The cd skips and I would kick the boom box beside my bed
but the bottles are balancing oblong atop our needles,
and tin foil, and I don't really want to interrupt
the chirping jack hammers
of the looping mili second.
my chin falls to my chest and I nod, eyes closed
at the stars framed in the window beyond
my feet and I think about you, and how
you screamed and clawed
your eyes into pink pulp our first time
tripping. No one remembers except
me and those same stars that tried
to crawl inside you
like sparkling baby
scorpions.
original works of parts
Root Down
in the green soup between the jersey shore and downtown manhattan I sleep, swollen with life and disintegrating. pale green weeds pierce my sticky fly-paper asphalt, painfully shouldering their way into flat sunlight, drinking in all they can, and never sated. decades of ignored potholes crack my roads, their maws large enough to swallow the unaware. near a mountain of sagging cardboard edging my empty lots, a manged cat bleats for food, but desperation alone does not make food grow from acres of cracked cement and promises. pools of prismatic oil throb through my gutters to be transmogrified into drinking water. talking sneakers splash rainbows, my children leaping from the jagged curbs to the broken streets, their toes lapping at the tepid fluids. barren shrubs huddle nervously along the sides of my roads, growing dusty, cracked hubcaps; holding their breath for the moment when child and rusting, speeding, hulk unite. it does not come. my hollow store fronts and empty bus stops nurse my displaced, their Dixie wax-paper cups upheld as though brown acidic rain may one day turn to spare change. it doesn't.
between my hills and my valleys filled with jerseys airy poison discharge lay the trees that broke my sidewalks and sheltered my curbs. memorialized the lost and cooled my cement fields. trees made strangely stately by the light of summer's red sun and that whispered love to my wild dogs and my bleeding stray children, and sang my lullaby by night in the tainted ocean breeze. leviathans. their magnifecence, their enormous anchors plunged deep into the ocean bedrock, keeping us all from drifting away. lost in the olive slurry between the jersey shore and dowtown manhattan.
between my hills and my valleys filled with jerseys airy poison discharge lay the trees that broke my sidewalks and sheltered my curbs. memorialized the lost and cooled my cement fields. trees made strangely stately by the light of summer's red sun and that whispered love to my wild dogs and my bleeding stray children, and sang my lullaby by night in the tainted ocean breeze. leviathans. their magnifecence, their enormous anchors plunged deep into the ocean bedrock, keeping us all from drifting away. lost in the olive slurry between the jersey shore and dowtown manhattan.
Martin Is Untied From A Whipping Post In The Heat Of Slavery, Sees The Future, And Thinks
With the sinews of his bull whip I will suture my bleeding heart.
I will lash their children to the stump of my left foot and dance my two step on the shoulders of their aged and dieing.
I will strangle these men with their fob chains and thrust myself inside them until they are pregnant with vision.
I will set the serpents upon her ankles and turn my blinded eyes to her throes.
I will reach my thorny, leathered palms to rescue her fruit, but only to slice them up when they too are ripe.
I will leave her ghosts besotted on foreign shores, and fill the bedding of my children with their soft, sweet agony.
I will tear the south from this earth by her ankles.
I will spread my wings and set flame to this nation until she breaths her last.
I will lash their children to the stump of my left foot and dance my two step on the shoulders of their aged and dieing.
I will strangle these men with their fob chains and thrust myself inside them until they are pregnant with vision.
I will set the serpents upon her ankles and turn my blinded eyes to her throes.
I will reach my thorny, leathered palms to rescue her fruit, but only to slice them up when they too are ripe.
I will leave her ghosts besotted on foreign shores, and fill the bedding of my children with their soft, sweet agony.
I will tear the south from this earth by her ankles.
I will spread my wings and set flame to this nation until she breaths her last.
My Mourning Star
The sun pulls with it a tide
of burgundy oil spilling
like a butchers bucket
across the backs of men
before they are pitted
against tigers.
One hundred and 80
degrees separates the tips
of dark wings from the pitter
patter of darker
intentions. The condor
sings at dawn
for the coming sunset
when teeth will stalk
again. Moonlight gleams
against wanton grins
like tiny daggers that
whistle softly in the winds.
There rises a cry in the ears
of those who would listen
to the beat of the hunters
footstep. Even autumns
debris holds it’s tongue
to leave
the knowing groan of day
light hearts to face the sighs
of blades through bone.
The tears of the sun will rise
alone to the wails
of bloodied trees.
of burgundy oil spilling
like a butchers bucket
across the backs of men
before they are pitted
against tigers.
One hundred and 80
degrees separates the tips
of dark wings from the pitter
patter of darker
intentions. The condor
sings at dawn
for the coming sunset
when teeth will stalk
again. Moonlight gleams
against wanton grins
like tiny daggers that
whistle softly in the winds.
There rises a cry in the ears
of those who would listen
to the beat of the hunters
footstep. Even autumns
debris holds it’s tongue
to leave
the knowing groan of day
light hearts to face the sighs
of blades through bone.
The tears of the sun will rise
alone to the wails
of bloodied trees.
Saturday's Keeper
The caked sutures of inked sky strained to breaking yesterday. Something peeked through the cracks. Some awesome thing who’s beating unseated my nerves and forced my cadence like a familiar stranger walking by my side.
If I could divine why God's workmanship has aged so poorly my greatest fear probably wouldn't be opening Vanity Fair to find it sterile of cologne ads.
In the bellows of a four hundred year old pipe organ I knew saints rendered in lead and sand wouldn’t save me, no matter how much light gushed through their martyr wounds.
Something slashed my bare ankle between the pews when I knelt. The thought crossed my mind... could a mother made of knives show love without turning her boy into toothpicked cubed meat ideal for serving parties of 8-15.
It's difficult to tell exactly what it is that taps on the hardwood- talon or droplet -since the light in the back most rows is composed mostly of dust and shadow.
I peered down my shirt this afternoon and two blonde haired blue eyes blinked up where I’m sure my gut was supposed to be. Something tried to jump out of my skin, but I don’t think it was me.
There must not have been many angels in God's sweatshop that second day. The fabric is really going to shit. I’m not sure the darkness between the stars isn’t something's dried stain from where the fraying edges of the wounded quilt were stapled shut... twice.
The thought occurred to me over dinner, when something tried to sit down across the table from me and succeeded in dashing the chair to the floor like a game of pick up sticks, Monday's reputation is undeserved.
It's the Sunday's I look forward to the least.
If I could divine why God's workmanship has aged so poorly my greatest fear probably wouldn't be opening Vanity Fair to find it sterile of cologne ads.
In the bellows of a four hundred year old pipe organ I knew saints rendered in lead and sand wouldn’t save me, no matter how much light gushed through their martyr wounds.
Something slashed my bare ankle between the pews when I knelt. The thought crossed my mind... could a mother made of knives show love without turning her boy into toothpicked cubed meat ideal for serving parties of 8-15.
It's difficult to tell exactly what it is that taps on the hardwood- talon or droplet -since the light in the back most rows is composed mostly of dust and shadow.
I peered down my shirt this afternoon and two blonde haired blue eyes blinked up where I’m sure my gut was supposed to be. Something tried to jump out of my skin, but I don’t think it was me.
There must not have been many angels in God's sweatshop that second day. The fabric is really going to shit. I’m not sure the darkness between the stars isn’t something's dried stain from where the fraying edges of the wounded quilt were stapled shut... twice.
The thought occurred to me over dinner, when something tried to sit down across the table from me and succeeded in dashing the chair to the floor like a game of pick up sticks, Monday's reputation is undeserved.
It's the Sunday's I look forward to the least.
What I Meant When I Said We're in Love
Splaying my hand on the broken
mirror to cover the pieces of my face
I think of you and the white grains
of dust crushed into my skin.
If only everyone could love you
as much as I love myself,
the world would be a better place for both
of us. We do look alike don't we. You cross
yourself and swear otherwise with eyes
like my mothers and a mouth like
my baby poodle. What that makes me
only the face knows, but its too bloody to speak
clearly. You turn my greasy knotted heart
into strands of intertwined orgasms
and the rising planet in my mind
gleams like half of a tarnished coin
turning in the vacuum between my sheets.
Two particles per thousand cubic meters.
The banging on the wall
is our neighbors. An old couple
of cheaters. I bang back with the top of my head.
No one licks my wounds like I do
and you hurt me bad. Tonight we inhale love
and you give me sex to make it all worth something.
mirror to cover the pieces of my face
I think of you and the white grains
of dust crushed into my skin.
If only everyone could love you
as much as I love myself,
the world would be a better place for both
of us. We do look alike don't we. You cross
yourself and swear otherwise with eyes
like my mothers and a mouth like
my baby poodle. What that makes me
only the face knows, but its too bloody to speak
clearly. You turn my greasy knotted heart
into strands of intertwined orgasms
and the rising planet in my mind
gleams like half of a tarnished coin
turning in the vacuum between my sheets.
Two particles per thousand cubic meters.
The banging on the wall
is our neighbors. An old couple
of cheaters. I bang back with the top of my head.
No one licks my wounds like I do
and you hurt me bad. Tonight we inhale love
and you give me sex to make it all worth something.
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