Monday, May 16, 2011

Poems Wrote This Morning


not guilty of rain
or of causing pain
or perhaps
destroying grain

having too many babies
rabies, scabies
men and ladies
in the air
like a dragonfly
and I've done nothing


with lips parted
I'm running fingers through four day stubble
makes an ocharina sound
can't make a tune of it
just one odd tone
the head
a piano
sinus strung for music
I am hollow
but not moving

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

La Stradaroo

On a typical day banks get robbed and buildings get surounded. One time I was down town, walking near Fifth Avenue Plaza, when first two and then, like stern rabbits, dozens of cops plowed into the perimenter, cop cars accumulating in a dense formation around busy Penn and Liberty Avenues. It looked wonderfully organized, with police storming into a branch office bank, all in all, size of a Kinko's copy store, all happening half a block or less from me.

Heading to my bus stop like normal, I just happened to be coming toward the incident, walking at my normal clip along the flank of Fifth Avenue Plaza on a gorgeous summer day.

People were at their all out best, just then, as the spectacle with police action went like a rodeo popped up all of a sudden. People who normally walk past each other with polite disregard smiled. "Someone robbed the bank," a tall stunning black woman said to a passerby, who smiled back and said , "Lotta Po-lice." Other people smiled along and shared the words "whole lotta po-lice." Whatever happened in the bank was probably in the can, in one sense or other, within a few seconds, and nobody seemed to be watching. It was something you couldn't miss if you wanted to, and a teaming narrow side street between Penn and Liberty was remarkably cheerful and personable. 'Normal' is a marvelously adaptive word, in these parts.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Squatter Heaven (short fiction)

It gives one an erection long enough to knock the pot of gold out from under the rainbow, like a curling stone. Bing clack, under the prismatic arch.

She's an object of lust. We been seeing each other for about two months now. Together and seperate, we've been testing a series of herbal teas, all used for centuries, to methodically rejuvenate each and every organ and gland, brain and nerves included, like shining all shoes and pressing all seersucker. We've made it a project to fix as many organs as possible, without reserve.


The significant other and I have been shacked up in a miniscule one story house, barely more than an elongated shed with pitched roof, set on the mountaintop directly above Route 28. Down below us we have a rock garden composed of basements set deep the whole way down, half a mile, to 28. They picked that side of the hill clean of standing houses years ago, and no one's hot as pepper to build anything on an undermined plunging hill. Damn nice, the cement nooks and crannies cake walking at random down gentle dirt and weeds

A most unfortunately hostile neighbor hates me because one of his people had a motorcycle like mine, and got arrested. Then turned queer. And then he was killed. Killed. And he was riding a motorcycle like mine.
Not certain what to do. Embittered people have this tall trajectory. Always lands near by, damp and unwanted.

This relationship between Lorrie and me is doomed because my new number one has a kid with some tubular bingle-bungle growing out of his head, that being our sweet talk for long bony horns, and I'm affraid I am not prepared to commit to it's upbringing. He's a tiny triceratops. Call me a pig. The saddest thing for me is that my girl's family has high hopes for me and her. They are dazzled into thinking I'm responsible, and I don't mean to do it. I can't help having more personality than the general run. Appalachia. Will have to close the book on this before too much longer.

The new bike that I just got re-opened something that shut down a ways back. I used to be a lounge lizard, sunk to no where, and now that I'm mobile again, albeit on a 50cc generic motorcycle from off the internet, the seeds inside are germinating in the soil of endeavor. Can't make nervous types stay still

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Motor Bike

cheap knock-off
she was made
in the silverware thrown down stairwell factory
where labor is so cheap
a laughing boy can have it all
made in China