

at home in the dump, her train

ticket bled onto her hands, it

was years, no, decades since

she saw him; there in the sun,

that day in May, grasslit hill,

like a movie, no, like a poem she

heard in the eighth grade, an

image of queens in France, she

was the court jester, no, she was

wrong, but his smile swept her

inside the atomic dustbin, and

the glory of the music she heard

since then brought her here, at

home in the streets, gripped

by skeletons and painted trolls,

she bummed a cigarette from

a boy who was sixteen, he lit

it for her and asked her name,

“Leaving This Fucking Place,”

she said, the boy chuckled.

Callow Son

•April 5, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I wrote it in a dream, and it sounded like Keats,

but I don’t rhyme, and I can’t sing, so the music

was mute, and I called to the sky, for inside its

heart, was a night to forget, and reason for hate;

once, when I was younger, I remembered their

faces, withered skin of fearing idiots, lathered

in their own belief, judging and looking upon

me, on her, on he, and once was the last, I was

ignored from then, and they both died martyrs,

because it doesn’t matter, they are, after all, my

father’s life, not mine; in his memory, in history,

from time to ending light, dying sidesteps, one

locust alone, and the water rushes, and the sight

fades, and the matter still haunts, it shivers, it

magistrates over us, over him, over her, over he,

but I won’t try to forget it, I will satchel its heft,

and carry it to the moon, because of their hatred,

because of piety, I will hand their memory to a

golden statue, I will levy it, I will hold it as high

as the lighted dawn, because of them, because

of their spite, their malice, their judgment; quick

and deftly, I, Mercury, I praise them, worry in the

stead of their permissions, safe in a Grecian Urn,

these fucking idiots, satisfied with their ignominy,

I will heave them into this corpus, inject them

where they were absent, hit each letter hard and

true, like a gunslinger, liker it mattered to them,

that I am forgotten, like he, like her, unlike them.

The Other Side is Still Here

•March 21, 2017 • Leave a Comment

There’s never funerals, only parsed words,

comely and light; we fragrant few, listen

to each other, through cheesecloth, words

bold on screens, irregular wanderers, like

pulp, our family pretends, it dragons and

puffs, chained to the radiator, where my

eldest brother still lives, persecuted by a

tripping light and wain, his soul masked

by matronly guilt, brick and mortar walls,

an attic of panic, but I always get the call,

then there’s no funeral, reasons like spring,

when it rains and doesn’t, and rains, then

flowers grow, then they die, like morning

dreams, symphonies of birds, resting here,

so I visit cemeteries, I bereave my losses,

for people that I don’t know, because like

my being, their death is simply the same, a

life where no one close, ever has a funeral.