Fancy Garb

Slavic men like to wear brown
They wear it very well
All about town they sashay in a
radiant brown, it makes them look good.
The townspeople marvel at their
lovely and exotic garb
"Look at his brown. Doesn't it
make his pale skin shine in the light?"
These pale slavic men wear
their brown well enough during the day
but when they take it off at night
they breathe a sigh of relief.
For it is hard carrying around
such a brilliant color. . .
even though they wear it very well.

Three Different Black Females are on This Bus

Three different black females
are on this bus
loud ones walk straight to the back
they cuss because they can
they cackle and make threats
they're bustin' out
of their stylish clothes
they stare unabashedly and
they don't give a fuck what
that motherfuckin' cracker
in the front
thinks about them
they pop gum
they hold credit cards
they rolled necks
they point fingers
they shout to be
heard.

Young ones have no chance
they get on last
they sit in the middle
they are quiet yet anything but demure
their hair is a state of unfinished:
tight gelled cornrows that turn into puff balls
they wear tight jeans
with tight belts
and tight denim shrugs
the kind called boleros elsewhere
they don't know that
they've got pink cellphones
they text like desperate rats
they glance back at the loud ones
they admire unabashedly


I live in fear and awe
of the loud ones behind me
and I fear for and cringe
at the young ones ahead
I'm like neither of them
and I feel worst for it
I'm not angry enough to cuss
I'm not popular enough to text
Between the two, I am not solid.
I stand on a peat bog society
ready to crumble any moment
I wear faded jeans not because they're cool
I wear old Chucks, there's a hole on the side.
I watch unabashedly and
I record what
I can't be

Co-Writing

At a table, outside, in the rain, under a rundown
overhang, I tossed my legs over
the arm of an empty chair. Our imaginary
friend.

You’ve got rain leg, said my real friend.
Rain fell through the cracks
of a rundown overhang
I do, I said. And you’ve got rain foot.
Let’s call it a draw.
Swigging back, tossing down sodas
from a bottle makes things more lax
more country with a dash of art.
Our imaginary friend would call it
Quaint.
He would beat us to the punch with his
Wit.

At the table, outside, in the rain, under a rundown
overhang, the tops the bottoms the sides of my legs
wet slick. They had a good
lax country artsy quaint feel

Arkansas Clay

I watched a girl on the bus
she had legs of burnt sienna
covered at the thighs
with a denim skirt

she did not know how to sit in it
and I watched
brown thighs splay open
she pressed her face to her phone

I watched a white man
he had transfer stub in hand
an Aldi’s bag
beside his lap

he did not look at the girl once
and I watched
For ten minutes
his eyes were dead ahead
he clutched his ticket

She was an ignorant girl
taught nothing about
society, sex, or dress
He was an extremely steadfast friar man
watching the streets
I tried to watch

I watched the knobby knees
the color of Arkansas clay
knock open and close and smiled
how beautiful it is
to flaunt a mystery

Portrait: Beatrice

All she does is smoke, eat pudding,
watch "Cops," and hang out with her
boyfriends
She’s going somewhere soon. There’s
a good chance of that.
“I’m off to the 7-11, want anything?”

Is it raining?

It is raining.
We like watching squinty faces
We like scampering girls facing the elements
We like slanted umbrellas that face the wind

It is raining.
There are smokers getting high and stragglers
There are high heels, unsteady ones
There are high wind advisories too

And by george, it is raining.
I’ve seen footprints
I’ve seen foots print their stories
I’ve seen a footprint idealized and coming home

Tell me something: Is it raining?

One

One is not the loneliest number that I ever knew.
It's an obvious inference, but it's not true.

Three Dog Night got it all wrong.
They wasted valuable words for a mediocre song.

One is not the loneliest number I've ever done.
I can think of worst things than the number one.

Semantics with Friends

She hung off the edge of the bed
and looked around the room
If the light weren't so bright, she'd
close her eyes.

"There isn't much we can do now."

"Not much at all."

"I'm glad we're hear."

"Hear or Here?"

"Don't quibble."

Going Home

I ran out of steam several miles back
the conductor shoveled coal into my belly,
but I don't want to go anymore.

I'm tired, I'm lonesome, I'm done.
The only energies I've got left,
are the kind that can get me back to the

station.

I Got

I got a toe cramp
I got what feels like a broken heart
I got no plans, no friends, no thoughts about the subject at hand.
I got twelve minutes till the bus comes
I got six fellow human beings to wait with
I got issues with the weather
I got music falling in my face
I got no shades to stop the assault
I got shoes in my bag to change into
I got no energy to retrieve them
I got a boy staring at me
I got a bored look to give him
I got a breeze brushing my cheek
I got empty pockets
I got no baby, no love, no lover
I got little self control, a lopsided smile, a couple jokes
I got lies, a few tales, an attitude problem
I got rights that I refuse to use
I got baggage to claim, but won't get around to
I got four minutes till the bus collects me
I got a thought now
I got a thought that's bigger than myself
I got to dance as soon as my toe cramp subsides
I got urges, bi-lingual passions, industrious plans
I got no harbored fugitives, no formidable skills
I got inaccessible energies
I got mild anxiety
I got a wounded heart, maybe not broken, maybe sprained
I got no heart
I got a stubborn lion in my pocket
I got bad references
I got pressure, some motion sickness from being still
I got life, but little left
I got a bus to catch

I know what's wrong with this shirt.
It's made for a slightly over weight boy
A husky, chunky mutt who's growing a
mustache, fucking squeezing it out.
He's got sweaty underarms and his erection
is always half mast. God Bless America!

This kid can't win.

I thought the buttons were on the wrong side
I had a feeling there were no breasts in here
I noticed this didn't accommodate my hips

This kid can't win.

It's Jujyfruits, not an ethnic slur!

They are all different colors
and they are all the same flavor
I don't know what that flavor is.
"It's Jujy/not an ethnic slur!"
Green doesn't have a flavor
It's confused about its orientation.
Am I licorice?
Am I cherry?
Not even apple.

You can tell what this girl is thinking, can't you?

"The world can fuckin' wait, I've got shit on my mind."

Jane's Addiction is tunneling throughout this room,

Making it hard for her to concentrate. Not that hard.

Wishy

The bubble gum in a boy's mouth
is better than than than than
. . . . my finger in your mouth.

He Had a Stroke, Right? I'm sure that's what eventually killed him.

I’m wondering who the last woman
William Carlos Williams had an affair with.
probably some freckled faced french girl
named “Betsy.” No that doesn’t sound right.

Ha! right.

Luckily, you weren’t asked for your
open yon. I love your right biceps and no,
I’m not a bighter.

Over Kill

He’s dropped the F-bomb on Fukuoka
a full baker’s dozen. Fuck this and fuck that.
Really.

Whine Less

You’re acting like a proverbial woman.
You don't know what one of those acts like?
No, I didn’t say prostitutal woman. That makes
no sense.

Mashed Potatoes

Does he taste them? Spoonful after
spoonful I’ve watched him.
He’s inhaled complex carbs at a speed
that would shut down a lesser man

He is hungry.
A man this voracious breathes love
with ease

Spoon in bowl spoon in mouth
and down again I’ve watched him.
Amazed and dumbfounded, I’m attached
to the movement of his throat.

He is hungry.
This man’s mashed potatoes have my attention.
Ingest them

All in the Act

Today before the sun properly showed itself
(it hid behind the shower curtain waiting on the moon to hand it a towel.)
I levitated from my bed and into the streets
(They accommodated me without shrugging their shoulders about it.)
I passed by, like a million, trees
(this spruce copped a feel from an oak. they then had a tussle.)
Excuse me for living,
but what does one call the morning hustle?
“I call it. . .”
(but it never came, it called in sick, winking at its lover who made pancakes in the kitchen, they had a big laugh about it when morning hustle hung up the phone. It rolled over in bed and stretched out its long legs, grinning at its cleverness.)
I made it to my life on time. For some reason there was no traffic

3 Women got ready for School

3 women got ready for school, today.
Maybe not three, maybe just two.
Yes, it was two. The third was still
asleep

The First Woman

The first woman
will wait one more minute
for that curling iron to get hot.
Watches today and its news
stories get old.
Get hot. . . !

The Second Woman

The second woman
will walk away from the
bed before dusk, like a desperado
in a poncho
what to wear? who to be.
Go to sleep, please.

The Third Woman

The third woman
will want us to come back
later
she is dead to the world,
says the same psychic
mind in the room.




The First Woman

The first woman
can’t curl and cuddle
with her image all at
the same time. She’s
out of time. The news
story repeats itself. Hot!

The Second Woman

The second woman
claims she can’t find her cunt
with both hands. She’s out of time
the clocks hands force her to
make decisions. Where are things?
Where am I? Asleep.

The Third Woman

The third woman
can’t collapse under a cold
blanket without time. peace
is awfully quiet without the
assistance of a person, a love
to keep her from being. Dead.

Mexican Stand-off

Tonight I stood at a wet bus
stop and almost met God
The lightening penetrated an unwilling
sky and lit the night with it's audacity
For a moment, I thought to take off
my headphones
"People get struck like that," says my
mother's voice
Fear has a momentary grip on me
but I leave them be
Instead, I look up and meet
God's gaze
Without word we've challenged one
another, though I've got a feeling
He rarely puts up with duels
If he bellows I can't hear him
Not with these headphone
I and the sky deny his bolts but
He is redundant and does not take
"no" for an answer Can't say
I blame him It's easy to force
your will on such an empty space
The bus came before I did and I
missed meeting with my maker
"People get struck like that," says
my mother
I wished for that to be true Never before now
had I wanted for that to be truer.

Cabbage Patch Kids

She could have very well had sex with him
that day.
She shaved her legs and wore her cutest
pair of panties
A pair of Cabbage Patch Kids undies
that read: "You're one of a kind!"
Right on the crotch.
She was hoping that her crotch was
one of a kind.

There were a few instances when she
hitched her skirt up to her knees and
placed her leg between his.
It may have been nothing, but it was
the sexiest thing she'd done all day.
It was definitely "one of a kind" to her.

She did not have sex with him that day
Though it could have very well been for
herself that she shaved her legs and wore
her cutest panties.
To know that she could lie with a man
with her skirt hitched past her knees, her
leg between his made her feel:
"One of a kind."

Never you mind, I've got enough music and poetry to keep me company.

I've got to be a little crazy
to be sitting out here.
On a hill with no one
I imagine that's what
passing students must think

"Isn't she cold?" "It's so
windy and cold, is she crazy?"

Maybe she is
I don't know
I just felt like being
outside and alone
No one is on this hill
and for good reason.

It is fuckin' cold
My face is cold My
fingernail beds are
bluish My nose is
running

But it's the most
refreshing feeling I've
felt in a few months
and it's the most control
I've had in years.

"Look at that cold girl sitting on that hill."

Portrait: Self

She always wanted to do something
criminal and dynamic. Robbing a
convenient store was on top of that list.

With jerky in her pockets, she’d scream:
“Give me the f**king money, motherf**ker!”
That was something she wanted to say.

But she favored misdirection in life and
was never good at yelling at folks. Exclamation
points, however, she was not afraid to use.

She always wanted to go to places that were spacious
and smelled funny. Some place far off, a place
that required vaccinations and water purification tablets.

She wanted her luggage lost and to be kidnaped
by guerillas. Her family could make pleas on the
Today Show with Matt Lauer.

But familiarity has a strong hold on her and she
hated missing modes of transportation. However,
she was a pro at taking the bus to and fro.

She always wanted to talk to insane people, the
kind that she could dismiss when she was tired.
The sort that knew when Jesus would return

“Could you be a dear and tell me if that man with
the blue dog is still following me?” “Are you LBJ?”
“I’ve got mashed potatoes in my pocket, want some?”

But voyeurism is more appropriate. She wasn’t
allowed to talk to strangers. She would do them the
favor, however, of making them into haunting portraits.

You're on in Five

Wouldn't it be a shame to sit in a coffeehouse full of writers.
All of them clacking on their laptops and drinking lattes.
Glancing up every once in awhile to seek out a muse.

You look up and see a man looking at you, searching for it.
Joni Mitchell is singing about clouds, love, and life.
You're like her: You know nothing.

It would be strange to be the person who walks in without
a laptop, needing no latte, and who is content with staring
at the walls or their hands.

As you sit down, you can feel the eyes of everyone on you.
Searching your person for inspiration and love.
They're counting on you. Knock 'em dead.

Thank You, My Brother

I've walked past your group and never needed to wonder
what you think of me as I strut.
This face makes you almost
too afraid to speak.
These legs cause your eyes
to chart a long course.

I've never wondered about the salacious thoughts that get
a rise out of you. mmh.
"Who is that?"
"What is it about that?
"How can I get with that?"
"I want that."

Worry not, my brother, I'll allow you this one gaze at this
ass that passes you.
Glorify me all you want.
Own me for a moment.
Take apart this supposed facade
and trample on what you can't understand.
Celebrate me for today.

Portrait: Danielle

I've never pictured her five steps from a one night stand.
She's more like three steps from a clandestine nirvana
that none of us know about.

I do know that in broad light, she attends dance parties
with bum writers who, sometimes get stoned when they
write stories.

She tells me: Write a poem about me; I'm a cowboy spirit,
you know." She's a gaucho all right, but not one from the
pampas. I tell her: "And I say you're a 2nd French girl."

I've seen her body levitate without warning.
I know that her brilliant and off putting feet move to
their own perverse beat.