Two

She was lovely, adorned in gold leaf, hand-painted, or perhaps handmade appliqué that matched her golden, Roman sandals. She wore a belt and sash of orange feathers and headpiece that would have been the envy of both Frida Kahlo and Carmen Miranda. She’d stopped to flash me a beatific smile, holding her rainbow flag at…

Inmigrante

I have my own theme music. Were it to play aloud, I’d be sued, most likely, by Led Zeppelin. Ah-ah-ah-AH… is how it begins and in my head, mi guitarra es un hacha real cutting through bullshit and misspent walls meant to keep me out but in actuality, only trapping the hatred within. I have…

A Song for Paterson

I watched the movie, Paterson, on a Sunday night. It was the story of Paterson, driver of the Paterson 23 bus in Paterson, New Jersey home of William Carlos Williams. It was not lost on me that the star of this quiet movie was named Driver, Adam, to be precise. Adam, the first person we…

Trattoria Italiana

table for one away from the kitchen back to the world not under the plants skylight’s too bright too much limoncello the fat lady farted plus twenty percent 07/87 – 0 5/17

Redecorating

still in love. you’d think that after all these years of forgetting I’d have finally gotten it right. can’t wait to forget you, to have that space in my memory match the hole in my heart. i’ve always hated dissymmetry.

ode to a decade of art (or, i wish i could push rewind)

ten years ago i took up the knife held it to my eye and with a flick felt it cut; just a trickle and a speck, though and the city barely felt it but it was reddish-blue, a royal hue (though lacking you) and i cut again, and often. four-score and seven years ago minus…

Good Jazz

The way to tell good jazz is that you don’t notice him till the song’s ‘most over. Good jazz sneaks up behind you and pulls down your shorts and then drinks your beer when you to turn to see what’s happening. You stumble and fall, wondering who did the dirty deed, and you look back,…

T’ree A.M.

It t’ree a.m. High I&I rakkle and roll, swing an’ sway, irie feelins t’ru de day. Night-a call, me sess a-blow, rakkle me brain now don’ cha know. It t’ree a.m., me reggae flow, bounce ‘pon de train an’ mek we go. T’ru dem tunnel, out de side, down we block, so me can hide….

Handful of Blues

Monday Night is blues Night so I wrote you a song that go something like dis. I was born with the blues in my hand. I thought it was a flesh axe, but it was a silent guitar that only played one note. If you’d been there, I’d have sung it for you, but I…

Bad Poetry from my Youth #2

Never Go Back You can never go back except for when you do. Her eyes still kiss his softly, secret — never ends A vision of youth ten years fade — never werer. Lines grow lighter, lighter, love is young, and bold, and proud… reborn. Hairline stretech, reaches forward (afro blowing in the wind) stretch…

Miss dePoint

dried grasslands wave thin arms dancing — a concert to which poets are not invited. their conductor flares; crescendo to follow answered in nodding consent. brown-armed orchestra rises; western winds sing harmonies. poets write of hummingbirds. August 1986

Bad Poetry from my Yout’ #1

I’ve decided to start a new feature because … boredom. I have tons of really bad poetry from my yout’, which I shall inflict upon youse unsuspecting bloggers. Paying the Piper I tried to explain to the gas company why I couldn’t pay the bill and still feed the kids but, I realized I couldn’t…