working girl
Undone
the humdrum whore;
for a penny
and there are prettier ones
that smile for less.
But I have standards,
don’t you know.
Mother taught me to wash
behind my ears,
so I guess that entitles me
to the upper class drunks;
with their avid humping
and childish giggles
as they -
come;
wondering towards
orange street lamps
where we all hang;
some scabby corner
littered with empties and fag butts.
Us kids.
Fifteen, sixteen going on
forty.
Too much life held back
in watery eyes,
coughing up our guts
and last customers.
I would say sucker
but the irony stings;
much like the reminders
of you
and him and them and others.
Are you ugly?
I know my baby doll dress
arrests your aging heart.
There are, at any given time,
⇒
at least two of you,
or three.
Blurred vision is such a
blessing,
when undressing old farts;
stifling a laugh at
colossal egos.
I forego foreplay.
Why prolong
what they came for?
One quick kiss on the forehead
and a rushed goodbye,
wife and kids to feed,
to see and tuck into bed.
So long, farewell,
have a nice life
in your 2.4 ideal.
I’ll be a good girl.
See you next week
Wave meekly as we part
and mumble
"So long Daddy."
Showing posts with label heroin love songs vol 2. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heroin love songs vol 2. Show all posts
28 July 2008
william doreski
the tax collector’s tour
All the houses of this city
open into each other, room
after room strung together.
Following the tax collector
I pass through hundreds of homes
without ceremony, people
eating or bathing, drinking beer,
gambling, rapt in adultery.
The rooms stink of dead pizza,
tobacco, popcorn, and farts.
Stalled traffic murmurs somewhere
on the edge of mere being.
The tax collector appointed me
assistant tax collector but
so far we’ve collected nothing
and I’ve lent him no assistance—
the houses cringing as we pass,
the doors unlocked, cries of lovers
and squall of jug-eared children
competing with the roar of TVs
tuned to deadly violent game shows.
I can’t even name this city
although the black velvet paintings
of the pope, Elvis, and John F.
Kennedy suggest a familiar
liberal political outlook
tempered by the usual racist
and anti-Semitic murmurings.
After walking five or six miles
we pass from a bedroom directly
into the tax collector’s office.
File cabinets grin like St. Nick.
Clerks grumble at computers
with silver-blue screens. We slump
at steel-gray desks and he asks
if I understand the job. I do.
He nods. Somewhere out there, snow
addles the streets and commuters sob
as criminal intentions fulfill
themselves one victim at a time,
their stolen dollars grimacing
as they crumple in the dark.
the didactic view of art
Leaning against the chalkboard
you sigh through Tolstoy’s argument
about the didactic view of art
then tell the crowd that children
are the only form of expression
you admire. Your colleagues offer
safely academic applause.
As most head for the refreshments
I remain planted in my chair,
hoping you’ll remember me
from wine-sipping Paris evenings
with lamplight crawling over us
and the smell of the river ripe
with a history of suicide.
But you ignore me so formally
the planet creaks with the effort
and I exude a single tear
that scars like a Heidelberg duel.
Congratulations clot in my throat.
A handsome bearded fellow nods
as you smile your famous pink smile.
Unfair to expect scholarship
to tell the truth about anything—
but you dislike the fuss and mess
and sentiment of children
and prefer Tolstoy’s fiction
to his foolish pronouncements
about sainthood and creation.
The academic crowd admires
the angle at which your head
sits on your neck, your sturdy
tripod stance, your readiness
to answer questions with insults.
While you earn tenure at Harvard,
Berkeley, Michigan, and Cornell
I leave and stagger to my office
and clench myself with critical force
that should kill me. When you knock
at my door the fossil part
of me refuses to answer,
accepting the distance between us
as a warp in geologic time.
visiting the postmodern sublime
The house your husband cobbled
from a dozen competing plans
hogs four acres, enclosing
two for a barren courtyard.
The drawing room looks like a gym.
We rattle like dice, our drinks
foaming in our fists. The furniture
refuses to comfort our rumps
so we stand around fuming,
wondering why we’ve accepted
your invitation to admire
the nether regions of a house
built by a famous tax fraud.
At last the tour begins. We mope
along plain brick corridors,
passing tiny unfurnished rooms
smelling of plaster and paint.
Through a metal fire door into
absolute dark. Where did you go?
Someone screams so painfully
I gnash like a garlic press.
The walls squeeze in. Someone
pops like a boil. The horror
wrings the blood from my body
and I smear and stain the carpet,
my spirit a whisper of lint.
A light flickers. We’re alive:
the walls haven’t crushed us,
and you’re so apologetic
I almost believe that isn’t blood
you lick from the rim of your mouth.
The tour continues. The rooms
feature appliances no one
can identify, exercise
or torture devices, office
or educational machines,
computer displays of numbers
of unknown significance.
At last we emerge in a kitchen
of granite and stainless steel
and many blocks of carving knives.
No wonder the government refused
to confiscate the property.
We lean against the ceramic tile
and agree that your house repels
the human so successfully
you have reason to be proud,
although your imprisoned husband
has warned you for legal reasons
never to state that pride aloud.
All the houses of this city
open into each other, room
after room strung together.
Following the tax collector
I pass through hundreds of homes
without ceremony, people
eating or bathing, drinking beer,
gambling, rapt in adultery.
The rooms stink of dead pizza,
tobacco, popcorn, and farts.
Stalled traffic murmurs somewhere
on the edge of mere being.
The tax collector appointed me
assistant tax collector but
so far we’ve collected nothing
and I’ve lent him no assistance—
the houses cringing as we pass,
the doors unlocked, cries of lovers
and squall of jug-eared children
competing with the roar of TVs
tuned to deadly violent game shows.
I can’t even name this city
although the black velvet paintings
of the pope, Elvis, and John F.
Kennedy suggest a familiar
liberal political outlook
tempered by the usual racist
and anti-Semitic murmurings.
After walking five or six miles
we pass from a bedroom directly
into the tax collector’s office.
File cabinets grin like St. Nick.
Clerks grumble at computers
with silver-blue screens. We slump
at steel-gray desks and he asks
if I understand the job. I do.
He nods. Somewhere out there, snow
addles the streets and commuters sob
as criminal intentions fulfill
themselves one victim at a time,
their stolen dollars grimacing
as they crumple in the dark.
the didactic view of art
Leaning against the chalkboard
you sigh through Tolstoy’s argument
about the didactic view of art
then tell the crowd that children
are the only form of expression
you admire. Your colleagues offer
safely academic applause.
As most head for the refreshments
I remain planted in my chair,
hoping you’ll remember me
from wine-sipping Paris evenings
with lamplight crawling over us
and the smell of the river ripe
with a history of suicide.
But you ignore me so formally
the planet creaks with the effort
and I exude a single tear
that scars like a Heidelberg duel.
Congratulations clot in my throat.
A handsome bearded fellow nods
as you smile your famous pink smile.
Unfair to expect scholarship
to tell the truth about anything—
but you dislike the fuss and mess
and sentiment of children
and prefer Tolstoy’s fiction
to his foolish pronouncements
about sainthood and creation.
The academic crowd admires
the angle at which your head
sits on your neck, your sturdy
tripod stance, your readiness
to answer questions with insults.
While you earn tenure at Harvard,
Berkeley, Michigan, and Cornell
I leave and stagger to my office
and clench myself with critical force
that should kill me. When you knock
at my door the fossil part
of me refuses to answer,
accepting the distance between us
as a warp in geologic time.
visiting the postmodern sublime
The house your husband cobbled
from a dozen competing plans
hogs four acres, enclosing
two for a barren courtyard.
The drawing room looks like a gym.
We rattle like dice, our drinks
foaming in our fists. The furniture
refuses to comfort our rumps
so we stand around fuming,
wondering why we’ve accepted
your invitation to admire
the nether regions of a house
built by a famous tax fraud.
At last the tour begins. We mope
along plain brick corridors,
passing tiny unfurnished rooms
smelling of plaster and paint.
Through a metal fire door into
absolute dark. Where did you go?
Someone screams so painfully
I gnash like a garlic press.
The walls squeeze in. Someone
pops like a boil. The horror
wrings the blood from my body
and I smear and stain the carpet,
my spirit a whisper of lint.
A light flickers. We’re alive:
the walls haven’t crushed us,
and you’re so apologetic
I almost believe that isn’t blood
you lick from the rim of your mouth.
The tour continues. The rooms
feature appliances no one
can identify, exercise
or torture devices, office
or educational machines,
computer displays of numbers
of unknown significance.
At last we emerge in a kitchen
of granite and stainless steel
and many blocks of carving knives.
No wonder the government refused
to confiscate the property.
We lean against the ceramic tile
and agree that your house repels
the human so successfully
you have reason to be proud,
although your imprisoned husband
has warned you for legal reasons
never to state that pride aloud.
luca penne
feet of clef
Miming the silence, mining the silence, mini-silence. Trying to ignore your presence, your arms crossed across your arrogant bosom, I prong the dark for a definition I can take to bed and console. Stars excite themselves unnecessarily. The television gloats like something a gourmet has left uneaten. I pluck a string, but it’s actually a nerve. You knew that, didn’t you? You knew my clef was G, while I mistook it for B-flat. Flat flat flatty-flat. You want me to learn the sharps, as well, but my fingers trill along the white keys and stumble on the black. We know so little about each other that our clefs clash and jangle, and my G trips over its triads, triggering accidental fifths, and your D-sharp regrets nothing with a laugh. We’re successfully ignoring each other’s more aggressive features, yet we inhabit a roman รก clef of aggressive forms and de-forms, and the other characters are watching, hoping to catch us at play.
loon laugh
Did a loon laugh that loony laugh right here in public? Traffic jolts along with shouts and waves. You’d think someone was naked the way the tourists are crowing. I slurp a pint of ale and rehearse my dotage. Chuckles and chortles, but I can’t risk a loon laugh of my own, not here amid the Friday afternoon crowd. You, of course, adhere to the hippy beads and peasant dresses of an adolescence so fizzy it should have been bottled. I’d advise you to delete the flowers from your hair, but the guys who sweat for a living love your bare legs and fast-forward posture. They buy you so many drinks the beer glasses line up before you like trophies. I want to tell them they’re wasting their dough, but I’d better not get involved. I’m reading a novel about a man too terse to express the failure of his internal organs. His life story represents the failure of the Versailles Treaty. As I purse a timid greeting your loony laughter skitters through the alcoholic haze and sparks a brush fire in the part of my hair.
Miming the silence, mining the silence, mini-silence. Trying to ignore your presence, your arms crossed across your arrogant bosom, I prong the dark for a definition I can take to bed and console. Stars excite themselves unnecessarily. The television gloats like something a gourmet has left uneaten. I pluck a string, but it’s actually a nerve. You knew that, didn’t you? You knew my clef was G, while I mistook it for B-flat. Flat flat flatty-flat. You want me to learn the sharps, as well, but my fingers trill along the white keys and stumble on the black. We know so little about each other that our clefs clash and jangle, and my G trips over its triads, triggering accidental fifths, and your D-sharp regrets nothing with a laugh. We’re successfully ignoring each other’s more aggressive features, yet we inhabit a roman รก clef of aggressive forms and de-forms, and the other characters are watching, hoping to catch us at play.
loon laugh
Did a loon laugh that loony laugh right here in public? Traffic jolts along with shouts and waves. You’d think someone was naked the way the tourists are crowing. I slurp a pint of ale and rehearse my dotage. Chuckles and chortles, but I can’t risk a loon laugh of my own, not here amid the Friday afternoon crowd. You, of course, adhere to the hippy beads and peasant dresses of an adolescence so fizzy it should have been bottled. I’d advise you to delete the flowers from your hair, but the guys who sweat for a living love your bare legs and fast-forward posture. They buy you so many drinks the beer glasses line up before you like trophies. I want to tell them they’re wasting their dough, but I’d better not get involved. I’m reading a novel about a man too terse to express the failure of his internal organs. His life story represents the failure of the Versailles Treaty. As I purse a timid greeting your loony laughter skitters through the alcoholic haze and sparks a brush fire in the part of my hair.
puma perl
imprinted
ghosts walk with me
there are no fresh footprints
on scarred souls of old streets
once we were everywhere
now i fade soundless, blind
NYU students sit on a stoop
once a guy stumble down those stairs
blood spilled from his head
pills fell from his pockets
an english girl said oh my
i use old student ids
buy tickets in the public theater
remember a memorial for a poet
the women who loved him were there
they cut their eyes at each other
waited for their names to be called
or for a mention in poems and stories
the boys that he abused were there too
chasing each other across the stage
his sisters collected autographs
from movie extras, failed players
not a word of truth was spoken here
i used to hate seventh street
Ukrainian women stood in doorways
glared at me, they knew me
from the hotel rooms they cleaned
today a man waits for his wife
she comes out of the boutique
does a little tap dance for him
dances in my space, in my sidewalk square
another day i might have danced back
flirted with her man just cause i could
today smoky spirits surrounds me
invisible to dancing women in newsboy caps
yet i can’t stop thinking about her
why is she wearing that hat
was she dancing for his amusement or her own
does her head explode in firecracker bursts
does her husband ever dance with her or does he watch
she tap-danced so close she almost touched me
invisible i floated away with my ghosts
down different streets where once we danced
i am invisible in black leather and jeans
i am invisible in boots and mascara
ghosts carry me through cell phone chatter
girls who sing when they talk
tough boys who crumble at night
November threatens all who live here
with dark afternoons and holidays
i am invisible, ghosts fall like leaves
women tap dance on sacred squares
i am invisible, imprinted, scarred,
i am invisible, ghosts dance away with me
every step is a memory, imprinted, unseen
like a normal person
I didn't want to go home
There'd be no one there but me
I'd end up talking to myself
Baseball is like life
I'd say for the thousandth time
Shut the fuck up
I'd tell myself
As I stared morosely out the window
Thinking about sex and cigarettes
I wanted to go to a bar
Watch the Yankee game like a normal person
Drink a few beers like a normal person
Get really drunk if they lose
Like a normal person
Probably get thrown out of the bar
Like a normal person
Stagger down the street to another bar
Realize I'm drunker than a normal person
Go shoot some dope
Just a little once in awhile
Like a normal person
ghosts walk with me
there are no fresh footprints
on scarred souls of old streets
once we were everywhere
now i fade soundless, blind
NYU students sit on a stoop
once a guy stumble down those stairs
blood spilled from his head
pills fell from his pockets
an english girl said oh my
i use old student ids
buy tickets in the public theater
remember a memorial for a poet
the women who loved him were there
they cut their eyes at each other
waited for their names to be called
or for a mention in poems and stories
the boys that he abused were there too
chasing each other across the stage
his sisters collected autographs
from movie extras, failed players
not a word of truth was spoken here
i used to hate seventh street
Ukrainian women stood in doorways
glared at me, they knew me
from the hotel rooms they cleaned
today a man waits for his wife
she comes out of the boutique
does a little tap dance for him
dances in my space, in my sidewalk square
another day i might have danced back
flirted with her man just cause i could
today smoky spirits surrounds me
invisible to dancing women in newsboy caps
yet i can’t stop thinking about her
why is she wearing that hat
was she dancing for his amusement or her own
does her head explode in firecracker bursts
does her husband ever dance with her or does he watch
she tap-danced so close she almost touched me
invisible i floated away with my ghosts
down different streets where once we danced
i am invisible in black leather and jeans
i am invisible in boots and mascara
ghosts carry me through cell phone chatter
girls who sing when they talk
tough boys who crumble at night
November threatens all who live here
with dark afternoons and holidays
i am invisible, ghosts fall like leaves
women tap dance on sacred squares
i am invisible, imprinted, scarred,
i am invisible, ghosts dance away with me
every step is a memory, imprinted, unseen
like a normal person
I didn't want to go home
There'd be no one there but me
I'd end up talking to myself
Baseball is like life
I'd say for the thousandth time
Shut the fuck up
I'd tell myself
As I stared morosely out the window
Thinking about sex and cigarettes
I wanted to go to a bar
Watch the Yankee game like a normal person
Drink a few beers like a normal person
Get really drunk if they lose
Like a normal person
Probably get thrown out of the bar
Like a normal person
Stagger down the street to another bar
Realize I'm drunker than a normal person
Go shoot some dope
Just a little once in awhile
Like a normal person
lori williams
seventeen
She wants to rip her tongue out
slowly, with pliers or maybe
a sharp knife from her kitchen set,
slicing down the layers to the first one,
before the unforgivable--
the skin of pink that licked
her father's dick with eye's closed,
wishing she were somewhere else
but she was there and that night
a seed of future fear sown
in her womb, vodka-drenched
and salty. She tried to make it work
with yellow and teal borders that she did
herself. She scrubbed her stomach in the bath
and hoped for a girl, olive like her,
nothing hanging between joy and despair. A boy
is what she had, but she loved him, kissed his penis
with open eyes -- he was hers.
The tongue of seventeen years ago has withered
and there is no plumping of it, he's gone away
and she is left with knives and pliers,
a flat mother's tongue,
wishes of death for dads and moms
and olive skinned children.
Forgive her.
old man on the R train at 5 pm
Stars rush from his mouth as he sings,
his breath is the beach I knew, when pails
were full of possibility -- a penny or a pop-top.
He sings the 60's songs, cane taps along
to the pole, and my simple dollar is scrunched
into his paper cup, as if
it's enough. I could thank him
for those moments he brought back;
of dad with his yellow cab full of sand and shells
and mom, with her fear of water, humming
as her girls swam out too far. But when he says
bless you, for that dirty dollar,
my throat is full of salt,
envying his stars.
She wants to rip her tongue out
slowly, with pliers or maybe
a sharp knife from her kitchen set,
slicing down the layers to the first one,
before the unforgivable--
the skin of pink that licked
her father's dick with eye's closed,
wishing she were somewhere else
but she was there and that night
a seed of future fear sown
in her womb, vodka-drenched
and salty. She tried to make it work
with yellow and teal borders that she did
herself. She scrubbed her stomach in the bath
and hoped for a girl, olive like her,
nothing hanging between joy and despair. A boy
is what she had, but she loved him, kissed his penis
with open eyes -- he was hers.
The tongue of seventeen years ago has withered
and there is no plumping of it, he's gone away
and she is left with knives and pliers,
a flat mother's tongue,
wishes of death for dads and moms
and olive skinned children.
Forgive her.
old man on the R train at 5 pm
Stars rush from his mouth as he sings,
his breath is the beach I knew, when pails
were full of possibility -- a penny or a pop-top.
He sings the 60's songs, cane taps along
to the pole, and my simple dollar is scrunched
into his paper cup, as if
it's enough. I could thank him
for those moments he brought back;
of dad with his yellow cab full of sand and shells
and mom, with her fear of water, humming
as her girls swam out too far. But when he says
bless you, for that dirty dollar,
my throat is full of salt,
envying his stars.
misti rainwater-lites
channeling erin brockovich
"No, baby. Stay in the yes zone."
Jackson crawls into the no zone.
I'm sitting in the yes zone holding my cell phone up to my ear.
This ringing has lasted for approximately five minutes.
The same mousy bitch from last week drawls her nasal
greeting into my ear, finally.
I dispense with the basic courtesies and get down to business,
Julia Roberts as Erin Brockovich style.
"My son's Medicaid expired on June 30th. I need to
reapply over the phone because I don't have a car."
"Ma'am?"
"MY SON'S MEDICAID EXPIRED on June 30th.
I need a phone interview. I DON'T HAVE A CAR."
"Ma'am, I'd be happy to mail you an application."
"NO. I was told I could get a phone interview. My son
is EIGHT MONTHS OLD and has ASTHMA."
"Ma'am, how it usually works is we mail you an application
and a worker has thirty to forty days to process it."
I wish this bitch could smell my sweat right now.
I would love to put her in a headlock and shove
her nose up my right pit.
I'd like to tie her to a chair and make her watch
me hold my squirming baby boy while I try to
hold the mask up to his face so that he can breathe.
I'd love to entertain her in this crack whore shack.
I'd give her lukewarm Sam's Choice bottled water
stale Cheez-Its Party Mix and my a cappella rendition
of "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys."
I would give her a poetry reading
she wouldn't soon forget.
I'd give her something to think about
besides Jesus and Oprah and the latest
Olsen Twins gossip.
I think about all kinds of deep stuff.
I think about how fortunate I am
that I did not live in the lower 9th Ward
when Hurricane Katrina came to town.
I think about mothers holding babies
in filthy diapers on rooftops.
I think in terms of formula and not having it.
I remember when there was no formula
in the house several months ago,
how I put my son on my breast
even though I only breastfed him his
first week of life.
I think in terms of howls that cannot
be placated.
I think in terms of not having
and not getting
anytime soon.
How does a mother tell her baby
"You are just a number. Welcome to
the line."
thrum
The July heat in Albuquerque is dry.
The July heat in Las Vegas is veldt.
Daddy is on safari.
I've been on safari inside the MGM Grand.
This July heat throbs with a funky stench
and burns my nostrils with the wafting
of the primordial stew.
There are alligators and nutria in there.
My body is stuck in the crack whore shack
on Ford Street. Numb in places, tingling
in others.
My spirit is on a voodoo tour in New Orleans.
The Big Easy is hard on my longing.
My favorite photograph ever
even better than the photograph
I took of my vagina when I was numb
from Paxil and mourning the loss
of multiple orgasms
is the black and white photograph
of Fred and Cindy sitting together
at the Hurricane littered table
in Pat O'Brien's. Her face smeared
with drunken this love is as good as
it's ever gonna get resignation
his face Cherokee Irish stone tablet
engraved by God's burning finger
underneath black cowboy hat.
My favorite literary love scenes
hands down easy
are found in the pages of
Pachinko's SWAMP!
How can cockroaches
and crawdads and mosquitoes
be romantic?
I don't know how he did it.
Perhaps he was with the right woman
at the wrong time
in the wrong place
and because he was with the right woman
the other wrongs
were canceled out.
All I know for certain
is that I am here
pathetic
snapped
stewing in my mire
but am flying there
haunting hearts
convinced they have found It
and It will never die
and leave them buried
in memories
and phone bills.
I'm black cat bad luck.
I'm Santeria.
I'm wicked candles dripping wax
all over the best intentions.
Spooky.
Sweaty.
Bloated but not
with any amount
of regret.
"No, baby. Stay in the yes zone."
Jackson crawls into the no zone.
I'm sitting in the yes zone holding my cell phone up to my ear.
This ringing has lasted for approximately five minutes.
The same mousy bitch from last week drawls her nasal
greeting into my ear, finally.
I dispense with the basic courtesies and get down to business,
Julia Roberts as Erin Brockovich style.
"My son's Medicaid expired on June 30th. I need to
reapply over the phone because I don't have a car."
"Ma'am?"
"MY SON'S MEDICAID EXPIRED on June 30th.
I need a phone interview. I DON'T HAVE A CAR."
"Ma'am, I'd be happy to mail you an application."
"NO. I was told I could get a phone interview. My son
is EIGHT MONTHS OLD and has ASTHMA."
"Ma'am, how it usually works is we mail you an application
and a worker has thirty to forty days to process it."
I wish this bitch could smell my sweat right now.
I would love to put her in a headlock and shove
her nose up my right pit.
I'd like to tie her to a chair and make her watch
me hold my squirming baby boy while I try to
hold the mask up to his face so that he can breathe.
I'd love to entertain her in this crack whore shack.
I'd give her lukewarm Sam's Choice bottled water
stale Cheez-Its Party Mix and my a cappella rendition
of "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys."
I would give her a poetry reading
she wouldn't soon forget.
I'd give her something to think about
besides Jesus and Oprah and the latest
Olsen Twins gossip.
I think about all kinds of deep stuff.
I think about how fortunate I am
that I did not live in the lower 9th Ward
when Hurricane Katrina came to town.
I think about mothers holding babies
in filthy diapers on rooftops.
I think in terms of formula and not having it.
I remember when there was no formula
in the house several months ago,
how I put my son on my breast
even though I only breastfed him his
first week of life.
I think in terms of howls that cannot
be placated.
I think in terms of not having
and not getting
anytime soon.
How does a mother tell her baby
"You are just a number. Welcome to
the line."
thrum
The July heat in Albuquerque is dry.
The July heat in Las Vegas is veldt.
Daddy is on safari.
I've been on safari inside the MGM Grand.
This July heat throbs with a funky stench
and burns my nostrils with the wafting
of the primordial stew.
There are alligators and nutria in there.
My body is stuck in the crack whore shack
on Ford Street. Numb in places, tingling
in others.
My spirit is on a voodoo tour in New Orleans.
The Big Easy is hard on my longing.
My favorite photograph ever
even better than the photograph
I took of my vagina when I was numb
from Paxil and mourning the loss
of multiple orgasms
is the black and white photograph
of Fred and Cindy sitting together
at the Hurricane littered table
in Pat O'Brien's. Her face smeared
with drunken this love is as good as
it's ever gonna get resignation
his face Cherokee Irish stone tablet
engraved by God's burning finger
underneath black cowboy hat.
My favorite literary love scenes
hands down easy
are found in the pages of
Pachinko's SWAMP!
How can cockroaches
and crawdads and mosquitoes
be romantic?
I don't know how he did it.
Perhaps he was with the right woman
at the wrong time
in the wrong place
and because he was with the right woman
the other wrongs
were canceled out.
All I know for certain
is that I am here
pathetic
snapped
stewing in my mire
but am flying there
haunting hearts
convinced they have found It
and It will never die
and leave them buried
in memories
and phone bills.
I'm black cat bad luck.
I'm Santeria.
I'm wicked candles dripping wax
all over the best intentions.
Spooky.
Sweaty.
Bloated but not
with any amount
of regret.
lester allen
unanswered calls
it is late perpetually
like me
for a dinner invite or pretty much
anything
really
I lie on my back eyes
making love to the
cobwebs on a stranger's
ceiling
yet all the bills arrive addressed
to me
and if I lay still enough
preach patience enough
the stranger will often times grow
bored and
leave
then
it's just me & the
dim walls of this room
hunting shadows through
these pages
& dreaming
of leaving
death waits
In a rusty soup can
In a little girl’s smile
Where I first saw the
sunrise
In the holes of my department
store shirt
Where the buttons would go
if they hadn’t
already went
In the miles of highway
Between
This life and
The next
let’s hope he’s one
patient motherfucker
it is late perpetually
like me
for a dinner invite or pretty much
anything
really
I lie on my back eyes
making love to the
cobwebs on a stranger's
ceiling
yet all the bills arrive addressed
to me
and if I lay still enough
preach patience enough
the stranger will often times grow
bored and
leave
then
it's just me & the
dim walls of this room
hunting shadows through
these pages
& dreaming
of leaving
death waits
In a rusty soup can
In a little girl’s smile
Where I first saw the
sunrise
In the holes of my department
store shirt
Where the buttons would go
if they hadn’t
already went
In the miles of highway
Between
This life and
The next
let’s hope he’s one
patient motherfucker
annette stenslien
arrogance, belief, and perspective
Tell me, how absolutely
absolutes are true
and how lutes fit
neatly in small square boxes,
tell me how it is
not possible
to combine ideologies
theologies and philosophies,
that this spot is the one
definitive, the one right
religion, the one perfect race
that black and white is clean,
the lines clear and trailing
across and through
hilly pastures are sheep.
I think, I smell hypocrisy.
Tell me, with so many
factors to include,
how will that equation
result in the same
answer every time.
Tell me, how absolutely
absolutes are true
and how lutes fit
neatly in small square boxes,
tell me how it is
not possible
to combine ideologies
theologies and philosophies,
that this spot is the one
definitive, the one right
religion, the one perfect race
that black and white is clean,
the lines clear and trailing
across and through
hilly pastures are sheep.
I think, I smell hypocrisy.
Tell me, with so many
factors to include,
how will that equation
result in the same
answer every time.
michael lee johnson
berenika
Do what I tell you to do.
Your face is like flour dough,
your nose like a slant directionally
unknown like an adverb
tossed into space.
Your hat is like an angel
wedding gown draped
over vodka body
like a Christ shield
protecting you in innocence.
It is here I kiss your lips as a total stranger;
bring myself closely to your eyes;
camp out on your narrow lips
and wait for the morning
before I slide like a sled
deep snow, away.
charley plays a tune
Crippled with arthritis
and Alzheimer's,
in a dark rented room
Charley, plays
melancholic melodies
on a dust filled harmonica he
found abandoned on a playground of sand
years ago by a handful of children
playing on monkey bars.
He now goes to the bathroom on occasion,
peeing takes forever; he feeds the cat when
he doesn't forget where the food is stashed.
He hears bedlam when he buys fish at the local market
and the skeleton bones of the fish show through
He lies on his back riddled with pain,
pine cones fill his pillows and mattress;
praying to Jesus and rubbing his rosary beads
Charley blows tunes out his
celestial instrument notes float through the open window
touch the nose of summer clouds.
Charley overtakes himself with grief
and is ecstatically alone.
Charley plays a solo tune.
Do what I tell you to do.
Your face is like flour dough,
your nose like a slant directionally
unknown like an adverb
tossed into space.
Your hat is like an angel
wedding gown draped
over vodka body
like a Christ shield
protecting you in innocence.
It is here I kiss your lips as a total stranger;
bring myself closely to your eyes;
camp out on your narrow lips
and wait for the morning
before I slide like a sled
deep snow, away.
charley plays a tune
Crippled with arthritis
and Alzheimer's,
in a dark rented room
Charley, plays
melancholic melodies
on a dust filled harmonica he
found abandoned on a playground of sand
years ago by a handful of children
playing on monkey bars.
He now goes to the bathroom on occasion,
peeing takes forever; he feeds the cat when
he doesn't forget where the food is stashed.
He hears bedlam when he buys fish at the local market
and the skeleton bones of the fish show through
He lies on his back riddled with pain,
pine cones fill his pillows and mattress;
praying to Jesus and rubbing his rosary beads
Charley blows tunes out his
celestial instrument notes float through the open window
touch the nose of summer clouds.
Charley overtakes himself with grief
and is ecstatically alone.
Charley plays a solo tune.
jason “juice” hardung
if you find god, keep him in your pocket
My old man saves quarters
with Wyoming's bucking bronco
on the back.
Only Wyoming
never New Jersey or Vermont.
Like they will be worth twenty-six cents someday.
People never find God
unless things are going
horribly wrong.
Prison cancer addiction
being lost in the Amazon rainforest
with cutter ants gnawing
on your broken leg
while an airplane writes
Will you marry me?
With its exhaust.
The pilot never sees you.
God sees everything and laughs.
Michael Vick found God
so did Tonya Harding.
Yesterday I found a quarter
with God's face
on the back
a stern profile chiseled in silver
a handsome white man
with his hair parted to the left
a cocky grin
and it said
"In me I trust"
nurtured like a cactus in a single man’s apartment
I never learned how to make a bed properly
do the dishes
mow the yard in diagonal lines
vacuum
comb my hair
make cereal
feed the dog
My dad just said
do it
it better be done before I get home
grabbed his black lunch box
silver thermos
and slammed the door
His rail yard bibs would walk out
into yellow mornings
come home in blue evenings
and I was dirtier
than I was before
I didn't figure out that the shower curtain goes
on the inside of the tub
until I lived on my own
The floor was always wetter than me
and I was a newborn calf
doing splits
every time I tried to stand on my own
Now I just take baths
I never learned what dinnertime talk meant
parent teacher conferences
sack lunches with half cut sandwiches
like that red-haired kid Roy Edge flaunted
just before I took it from him
When I was a child I dreamed
of being a single father
in a house painted two shades of brown
because I started something I couldn't finish
I never planned that I'd be the age
I am now
Women were like
family trips to Disneyland
Other people's families
I never learned to decode ancient Mayan hieroglyphics
or read the nutritional values on bread
I never learned that when a woman says
I'm fine nothing’s wrong
she really means
we need to talk
and when she says
we need to talk
well
it's usually over by then.
i watched the stoplight change in your eyes
We drove to a sex shop.
I said I'd by you that purple waterproof dildo
that curves to the left.
Just like me.
But sex couldn't wait.
You took my swollen ego into your mouth.
As I drove, the shadows of branches
brushed your back through
stained glass cathedrals.
Me I played with your hair,
tried not to crash,
used turn signals
and drove the speed limit.
Streetlights in rain ran
the length of the blacktop.
Obsidian in the throes
of city heat, cars
pulling up next to us,
honking with Barney Fife smiles
and a hemp necklace I wish
was a noose.
instead, raising thumbs up
like dumb simians do.
We didn't care
and suddenly the price of gas
didn't seem that bad.
Four dollars is nothing
compared to the warmth
of your mouth.
The place where I came from,
your smile will make
you a star kid.
So we drove
into tomorrow, our future
windshield wipers
pushed yesterday
off into the street
and I watched it
fall on its face in the rear view.
I finished off and pulled
your head up for a kiss.
The reflection of the stoplight
turned green
in your eyes.
My old man saves quarters
with Wyoming's bucking bronco
on the back.
Only Wyoming
never New Jersey or Vermont.
Like they will be worth twenty-six cents someday.
People never find God
unless things are going
horribly wrong.
Prison cancer addiction
being lost in the Amazon rainforest
with cutter ants gnawing
on your broken leg
while an airplane writes
Will you marry me?
With its exhaust.
The pilot never sees you.
God sees everything and laughs.
Michael Vick found God
so did Tonya Harding.
Yesterday I found a quarter
with God's face
on the back
a stern profile chiseled in silver
a handsome white man
with his hair parted to the left
a cocky grin
and it said
"In me I trust"
nurtured like a cactus in a single man’s apartment
I never learned how to make a bed properly
do the dishes
mow the yard in diagonal lines
vacuum
comb my hair
make cereal
feed the dog
My dad just said
do it
it better be done before I get home
grabbed his black lunch box
silver thermos
and slammed the door
His rail yard bibs would walk out
into yellow mornings
come home in blue evenings
and I was dirtier
than I was before
I didn't figure out that the shower curtain goes
on the inside of the tub
until I lived on my own
The floor was always wetter than me
and I was a newborn calf
doing splits
every time I tried to stand on my own
Now I just take baths
I never learned what dinnertime talk meant
parent teacher conferences
sack lunches with half cut sandwiches
like that red-haired kid Roy Edge flaunted
just before I took it from him
When I was a child I dreamed
of being a single father
in a house painted two shades of brown
because I started something I couldn't finish
I never planned that I'd be the age
I am now
Women were like
family trips to Disneyland
Other people's families
I never learned to decode ancient Mayan hieroglyphics
or read the nutritional values on bread
I never learned that when a woman says
I'm fine nothing’s wrong
she really means
we need to talk
and when she says
we need to talk
well
it's usually over by then.
i watched the stoplight change in your eyes
We drove to a sex shop.
I said I'd by you that purple waterproof dildo
that curves to the left.
Just like me.
But sex couldn't wait.
You took my swollen ego into your mouth.
As I drove, the shadows of branches
brushed your back through
stained glass cathedrals.
Me I played with your hair,
tried not to crash,
used turn signals
and drove the speed limit.
Streetlights in rain ran
the length of the blacktop.
Obsidian in the throes
of city heat, cars
pulling up next to us,
honking with Barney Fife smiles
and a hemp necklace I wish
was a noose.
instead, raising thumbs up
like dumb simians do.
We didn't care
and suddenly the price of gas
didn't seem that bad.
Four dollars is nothing
compared to the warmth
of your mouth.
The place where I came from,
your smile will make
you a star kid.
So we drove
into tomorrow, our future
windshield wipers
pushed yesterday
off into the street
and I watched it
fall on its face in the rear view.
I finished off and pulled
your head up for a kiss.
The reflection of the stoplight
turned green
in your eyes.
dan provost
blue collar, white heat
She told me that “If I didn’t
know you personally, I would
never approach you…you’re very blue
collar and always have a sneer on your face.”
Well baby, I wear that persona like
a battle scar…never wanting to
wear my poetic side on my sleeve.
Ronnie Van Zant once told me
that all the pencil-pushers better
get out of his way.
I took that to heart and never allowed
phoniness to creep into my grill.
Abilities should always speak for
themselves, if the personality is bigger
than the talent—than it’s time to try
a new game with a another set of rules.
I do not carry bullets out the door, or drive
a steak through the heart of malcontents
Who call themselves disillusioned.
And people more talented than I sang songs
about hiding behind blue eyes and asking
if anybody’s in there.
Uh, uh…There’s a true challenge inside my
being that exposes itself everyday. But I will
not let it fuck with me because I have a
right to survive.
It is then I walk out the doorway and
spit on the sidewalk to remind myself
who I really am…
witnessing a man dying who wants to live
To watch a man dying that
wants to live.
You look inside yourself and feel ashamed
and embarrassed of your own pain.
To see him struggle to say a word.
To see his face grimace with pain in some hospice, where the scent of death lingers in each saddened room.
This is the end of the spree.
A later eulogy.
A tear left in some alleyway.
The night steers its course.
No end…
No end…
She told me that “If I didn’t
know you personally, I would
never approach you…you’re very blue
collar and always have a sneer on your face.”
Well baby, I wear that persona like
a battle scar…never wanting to
wear my poetic side on my sleeve.
Ronnie Van Zant once told me
that all the pencil-pushers better
get out of his way.
I took that to heart and never allowed
phoniness to creep into my grill.
Abilities should always speak for
themselves, if the personality is bigger
than the talent—than it’s time to try
a new game with a another set of rules.
I do not carry bullets out the door, or drive
a steak through the heart of malcontents
Who call themselves disillusioned.
And people more talented than I sang songs
about hiding behind blue eyes and asking
if anybody’s in there.
Uh, uh…There’s a true challenge inside my
being that exposes itself everyday. But I will
not let it fuck with me because I have a
right to survive.
It is then I walk out the doorway and
spit on the sidewalk to remind myself
who I really am…
witnessing a man dying who wants to live
To watch a man dying that
wants to live.
You look inside yourself and feel ashamed
and embarrassed of your own pain.
To see him struggle to say a word.
To see his face grimace with pain in some hospice, where the scent of death lingers in each saddened room.
This is the end of the spree.
A later eulogy.
A tear left in some alleyway.
The night steers its course.
No end…
No end…
melanie browne
your Zapruder film frame DNA
I apologize. I tried to read your poem
With the arbitrary roman numerals
Some of your stanzas were
Not in a numeric order as one
Would have expected nevertheless
I tried to stay on track and I almost made
It through the first stanza
But the numbering made things smaller
And smaller till your words disappeared and then I saw
Nothing but white and the white became the pixels
And then I saw clearly what it was you
Were trying to say to me
You wanted me to see your tiny erector set
I see it!
I see your bread crumb Jesus!
The DNA in your Zapruder film frame!
But I'm still not exactly sure
what your poem was about
heaven is a giant pawn shop
Heaven is
a giant pawn shop
with no 90 day interest
pawn tickets
You can trade
a bladder skin
for a
Lord of the
Flies Ballet!
I think about this
as I'm listening to
Rush
in the car,
trying to calm myself
down, having a
panic attack
in the parking lot
outside of Starbucks,
worrying about
whether I would be
cool or cast out,
and I'm still thinking
about heaven
and that pawn shop
built of gold
in a rainbow filled sky
I apologize. I tried to read your poem
With the arbitrary roman numerals
Some of your stanzas were
Not in a numeric order as one
Would have expected nevertheless
I tried to stay on track and I almost made
It through the first stanza
But the numbering made things smaller
And smaller till your words disappeared and then I saw
Nothing but white and the white became the pixels
And then I saw clearly what it was you
Were trying to say to me
You wanted me to see your tiny erector set
I see it!
I see your bread crumb Jesus!
The DNA in your Zapruder film frame!
But I'm still not exactly sure
what your poem was about
heaven is a giant pawn shop
Heaven is
a giant pawn shop
with no 90 day interest
pawn tickets
You can trade
a bladder skin
for a
Lord of the
Flies Ballet!
I think about this
as I'm listening to
Rush
in the car,
trying to calm myself
down, having a
panic attack
in the parking lot
outside of Starbucks,
worrying about
whether I would be
cool or cast out,
and I'm still thinking
about heaven
and that pawn shop
built of gold
in a rainbow filled sky
darryl salach
death is a breakfast cereal
war
will not
change
nations.
Lennon
said it
best,
only
peace
and
love
stand a
chance.
pack up
your
version
of
the truth
America
and
listen
to a
bomb
strapped
child
dying
for
change.
a shot
no poetry today
only a hangover
with my tongue feeling numb
my eyes swollen
and burning a dry red color
the smell of garbage
and cat piss is everywhere.
my apartment needs a powder puff
and I need to bite that dog in the ass.
war
will not
change
nations.
Lennon
said it
best,
only
peace
and
love
stand a
chance.
pack up
your
version
of
the truth
America
and
listen
to a
bomb
strapped
child
dying
for
change.
a shot
no poetry today
only a hangover
with my tongue feeling numb
my eyes swollen
and burning a dry red color
the smell of garbage
and cat piss is everywhere.
my apartment needs a powder puff
and I need to bite that dog in the ass.
simon philbrook
fly posters will be prosecuted
Muslim students with rucksacks
will not be sat next to on trains,
young blacks will be stopped
and searched,
children will be driven to school
in four-by-fours,
gays will be beaten
and jews will be spat at,
men will fuck whomever they can
and lie to their wives,
politicians will smile
and kiss babies,
the homeless will die on the streets
when the weather turns,
prostitutes will take crack
and executives will take cocaine,
targets on CO2 emissions
will be talked about,
footballers will get away with rape
and drunk driving,
McDonalds will sell burgers
and Starbucks will sell coffee,
fly posters
will be prosecuted,
this is england
have a nice day.
Muslim students with rucksacks
will not be sat next to on trains,
young blacks will be stopped
and searched,
children will be driven to school
in four-by-fours,
gays will be beaten
and jews will be spat at,
men will fuck whomever they can
and lie to their wives,
politicians will smile
and kiss babies,
the homeless will die on the streets
when the weather turns,
prostitutes will take crack
and executives will take cocaine,
targets on CO2 emissions
will be talked about,
footballers will get away with rape
and drunk driving,
McDonalds will sell burgers
and Starbucks will sell coffee,
fly posters
will be prosecuted,
this is england
have a nice day.
amanda boschetto
she
she gazes upon the world,
the same she created
with orgasms of smiles
and her legs are always open,
for every man who wants to
visit some cheap cunt
one day she shall paint her
walls with brain and bones,
maybe already tomorrow,
in her soft cell of dust
she is night during day and
never sees any children
alive under her hands,
they turn to naked trees,
they turn as she does,
into words and air,
forever here
the mirror reflects
my face in the mirror
is void of truth,
that trembles along
with the trees outside,
the ugly ghosts of summer
swim in a puddle
of death or a sweet suicide,
a haze of unawareness,
chasing me back to childhood
where i grew up
and ran to catch the rain
clouds were higher than
heaven then
and the pale sky was full
of mourning,
a lonely beauty that
left a mark on my skin,
all this within
she gazes upon the world,
the same she created
with orgasms of smiles
and her legs are always open,
for every man who wants to
visit some cheap cunt
one day she shall paint her
walls with brain and bones,
maybe already tomorrow,
in her soft cell of dust
she is night during day and
never sees any children
alive under her hands,
they turn to naked trees,
they turn as she does,
into words and air,
forever here
the mirror reflects
my face in the mirror
is void of truth,
that trembles along
with the trees outside,
the ugly ghosts of summer
swim in a puddle
of death or a sweet suicide,
a haze of unawareness,
chasing me back to childhood
where i grew up
and ran to catch the rain
clouds were higher than
heaven then
and the pale sky was full
of mourning,
a lonely beauty that
left a mark on my skin,
all this within
mike carson
happy days?
Happy daze, floating on the beach
Happy in No-Fuck, Vagina
That’s quite a task for the sailor boys
Sent by their kindly Uncle Sam
To Hell for a year, Hell incarnate
Aboard the Devil’s own fireboat
The U.S.S. Zippo, I mean Forrestfire, er, excuse me, Forrestal
4,000 strong, unless you count the 500 ghosts
~
Happy daze, purple haze
Angel dust at dawn’s fresh meat
An opium lover’s delight -
Remind me again, please? Duty, Country, Honor
What about my God? Oh, please help me find my God
What the Hell is happening to me?
Please tell me - am I having fun yet?
~
Tell me about your Vietnam
I’ll tell you that the military doesn’t need a war
To mess one’s mind, they do a fine job of that all the time
Peacetime vets let me hear your voice
How many Hells must you endure?
Happy daze, floating
Find a vein to pump the drugs in
Was ‘Nam like this? Did we learn well?
Return to where? The Forrestal? To burn?
Go ahead - Fry us all, great gray God of sailor’s fears
Floating - I dream of floating in the black burning
Waters of the dark aftermath -
But ships don’t sink anymore, do they?
They simply vaporize, what a comforting thought
Happy days turn to happy nights
Floating on the beach
In Ocean City
Give me some kind of reason
To break my happy daze
Of purple haze
Born in the crazy days
Of yesterday
What happened to the Beatles?
Where are the Rolling Stones?
Open the door, Jim - open the fucking doors!
Speak to me of a fine and happy day
When the words war and army mean nothing anymore
And I can stop dreaming
In my solitary opium den of a mind
Happy daze, floating on the beach
Happy in No-Fuck, Vagina
That’s quite a task for the sailor boys
Sent by their kindly Uncle Sam
To Hell for a year, Hell incarnate
Aboard the Devil’s own fireboat
The U.S.S. Zippo, I mean Forrestfire, er, excuse me, Forrestal
4,000 strong, unless you count the 500 ghosts
~
Happy daze, purple haze
Angel dust at dawn’s fresh meat
An opium lover’s delight -
Remind me again, please? Duty, Country, Honor
What about my God? Oh, please help me find my God
What the Hell is happening to me?
Please tell me - am I having fun yet?
~
Tell me about your Vietnam
I’ll tell you that the military doesn’t need a war
To mess one’s mind, they do a fine job of that all the time
Peacetime vets let me hear your voice
How many Hells must you endure?
Happy daze, floating
Find a vein to pump the drugs in
Was ‘Nam like this? Did we learn well?
Return to where? The Forrestal? To burn?
Go ahead - Fry us all, great gray God of sailor’s fears
Floating - I dream of floating in the black burning
Waters of the dark aftermath -
But ships don’t sink anymore, do they?
They simply vaporize, what a comforting thought
Happy days turn to happy nights
Floating on the beach
In Ocean City
Give me some kind of reason
To break my happy daze
Of purple haze
Born in the crazy days
Of yesterday
What happened to the Beatles?
Where are the Rolling Stones?
Open the door, Jim - open the fucking doors!
Speak to me of a fine and happy day
When the words war and army mean nothing anymore
And I can stop dreaming
In my solitary opium den of a mind
benjamin nardolilli
hot summer night
Uptown is Downtown,
And the tenements
And the skyscrapers
Have all gone dancing
With each other, as
I run trying to get to you.
The park is melting
And its lights are filled
With incandescent cobwebs,
The rumbling under me
Threatens the whole infrastructure.
Your window is broken,
So I howl with the rats
And you’ve become the moon,
The cream oval is looking away,
Trying to set and leave me alone.
In the flatlands, I walk,
Until I find friendly monkeys
Holed up in a brick cage.
We drink cheap imports
And when they turn their backs
I run, trying to get to the mailbox
Hoping to stop the money from getting through.
waiting for the night train
Burnt or buried,
Death will take me as I am.
I will not worry
About what to wear:
Death comes even to the naked,
Or who I am with, for
No crowd can fight an enemy
That makes no sound and is swift,
With the twist of the heartstrings,
And the crashing of all memories.
The dark curtains are drawn.
I must approach, to enter
The cave behind them,
Not with too much sadness,
Or with fear,
I must be willing to leave
It all behind, yet
I must not be happy,
Or come running,
To look eager to leave is wrong for me,
What would it make my life seem?
A painful affair, a drawn out race
That I am quitting in disgust and exhaustion?
Death will not come to me,
I will come to it, and come
With a cryptic smile on my face,
A jagged line across my lips,
To keep the reaper guessing,
If its game is just a joke,
And I am the straight man
Setting death up for the punch line.
Uptown is Downtown,
And the tenements
And the skyscrapers
Have all gone dancing
With each other, as
I run trying to get to you.
The park is melting
And its lights are filled
With incandescent cobwebs,
The rumbling under me
Threatens the whole infrastructure.
Your window is broken,
So I howl with the rats
And you’ve become the moon,
The cream oval is looking away,
Trying to set and leave me alone.
In the flatlands, I walk,
Until I find friendly monkeys
Holed up in a brick cage.
We drink cheap imports
And when they turn their backs
I run, trying to get to the mailbox
Hoping to stop the money from getting through.
waiting for the night train
Burnt or buried,
Death will take me as I am.
I will not worry
About what to wear:
Death comes even to the naked,
Or who I am with, for
No crowd can fight an enemy
That makes no sound and is swift,
With the twist of the heartstrings,
And the crashing of all memories.
The dark curtains are drawn.
I must approach, to enter
The cave behind them,
Not with too much sadness,
Or with fear,
I must be willing to leave
It all behind, yet
I must not be happy,
Or come running,
To look eager to leave is wrong for me,
What would it make my life seem?
A painful affair, a drawn out race
That I am quitting in disgust and exhaustion?
Death will not come to me,
I will come to it, and come
With a cryptic smile on my face,
A jagged line across my lips,
To keep the reaper guessing,
If its game is just a joke,
And I am the straight man
Setting death up for the punch line.
howard good
how it is
The pretty young receptionist
reaches up for a file,
and the tops of her breasts swell
like luminous snow clouds,
and I savor the glimpse,
though a husband and father.
It’s just how it is,
the heart hobos around,
dirty, unshaven, living on handouts.
The pretty young receptionist
reaches up for a file,
and the tops of her breasts swell
like luminous snow clouds,
and I savor the glimpse,
though a husband and father.
It’s just how it is,
the heart hobos around,
dirty, unshaven, living on handouts.
paul perez
to the owner of a shoe: rupert's tale
*based on a true story*
To whom it may concern,
I have stolen your shoe.
It is a black Adidas skating shoe,
with write stripes.
I apologize.
Wear and tear shows me
what fun you must have had together.
Skating down the street,
getting into fights with the preppy kids
The time you were caught
kissing a girl on your bed one night.
The state fair, running in the rain,
hackey sack, soccer,
Your right shoe
must be rather lonely,
being only one
in a pair of two shoes.
For that I apologize,
but you can't have the shoe back.
*based on a true story*
To whom it may concern,
I have stolen your shoe.
It is a black Adidas skating shoe,
with write stripes.
I apologize.
Wear and tear shows me
what fun you must have had together.
Skating down the street,
getting into fights with the preppy kids
The time you were caught
kissing a girl on your bed one night.
The state fair, running in the rain,
hackey sack, soccer,
Your right shoe
must be rather lonely,
being only one
in a pair of two shoes.
For that I apologize,
but you can't have the shoe back.
felino soriano
5:52
Tell me time, the innate proclamation
of invisible visual requirement of
hour mouth opening excreting language
of birth, rising of mauve tone
intertwined with visual
horizon too near
to verbally touch with
specific forgotten
laughter of the mind's
explosion imagery.
affected
Against the mind, huge gloved in
well fitted reason, havoc performs
its birthright, its predetermined definition
worded, glamorized within the romantic angle
alerted by society, rubbing off a jagged edge
close enough to yank its sharpest fang.
Mind mayhem decomposes
sensatory blind explanation. Via
neo-literature found without the act
which sound reading once designed its
methodology.
Television replaces with cultural
happenstance clear paths with mazed
confusion creating uncritical thinking
abilities, the monotonous with the
unblinking eyes unwavering.
Tell me time, the innate proclamation
of invisible visual requirement of
hour mouth opening excreting language
of birth, rising of mauve tone
intertwined with visual
horizon too near
to verbally touch with
specific forgotten
laughter of the mind's
explosion imagery.
affected
Against the mind, huge gloved in
well fitted reason, havoc performs
its birthright, its predetermined definition
worded, glamorized within the romantic angle
alerted by society, rubbing off a jagged edge
close enough to yank its sharpest fang.
Mind mayhem decomposes
sensatory blind explanation. Via
neo-literature found without the act
which sound reading once designed its
methodology.
Television replaces with cultural
happenstance clear paths with mazed
confusion creating uncritical thinking
abilities, the monotonous with the
unblinking eyes unwavering.
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