Alive In 85

look back in anger, look back in anger, look back in anger.

FLATFOOT 

You—watching,

I see you, blossom eyed

eating me, not knowing it.

 

O why?

It’s her—but you

don’t know that,

 

you don’t know

Columbus, her in

my Columbus.

 

But I can’t call

her mine—neither

you, or Columbus.


It is ours!

Our travel—

are you tired?

 

Cold throated,

nervous Columbus

running from

           

daylight and cops,

eaten by floral

patterns on couches.

 

Columbus

Columbus

Columbus.

 

How much can

you know—about

Columbus?


Her Columbus

that I want,

want, want—

 

O Columbus

come close.

Hers is too far.

 

I want nudely,

Can we dance—

flatfoot?


Mother Mary 

This morning hard-on, I dedicate to you

            and your soft lips, and cursed ancient photos

            yellow chairs

            and your son.

 

Separate by the western piano tides of America

            floating among the keys of negro bark

            soaked and killed to the tune of Mexican angels

            humming with wild tequila voices on the sunrise with the eyes of god

 

I see you in tattooed fists

and on fat latino’s breasts and cheeks

I see you on candles in blonde supermarkets

I see you walking down broad angry and impregnated

I see you on the sides of pocketknives

I see you on the sides of buildings

I see you in white women

and in the crevices of the city moaning.

I see you watching re-runs of friends

I see you drowning in flooded toilets

I see you on arms and women and men

I see you in a sad girl

I see you in my baby photos
I see you in Southern Living

I see you when I eat bad things

and in tears and on dollar bills

 

I see you in her holy bedroom dancing naked around the floor

I see you in buses half alive kissing strange men

 

I see you in boarded up storefronts

            in exploding eyes

            and empty car lots

            rubbing your ass on telephone poles

 

I see you on the sleeves of grandmothers

            in embroidered coats

            and in your mother’s eyes

 

I see you on railings banging on ladders

            asking for a hand

 

I see you in train-hoppers

            and their injured dogs

 

I see you in half dead cigarettes

I see you in carcasses on the side of the highway


The Cruelty of Roses 

 

The orange in

the sky—and I

spent the after-

noon, sleeping in

this garden.

I glanced lazily into

her house; lazy the

whole day long,

severing her hips

with my eyes—watch-

ing her dance around

her room—singing into

her hands, for a moment

she slowly lifts up her

arms, and sinks below

as if she were praying to

Mecca. Sadly—awaiting

night—she disappearing,

the rain hums and the

sad fell sun rests while

my nostrils flare, and

like the sun—she dances,

she dances in wild flames,

tongues spinning while

America grows quiet.

 

I will never leave her garden,

 

hid in the bushes—pedestrians

don’t know me, my pillow of

marigolds making me a little sad

crushed with cigarette butts

sore putrid stems smashed

ovaries in my black hands

and tar lips, tangerine legs

thrown backwards

into the sun.

 

No, I will stay here.

 

Suffocating in her verbascum

and her lilies and her roses

and her camellias and her roses

and her tulips and her roses

and her roses and her roses.

and her roses and her roses.

A bed made in dark roses.


Warm Nights In Columbus (A Song For Allie) 

broken lee rd. has been trying to get me down in a ditch for years ; or is it you?

Allie, be honest. I want to know; be angelic.

Keep me from forgetting that night in Columbus
dead rat I passed on the road, violent clouds, gaudy ankle milk tit fairy girl, veins on walls in and out of coffee shops, mannequins, suburban cum angels, gelatinous bored fast food dog trash, the point, billy-club vagina gods, dancing jews, taffeta skin, red bellied angel dust goat eyes, pink nose, ankles, cheeks, puffy cloud virgins, rancid snaggle-puss vicodin lips, esoteric nightmare girl, brown skin dust bunny psychotropic fetus slurping steampunk machine gun anarcho faggots, dead everything, dead lover, dead blue shirt, point of clarity, shit devil, money, spics, chinks, niggers, communism, fascism, socialism, faggotism, bad plumbing, the system, green rays of pussy, the obnoxious empire we despise, GOP god fearing cocksuckers, tired eyes, sleepy eyes, a eulogy.

 

I drove home through ohio in a van full of lesbians

Allie I can hear you now, whimpering in the American night


gaunt legs

lacking the verve

choking each other at the red canine lights at dawn.


I think this is a poem better off not written 

there’s an unwritten shame
in
an empty bed
you know
you’d write one
hellof a
poem
or
whatever
about it

you could even look at the mattress
protruding
from the sheets
say it looks like
rivers
or cracks
in a
bums face
hands
you could even say
it makes you
sad
vomiting
into your sheets
when you drank too much
to be
kind
and
interesting

you are always
well aware
you could write
the poem
but you know
you’re better off
if you
don’t


Thing 

Apr 25th at 9PM / tagged: sex. hate. Poetry. / 1 note

I noticed
there is a growth
on your chest
lying
sleeping
right above your tit

I roll over
sniffing it
touching it
turning back my nose
like it was repulsive

nostrils
swollen
like an
old man’s knuckles

I hear something
a rustle
waking up
not smiling at me

nothing is more painful than that

“I hate that thing”
under your breath

I cant tell if you’re referring to me
‘that thing’
with twisting hate
or
the morsel
on your chest
ever so unaware
smiling