car poemb

"You are being sax cyst."
Whut.
"I said you're being a
sax cyst."
boot heels shaved 20 degrees
how you and I
distribute weight
cold saturday morning
on fabric row
delivering to me whiffs
of sweet fruit trucks
hearing no cars would
not mean trouble
and this guy
is out here still in shorts

car poema

an old show that
white ppl like
jogger butt
in side mirror
like ducks in a line
girl groceries
tucked my head into my
coffee outside Jefferson
see a woman drop
something -- a tote
had a bikini girl keychain
eyes still in my coffee
everybody insulated
cept a chinese father's
balding head

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sure

what's happening -- nothing
even those old dead poets
wouldn't know shit about
elbows on the table,
same wood of a ship,
square-rigged w/ high European
features, all being nice,
makes them smile toothlessly ( nice )
serious is the tip
of a sword as young as
its possessive country
home from work you
take off the day
buds from your hair,
your rock shoes
read the depressed difference
compare levels of disgust
in cheeks and brows
on a day I sit outside
in a fold-out chair
simply to feel something

sick

Genre-blending then I'm pretty happy
fighting together rock wall the vessel
the heater stays on, just crack the capsules
I'm nowhere near the stretch of Maine
live and die a torso

Made in America jar coozy
in the rain walk some populated corner,
some mellow life talking in Philadelphian
a girl under the dish rag
boy watering himself

with my tide out
show myself a section of the park canopy
branches come and show out
I take messages through my nostrils
on the road to recovery

afterwards, between time during travel
if a grayness hasn't already latched on
aren't I already equal, all cock and now craves
movements undisturbing to a dimple
that is not to be wasted, to be wasted

Owe nothing and own nothing
dragging city where the river belts
every day they're finding monsters
they shoot them dead without question
an excessive, conjoined love.