​road deconstruction #15

my body has an asphalt aroma.

i'm idle and my fuel tank,

a shot glass, is in the gutter.

outside table

is set with elbow,

fist on cheek, book

of cracked pages.


i watch this scene on the wall of my skull:

my brain, a clod of tendrils in search of a plot.

there is no place to root

in the exposed isolation of the road,

a dead ringer for the physics of chaos.


the shade of an oak is a collective memory.

i glow metallic in the ultra-violet sun.


i've hit a possum and the road, built

with no regard for obstacles,

continues its tail-pipe regret for the shy and blind.

drone of tires rolls out mother's predator pie:

a recipe for chainsaws and parking lots

to expand the rush hour of denial

and shorten the proximity

of stand-up comedian to botched executions.


once deflated, roadkill reveals its broken bones.

unable to stand, life continues

in the crawl of maggots.

may 17, 2014

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Cement Mixer Me

Cement Mixer Me
I do not sleep, night after night.
I stomp snock-wall cranium,
leave bloody bootprints, bone bruises,

swallow chemicals, hold my throat—
to close eyes is sand on talc,
is memory ink, grotesque plasm;
a spill within my wadded heart.

I spell words I would not hear,
on lines collapsing in the heat—
my stupid moves, my lies, my grief.

Cartoon nemesis, gravel'd me,
sinks into the alum ocean, 
wave on wave of best forgotten.

A momentary self-crustacean
snarled up in holiday lights.
All bees within, crushed in tins.

Or stoppered pour of chatterstone.
Cement mixer me.​
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Goggling Ooh & Ahh

Goggling, Ooh and AhhThe village eccentricspits on your car.The aging hippieargues a lot.No one has a handleon it anymoreExcept the marketand you knowthey're bettingyou turnon your own anddo the dirty workfor them. You knowthey've got itfigured outto the very last gasp.Rounded upto eat your dimeand daughter. You knowthis is how it goes.It happens t...

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two wives ago/two doors down/the haloes in her glasses

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Haiku

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Adrift

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jane street (our tellings)

Jane Street (our tellings)

 They all wanted to fuck me
on Jane Street but didn't.
Such was the luck
of the brotherly type.
A witness to women
learning to walk
along the Rockaway sand.

Playing them Dusty. Joni. Laura.
Our voices rising to the sky
black w/worry. Intrigue. Late periods
and trouble at home. Manhattan dying.
The Bronx afire. The autumns
in Washington Square.

We talked to the city and
the city talked back.
Whispered us secrets
and lies. And truths that later
proved true.

They all wanted to fuck me
on Jane Street but didn't.
Such was the luck
of the brotherly type and
some pangs still play
in our tellings today.
Certainly sickness. Certainly death.
Certainly the tides, high and low and
who did who on Jane Street.

       
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