Poem Written while Tispy

Two shot lightweight!

Boy who has fought in many battles

You slouch in your deskchair, defeated.
Nervous worries tunnel through
Thursday’s apathetic afternoon.
How can light be pale? is a thought
that can’t quite make you feel
comfortable with all of this.
As if answers were transport.
Understanding all of this shit
was never meant to make you comfortable with it.
I can’t even remember Monday, you think.
But who can?

So you keep combing your fingers
through ever-increasingly greasy hair
and the snow outside piles up,
the air turns over,
begins to taste like gin,
and the light illuminated the world outside
becomes flat like when you listen to the music
pouring out of your headphones
and the world becomes a flat mirror
held up to the mouth of the cave
that your hoodie has transformed into.

Keep bottoming out
and maybe some day you’ll get the courage
not to favor convenience over independence.
That one knuckle’s received an awful lot of abuse lately
but the hope lives that calluses will grow over time.

A cat throwing up is the sound of love,
whose name you will never learn
because selfishness has tied its hands.

You would turn out the lights too
if you knew how we looked from the outside.

New Poem (Surprise)

Who Remembers Anyone

Some people are afraid of cameras taking their souls. I can’t imagine writing about people to be any better. I write a description of you and you’re gone. You—not the description, but the real you—have disappeared forever.
–Unknown

New York
Jamie RUDLOFF and Christian ZUCKERMAN ran down the sidewalk, and asked passers-by to let them feel the holy.

Jerri BLAZE asked Loraine OBERRY to step into her purse. Ms. BLAZE later apologized for her “ineffable violence toward the statuary”. Ms. OBERRY has yet to officially accept the apology, stop drinking.

Last night Arlene MINK announced she will not participate in the 3rd annual Holiday Fundraiser Banquet unless a man propose to her with a ring of flame.

Never take photographs of other people.

Dona GOODLOE and Clayton SHEEN swapped glasses, later complained of headaches.

Beth MORA reportedly swept her stairs yesterday evening before her “Man” came home that night. It was observed that the Mr. MAN carried a briefcase and the weight upon his salty brow into the condo.

Eric BRADSHAW exhumed a corpse at the Williams Memorial Garden and Cemetary at eleven o’clock this morning. After the exhumation, Mr. BRADSHAW told his lover, James LAREL to “hop on in”.

Everything is sacred, but not yet.

Lance BAPTISTA wants everyone to have a “good fucking time” tonight & every night.

Antonio CONNOR ate one bite of his dinner last night. When asked for a comment, Mrs. CONNOR claimed that her husband has been suffering from indigestion, due to a high level of stress at his office.

Marcel KLARE stared at his own reflection in the pond at Corrick Park for an hour. He later announced to the small group of people that had taken to watching him watch himself that he was disgusted by their soullessness and wished to help them. At that time the crowd dispersed.

New Poem--Again

Aubid You Goodnight

I would rather my mistakes
should scream at me,
a constant drone of worry—
the clock’s last tick
never ended,
is ringing still.

What is duplicated from nature:
a mechanical red light
runs through the streets
with a hand over its heart—
the crowd gasps.
Someone anonymously pees,
moans lynched in jaundice air.
They reach out like hands
of hermits in wells
grasping for a patch of grass.

Nervous energy poured into celebration.
Lungs fill with laughter
before lips have chance to break
to reveal diamond pimp teeth.
Giggles echo in Summer swamp ether.

Darkness into Ocean:
general darkness as quoted by the Bible
gropes in a veil of sweat
for articulation in hands & mouths.
Its act of fucking
becomes an act of possession,
becomes reason to hold
the blade up to his throat
and ask how the morning will come.

New Poem

Inversion

The living shuffle swiftly
in sleeper’s dreams,
soft and on time
like the spinning
of the escalator’s grooved tread.

They have husbands
that stare at them
while they cower
from building to shopping cart to bed.

These men have the
dark faces of TNT.
Mouths like a window pane
with a hole punched through.

In therapy,
the living and their husbands
fight taking turns:
moth exiting flame;
scissor mending curtain.

What dreams
didn’t the alligator eat?

At 5 p.m. the roads disappear;
roll up and vanish
like the ever-replaced top stair
of the escalator.

Beds fill with couples,
the smell of their fatigue
like the rough sound of
dry hands moving down the sheets
near the places
they will hibernate in like reptiles
until the dreamers wake.