Firecrackers so close
a gun to the ear of every teacher,
our poor and unprotected.
I want to run inside
the house I blessed just yesterday with Carmen and Coco.
WHERE’S MY BABY
Remember your Sleeping Beauty?
The power you betray
will come back and curse you.
Only love will awaken, but
who wants that, right?
And still, with Donald Trump,
we suffer your guilt
on top of it all.
Enjoy those hotdogs.
Tag Archives: poetry
Firecrackers so close
Your 24-houred openness pulses
artificial light like an oasis
in the New York night.
Boston has many beautiful things:
rowing clubs, turkeys strolling the esplanade
and artisanal donuts,
but I miss you, New York bodega,
your consistent comfort
of coffee, regular, in paper cups.
Remember that time my bougie boyfriend came to Harlem?
We went to a big bodega up by 145th.
He said excitedly,
like an anthropologist in the throes of discovery,
“They even use their own money up here!”
I said, “Nigga, those are food stamps. How you livin’?”
He broke up with me and moved to Oregon
to design sneakers.
Bodega, mecca of American cheese sandwiches,
you taste the same all these boyfriends later.
Can I get some Raw pre-rolls,
a strawberry condom
and some evaporated milk?
Number, where been, ask her.
His what. There any all?
Three, and give not an out.
How tell food for two when want?
Have follow us know:
make like in you.
Do show it, woman,
and who work before read?
Get day, great people!
Me, my, with water too
but went large and it way will.
To am, the of of this,
this or think him put of mother.
Father, friend up could are.
Come on, Ant Bird.
Yes, by they about a big? He.
And it way will city went as mother.
Their learn of uncle story were this:
are One, every she.
The iCloud is not white and pure.
A monster to the Earth it be.
The memories it keeps in store
consume resources greedily.
justifies the killing spree.
Every man for himself does leave
the ancestors behind to grieve.
That is our country ’tis of thee;
upon a blood foundation rests.
Spralling manifest destiny
corrupts the feeling intellect.
The mind in service to the heart,
compassion will salvation bring.
That kinder freedom from the start
frees us from un-necessating.
Our money states: In God We Trust
blinded to what’s in front of us.
Moral expense to become wealthy.
Killing the Earth to save our selfies.
Dedicated to all the artists
I wandered tombs of tomes from whence
hidden beneath the sacred site
did unsolved riddles’ sweet pretense
encase the mighty dynamite.
Escher could draw the puzzling
of steps and fish and belvedere
without the greasy sentiment
of painters with an obvious flare.
(He saw deeply inside the square
and took you there,
then took you THERE).
Schiele’s heart doth the darkness seek
for paradigms inside the face
mysterious and murkily
the beauty of the future’s taste.
His is the grace of master’s hand
delights in pigments of the blood.
He touched the wings of sacred sand
enfolded in the ancient shroud.
At tender age of twenty-four
I stood at the crossroads obscure.
The rightly path in front of me
lay thickets bare and thornily.
I could not muster courage strong
for that path so I chose the wrong.
I took the dead-end path instead
and danced and danced on feet that bled
until at last I came around.
Inside myself a new path found.
Through letting go in present tense
uncoded psychic dissonance.
This time I heeded inner call
walking without a fear to fall.
Darkness no longer terrifies
when clarity and truth belies.
Alice and Dorothy
go on a journey
where nothing is good
though that it should.
they fall out of bed.
They want to go home.
They want to wake up.
They drink from the cup
that fucks they shit up.
They deal with dimensions
of shape and of size
not too easily defied.
confused with desperation,
what they need is meditation.
At last they say
to those who hear:
surrender all to your home inside
that palace of wondrous fanta-sci-fy.
There is nothing else.
No here nor there
that once imagined