I am burning. Right now, I have a rash on my arm, and I have been calling doctors all day to try and get an appointment before I am asked to place my whole, failed body in unused Styrofoam as a form of healthcare. How cost-effective it will be for me to die from a simple, un-treated disease? I know one thing; I will learn every violence if it’s my children that learn about their shortcuts before I do.
Memory of slightness tends weight,
bends, gnarls like slow motion willows.
Starcloud portals and borealis hewn needlepoint
palmpaths, gesticulations. Assemble me
under slow turnings of thought,
sight- hands that leave room
only for hankering,
a constant fumbling. Pushing down on
napes and dimples like how
God made the hills. A new world crafted.
The full sweetness of hersheys in my pockets,
teardropped chocolate small but enough
in my pink mouth
which I like(d) you to kiss.
More seductive than Rose ‘Pierre De Ronsard’
Enchanting and intoxicating
Her cheeks carmine-pink
Peaches and cream complexion
Penelope never spits snow pellets
Always sweet and velvety smooth
She melts like crème caramel
I crave to taste those lips
She’s pining again… impatiently.
Hoping that he catches
the fragrance of her
as he swaggers on past.
‘Notice Me’ she screams silently
inside her ‘Climbing The Walls’ mind.
She cannot bear the thought
of another lonely walk home… unnoticed.
She’s studied, pruned, pampered
and prepared for the eventuality
of his priceless attention.
Stuck inside an invisible waiting room,
she’s temporarily sold her soul
to a cruel, stark expectancy.
“It’s my turn next” she mantras
under nervous breath.
“I’m sick of using plastic
and my fingers have changed into shovels,
turning over moist earth…
to evaporate seedless and alone.
The tarot cards have stopped making sense
and I’m tiring of decorum.
My heart is full to bursting
with both love and murder
and it’s only his whims rocking the scales.”
Sleight of eye, never
could she explain or pillow-spill
tear guilt. Never does she open lids in
the dead of midnight, light candles,
hold vigils for her soul.
to lie awake wasting sight
on the darkness, her skull lacks
glow with no jolt-spikes, no
to consider living
is half-whole, half
This May Day dressed herself as hag,
And when she came,rained down unseasonal cold upon
Street barbies, brought murder to a bungalow door.
They lie together on the tarmac now,
Lukewarm in blood-specked macs.
A nan and granddad both cut down,
They could not make it farther than their drive.
Saved by the maniac’s gun from afternoon regrets,
From nursing fees, thick-whiskered lips.
Trips to the garden centre, trousers that stretch,
Saved from their final, catastrophic sex.
Maybe it’s the rationalizing
that bothers me the most
the instant hop that so many
took when things didn’t work out
the way we wanted
the way we planned
the way the polls
It was not into ourselves that we looked
nor to women
or people of color
not to the marginalized
or our long long racist history
it was to the white men
the working class
the ones paying their taxes
and apparently not being heard.
The real hardworking people
that like to think they built this nation.
We have a deaf ear, America
tuned to the same old channel
spewing white supremacy
the fallacy of the over franchised
cloaked as disenfranchised
and all I hear
when you say
what about our jobs
is that is more important
than brown bodies
more than queer bodies
more than women’s bodies
more than immigrant’s bodies
that white people
and their economics
matter more than
any other people
and their economics
Except I know that
when the millstone
grinds all of us to dust
the powder left behind,
the work and labor
the back breaking
pain and tears and suffering
generation after generation,
when the bones of this nation
they will not be white.
You level your thumb and no one stops,
not even the creeps that would enjoy a single soft snippet
of your hair to sleep with
and it is raining, early November according to
the calendars of this land,
you have packed light, abandoned most of your limited belongings
because you are not a camel caravan,
traversing ancient deserts in search on new trade routes;
you are just a man, still young enough in the face and hands
to remind others of their own youth,
but with a protruding gut that was not there
only a few years previous,
and you hold a single red backpack over your head
trying to stay dry,
turn and level your thumb again many times;
the cars not even slowing on their way
to further pavement.
city entitled with this advantage or disadvantage
city happy sunlight and hindsight
city surrounded at every turn
by highways and low roads
city of natives and faces not invested here
city of leisure and idle hands
snapping pictures and comparing tattoos
city of idols and lesser hands
city of vengeance and poor kids taking notice
city of workers eating tacos off trucks
sucking on a colas and generic cigarettes
city of the rich sipping on mocha cappuccinos
in boardrooms and penthouses
city is a who is a what and a where
this city of dullness and of waste and of want
city full of itself and incalculable debt
full of suspects and street-smarts and of vice
flowers and smoke and ash
city of bedbugs and roaches and rats
wisdom of friends you can or cannot count on
city of rope shaped like a noose
the landlord doesn’t return phone calls
so i’ve got proust holding up the bedroom windows
and in the living room
there are so many cracked blinds
it might as well be high noon around these parts
i look around the place and think
maybe i should’ve learned a trade
instead of going all in with fiction and poetry
it feels emasculating to have to wait on these people
for every little thing
to write the same note after note
next to the others tenants who aren’t getting their things done
expecting no result
and there are divots in the linoleum on the kitchen floor
and the wood is splintering in the bedroom
and the toilet sometimes doesn’t work
when you flush you can hear water and cracked wall fragments
rushing down into wherever behind the wall
brown water keeps backing up into the sink
the landlord he could be in florida for all i know
spending my rent check on margaritas
and a disappointing piece of ass
and while the building superintendent
builds model train sets in the foyer
his drunken wife smokes cigarettes outside my bedroom window
letting the blue-gray cancer permeate my living space
and as his kid screams bloody murder
running up and down the halls
he tells me he has too many projects
to fix the kitchen sink that leaks water on the floor
to fix a broken shower that dribbles water as hot as dragon piss
on my dry and reddened flabby ass
and as the garbage piles up in the basement
and the mice and cockroaches converge
to wage another world war on this building
i pick up the phone to call the landlord again
but then throw it back on the coffee table in frustration
fix myself a double vodka drink
as the sounds of televisions and music from the other shitholes
come wafting through these thin walls
like a symphony of despair
a soundtrack to this pitiful existence
that people around these parts still want to call freedom.