poetry

near death by cannonball ≠ near death by dirty looks for dirty rides

poetry

i envy these men who dodged cannon balls
and bullets for their faith living every day
on the edge in the places they weren’t
allowed to go speaking to people who feared
them for the color of their skin, and while
i was born for this time here and now and have
come to the same place, these people are
no savages, and they respect me for the color
of my skin. and i can’t help but think my
choice in a very old and ugly vehicle for
transportation is not at all equal to a cannon
ball flying inches away from my head.

it does not require or yield the same kind of
faith. i labor every day wondering if i’m doing
what’s right rather than wondering how i’ll live
through tomorrow, and with my family this seems
wiser, but that part of me deep inside – that part
all of us men cannot seem to shake – that part
of me just wishes for a little more excitement
sometimes. all the while wishing my wishes don’t
come true.

I spent a day waiting for my life to change

poetry

I fished a nickel from underneath the couch
it was a buffalo nickel. It was worth five cents
and I threw it in my nickel bottle.

I got downtown at 8pm and wandered
with nothing but a dime in my pocket
and a set of keys
but I couldn’t buy nothing from nobody
and that nickel at home wouldn’t help.

So I got down to the viaduct
out South street way and I
tossed a dime in the murky waters.
I made a ten-cent wish, then,
and headed on my merry.

They hadn’t processed many
wishes that day, you see,
so those odds were probably
stacked up for me and I’ll
take what I can get
and nothing more than it.
And it it won’t be much
‘cuz after that nickel
I’m fresh out.

Traditional Florentine

poetry

I hold my dagger
Traditional Florentine
for to cut and parry
while the other blade
does the dirty work
and I keep them on edge
by means of my edges
and thrust and push
and slice and stab
so you stay just out
of harm’s deadly reach
but somehow with
my dagger held Traditional
Florentine you snuck up
right beside me and
you’ve been inside my
deadly arc for years now
and I don’t think that
I’ll ever cut you now,
just as long as you don’t
cut me,
first.

the intensity of the lack of the crowd

poetry

for a few minutes He brings torrential freezing rain and
as if just for me
He clears the city out.
so i book it through these streets alone
listening to a loud silence of the kind i haven’t heard
in months.

the masses flee inside as if afraid of the lack of people and
as if just for me
this city is empty, and for once, no one is cheering me on.

apathetic title

poetry

the world-famous guitar extrordinaire
played some hendrix upon a mexican
stratocaster
oh lord
he was so good
i could barely tell
i thought those songs were his

and neither of us wanted to tell
the secrets that were so painfully
clear

that he was high on crack cocaine
and that we both felt like the
weather outside

and he’d never been world-famous
either

and i wanted to just go away

we wished otherwise
like the people driving down cork street
and all the people in the hardings
and at the day-cares
and everywhere

somewhere in each tune he changed it a bit
original, i thought
unrecorded, too

he played on, and on
la la la
and it rained outside.

(under)lying

poetry

this class is boring as shit
i am bored
i am bored
i am bored–
i cannot understand this
i cannot do this
and i am sick of trying

i gave up long ago

in elementary school
when i had to read aloud
i stumbled over words
like tree roots in the dark
the other kids laughed
called me dumb
so i stopped reading aloud
i stopped reading
i felt ashamed and i did not want to feel
ashamed

i hated that feeling
that same feeling when
i brought home my first Fs on my report card
and my mom yelled at me
why you so dumb?
why you lazy as shit?

it was easier to give up
than to keep trying
and keep failing
and keep feeling ashamed

i started to pretend like i didn’t care
like i wasn’t trying
it was just so much easier–
but i haven’t, really,
stopped caring
it still stings when i’m handed a book
i know i can’t understand
when my mom comes home
from parent-teacher conferences
and looks at me
like she wishes she had a different son.

I bet he thought he was gonna change the world.

poetry

We dug for gold and struck oil
and sold it for all it was worth.

We’re rich now, and we’ve
got a lot of big plans for this
little
godforaken
undeserving
wretched
piece of
shit of a
town.

We’ll be burning the schools
and setting our sons to graze
the greener pastures.
Our daughters, to trot
on beaches ever distant.

Our dogs will all be beaten
and our grandparents held
face down, underwater,
and the strong will survive
and build me my monuments.
They will build me
my hallowed halls.

And should a man or woman cross us,
It’ll be the whips for them.
And if they cross us twice,
the chains, and then the cleavers,
for we will have our order,
and have our orders carried out.

Not a soul will stand against
while their carts move so easy
and their drink containers
break so much less. Nor do
they rust.

but years from now
when all our oil
has been burned away,
I hate to think
what happens to
the pair of us
when all our loyal followers
burn Kerosine instead.

my coffee runneth over

poetry

yet unclench, I shall not!
refusing to render
the satisfaction of release,
despite the pain!
despite the heat!
despite the puss filled blisters,
fit to burst,
I shall not unclasp!
I shall not remit!
I shall hold the cup!
for within is the only salvation
of this beautifully sunny spring morning.

poetic illusions

poetry

thought i’d filled this space before.
seems like just yesterday i found it empty and did what any self-declared writer would do.

stared blankly. then ran when someone came into the room and considered looking over my shoulder.

seems like i’d filled this space just an hour or so ago with something i was quite proud of.
but then i came back and looked, and it was still empty.
is it possible my mind is more poetic than my fingers? when all the evidence has proved my mind is incapable of poetry without my fingers.
until (that is)
poetry is written without ever being written at all, settling instead to be scribbled on the black board that is my mind. where no one can read it. where my memory allows me to forget it.

and as certain as i was i’d filled this space before, it keeps coming up blank. about every time my glass hits empty.

Hopeless, Hopeless Unromantic.

poetry

I knew a woman
one or many years
ago
(It pains me to remember)
and oh did she hold
such a flame.

Her looks and charm and such
were such that lesser
sorts of men surrendered
and it was well and good,

she was not hungry,
not once or ever.
She could carry nothing
but had it all
and oh did she hold
such a flame.

Her car went down
in a ditch on someone
else’s wedding day.
Her leg was broken
but only in one place,
but her dress was ripped
and where’s the
fairness? where’s
the justice? The
Humanity?

I saw her that day
but not since and
good riddance, I think.
She cared not at all
for me or mine but
oh, did she hold
such a flame.

Entrance of a King

poetry

When you came into our presence the room emptied into frenzy:
Our bodies contorted for a glimpse
of your sun-warmed complexion,
of your dirtied, sandaled feet.
The voice of the crowd ascended
as we lifted our hands to this king of the Jews.
Our voices crescendoing louder
cavorting arms climbed higher to a climax
our raised hands cleaved tighter around calloused fists
My mouth spewed malice.
My eyes holocausted with hatred.
I screamed bitterly through shredded throat:
“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Hang him on a tree!”