blah blah

the hospital right next to the hospice,
on whose earth is this
possible, all these bones dancing
impossible to ignore, calcium robots
rancid, so they are shipped to the store
sold at an elephant’s graveyard
quartered for parts…

you know, its all a distraction, from her,
from him, from it

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21

1. at 21 I toyed with two things,
staying young and turning twenty two,
chanting thirty minutes of the sutra,
forgetting my name, my chains,
my rosemary beads and the balm
oval shaped pressed from a palm
into my mouth
the Eucharist, ridiculous
since the black church left the white rock
of st. peter’s upside down cross
for smut
at 21 i toyed with no girls and two boys
it was all nightclubs and mohawks
21 percent proof and licensed
every time the night came
at 21 i skipped one and went straight to two
organic chemistry and lube
looking for the quickest way to come up
for a pharmacy to mix tablets to stop
anxious mommies and daddies
at 21. i toyed with two women; at 21 i toyed with the buddha

EPILOGUE
at 29, 21 year olds are practicing again… they’ll get here soon
and i’ll get back to good. to 21… before i caught that small case at 23, before i failed at 25, before i roamed god’s tar paved earth at 26, before i was a public transit commuter at 28, before i slowed down at 28, before i went to bed at 30, before i woke up to start it all again, write poems about it, before i became my father at 60; giving advice we all need but don’t heed…21

apollo

i’ve been abroad, helped aboard a long sun board
sailing, apollo
apologizing to the night every time i sprinkled morning
dust bunnies
a sneezing god, docked for a while on my chariot
can’t see so i stop when i sneeze,
involuntarily my wide horizon eyes shut
so I stop.
then shoot off
again to do my kind,  kind of business
no thought,
just blind work. all in majesty all in sickness
a paragon, a star shooting out a son of a gun

we doth protest

hipsters go home
to whence you came
-foreign dervishes-
twirl your beards and plant your cane
somewhere else, en haiti maybe
spit a spent stalk in your own yard
our stray dogs with their stretched teats
can no longer clean the streets
your hushpuppies feed
they are full on your litter
our little ones cry
at every graffitti  panicked wall
so we pray for better things

still our wishes are  tucked in a gnat’s ass
in the crack of caterpillar penis rings
in the flutter of butterfly eye flurries

modern day vasco
cruelly slicing ears off corn
affixing a minute of con
on years of mortar and stone
malevolent rascal
mixing our rich history
with miracle whip and sour cream,
and queso, to make elote,
from the border to the brink, bullying coyote

respect our roots, go home
port au prince overtaken with boots
banda aceh overtook the news
detroit stands in similar shoes
hipsters dancing to tom toms

wait…

toms, made from raffia from you
stitched with a batik flair
loomed by white clouds, clear
over streets raining with new feet
and you doth protest?

the natives are protectionist,colonialists quiet, rain is falling and yet we “why” it
walls panic strickenImage

a praise in 3 verses

we’re all stumps, waiting to be pumped
with love leavened with dead sea salt
waiting for applause as we flotsam, as we float some
heavy lidded eyes and a lead heavy head
eager to slump, sink
to the ground and be a beautiful coral sea
grind stone
ready for regrets to shine
like the sea we once shone
shimmered all the time

we are all stumps, amputees without legs
lying on the sidewalk, the streets for legs
a dirty folded shirt propping a lead heavy head
heavy closed lids for the sun to float on
the rest of us by our sides, just kicks waiting for a walk
a wake, to rise us awake
then strap on our struts and run away
to hide
invisible invisible invisible

we are all stumps
already cut down, waiting
to be cut down, by love, cars and work
words and then life

work

let’s work, push those papers,
pusha T dreams in paper
shift the carriage, and be the type
of writer that CAN
ride inspiration and cobblestone
figure all his characters on a soft couch
behind an old desk
with soft parade and pride
all the paper balls in a pile
fingers caught, falling between keys
keys keys open doors
musical chairs need to stall
for good, so I can sit
on the soft couch drinking a parade
behind a hard desk with a bald face
piece of paper finally full

the diseased mind of william hume.

–the diseased mind of william hume–
the story is true, the man was sick
he was diseased. how did he know?
well… it wasn’t a tummy upset
or a heart agog with wine, clogged with plaque
a liver drowning in brine, nor kidneys beaned with stones
or even feet swollen and abscessed, walking in an ironic drought,
–his teeth were loud from gout gums, iron deficient spine witha slouch–

he was sick from the heat
diseased
uncomfortable with it,
displeased
and so like a sun infected insect
scurrying madly yet tiredly
under a not so understanding sun
he dashed and darted into everything and everyone
made chairs uncomfortable to sit on
tables irresistible not to flip
everything left upside down
he was downright sick

but the right nature of his disease
were none of the symptomatic spells
casting palls on public paths

it was that his private fever
fell on everyone else
so he was sick because it was agreed

incurable because he was he

good morning in the morning

whom do you say good morning to?
the ants that breakfast scramble on your skin ?
the ones you blow off with killing kisses?
books? pulpy and oranged juiced?
the ones you dismissed then picked up when you missed your misses?

the porcelain pot, the old man at the bus stop, the mail man on her short bus
on your run route?

the life you memorized from last night?
awake in that consummating quiet after a breathy good night

whom do you say good morning to?

your old or new born mistake?
the pale color on your morning face
indigo and avocado shaped
hard breath like hard water from lives of lime
honest like only the morning is

whom do you say good morning to miss?
miss me with steep fees
payed in the morning heat,
in sweat from hot night chills
texts ignored nicely

to whom do you say good morning ?

moses okundaye

i dont want to do it
flirt with being jewish
my father’s name is moses
sailed on sewage
to a tablet top he could touch
but he sailed pass the promise

i want to stay in my father’s house
in his bed, on his couch
legs tucked in the penny pockets
wishing nothing, sated
seated on the right hand of god
the father, nakeding my ghosts
transparent now
opaque now

i don’t want things to change
stay before i go away
wait before i leave you
and go wandering in my manner
in that way of weys
and okundayes

in search of all the GOD that prays