untitledWasting away at the middle,
In the middle class rut
At a second rate cut
Victims plenty to this Third world disease,
The Third World Diet,
Prescribed to us there in charnel houses
And smoke dried inns-
There like sunlight to a broken column
We write our lines to the doomsday song.
untitledPush me out to sea, tied as an anchor,
Ship to ship to sea, joyous, as you'd see.
But those on shore, your gift magnetic
Dictate facts, words, made like irons
To drown you.
Words like irons, wrapping chains
Of who and what or was
Glossing over this very human lens,
The experience, universal and collective here
Doomed to end there, huddled
Like fated masses
At the edge of these wretched shores.
Buried out at sea, in a river, by the ditch,
As locusts fill these decrepit lungs,
We'd burst with wings into those nuclear skies
Beyond our padded codas, cells,
To write, write, write and rewrite
Those wretched parts of ourselves
Like a bitter fire, passed down to those colorblind,
Sorted eyes. We'd rewrite our lives here
And embrace our non-issue now
And married, buried there, live like kings
Under a golden Minneapolis sky.
untitledCheap soap, cheap girls,
Strung out there against a bathroom stall.
Swill cheap wine by the carpark fence,
Ruminating on judgments there
As moonlight sifts through the gloam
Of evening, settled.
Noon here offers a stiff breeze,
Stiff drinks, at the crosswalk there,
Washington and 19th,
A musician cries out:
"Mea culpa, mea culpa,
Mea maxima culpa."
But all this is fiction too,
While daylight offers no respite-
Passersby fling change at him or spit,
A patchy gray beard, a scent of filth
And passersby, apathetic,
Play darks against reds and blues and whites
There, on Washington and 19th.
Far from here, in Italian fields,
In Bruges, in rouge,
We eye them like you,
Pythons in heat in the steel, concrete jungle
There, cathedrals to our pride,
Dreamers of what dreams may come,
Of Ebens and Nitzs,
Kibbles and bits,
Singing iambic to the language of blood.
untitledThis is my sole release,
A sweet relapse into my own
Sweet myopic release
Into an infinite span,
An infinite brand of our own devices.
Nesting in a bed of poppies
On the sunny banks of the Rhine,
I shed my skin in quick form,
Slipping out of my penny loafers
To wade into Lethe:
Shedding my skin in rhythm to the tide,
I slip back under the current
Leaving words behind to fry.
untitledAnd on that grassy shoreline there,
Far from all who thought they'd dare,
Far from those who'd ask,
"What do you see?"
"What is truth?"
While we'd grimace and patter
on 'til the coriander
pokes it's tender head
through the underbrush.
But what of poppies there,
Or asphodel in a vase,
Placed high on the mantle
Planted high with seeds of disgust
untitledHere lay conduct in the face of whim,
Therein contained within reason:
Caught between stimuli,
Crossed eyes, legs alike
only to be caught singing
to the rhythm of the bugle call.
Lines written three blocks from the pawn shop,
We catch ourselves in flight, within our right
To have these wings of doubt and shame,
All the while, tapping away at zeroes and ones
Hoping to derive emotion, fetishize apathetic