if you can’t fuck then you write poems
aspirate your dreams on the street
with sugar feet, running all that diabetes
into the bitter tar
you go for a sprint so you don’t fuck
shit up, you write a novel on papers
you should have burned
the palimpsest of calls
of responses
that chicago now raps
if you can’t fuck you kill
let off a heavy round, round, a round of roses
of wreaths. grandparents teach kids about wreaths
now fuck, rap does it
if you can’t fuck you shit
it’s still the same expulsion
shit, fuck school when school doesn’t want you
but better a debt than a mcdonalds hat
and if you can’t flip you fuck
or you flip and fuck, have kids like “fuck it”


69 characters

birds birds birds, fly with fashionable capes
tweet in town barren of flair, light up light up light up
those places with wings
wings of solace, stroked in solitude
pleas of dancing soaked in bollywood
tease of kisses, against a wall
a promise of sleep folded in sheets
im happy like this
alone and free
im also sad like this
alone and free
tweet tweet tweet, little bird tweet


i’m interested in a summer time picture
a dress like blinds, with strings I can see
when the breeze bets I hope it wins
undressing the sand from the sea
leaving naked shells
muscles exposed, sinews uncovered
sleeves rolled up
mountainous heaps helped with scoops
ice cream licked with spoons
sand dunes shaped like crescent muslim cones


things are taken without permission,
into a pot of paws, cow, chicken, pork and protein
paws take what’s theirs
this now-pimpled hat taken off the couch,
is stuck on my head, shouting at passersby
“i am his now!”
in this place persuasion is important
tell me no, and I’ll inch you to a maybe
tell me yes and i’ll extract the gold bits that fill your teeth
we were in my bed, she was ready to leave
playfully wrapping my legs around her waist– hips kissing feet
a monkey play, a swinging tease
she wasn’t having it
I was negotiating, she was leaving.

the obsessed tip

you’re missing out on some good shit,

barefoot blend with a plastic bowler hat

tin top, twisted until a cheap ring falls back

from the cap, the groove and grind

the female, male end parts start

madness has come with a glance

it’s never going back


i used to be in the drum,
in the cold up to my nose
in my ears up to the crash
of cold blooded sticks on snake skin
i used to be in the drugs
in the bottom up to my waist
pull out my pee to bake yellow cake
bombed and disgraced
i used to be a bum
i miss that.


chicago was cold, and i was brand new. off the boat from a banana republic
the president of which, was an old school king bred to rule
what does this mean? a change wasn’t coming
my hands made fists, my fist’s knuckles scraped the inside of my pea-coat
the wind was stiff– i mean it is chicago– and whispered “you are alone”
god don’t like ugly, i ruminated, god don’t like ugly
but here i was arms outstretched trying harder than an orphan to embrace
this machine, with its wards and aldermen, its kielbasas and awesomeness
and i failed, oh annie i failed. i came to it a tap dancing, happy as a holiday
impractical colt,
but i don’t prance anymore, i don’t dance anymore
chicago shot my little pony, pumped it’s pink line into her
streaked that mane of mine with blood
left me cold man, left me a cold man, cold as ice, blood as ice
i was there but chicago just left me


tomorrow is so long from now, i want cold no’s
to remind me of her cold nose
that nothing is certain, and no one knows
really round, from square or exes from oooooooos

stretch me out, like film over your windows
to watch the wintered egos
migrate over lakes, break stones, sticks and states
deliver us from certainty, surety and keep us safe
from winds, whims and trends, missing too much, dear friends


saw two black men reach into their pocket

deep, like they were digging for the ratchet
in big black sweat pants,


their thick violent moustachioed brows
and menacing big black veined hands
disappearing, then swelling and bulging


coming on them was a sad white boy


he was sure to get done– blackened with a toaster
he shifted from k swiss foot to penny leather loafer
he got what was coming, served in thrust


change, niggardly dropped into his palm
white boy begging on his knees


obama kept his promises
a change is going to come. pause