Rumination On The Modern Romance
Rumination on the
modern romance.
Reflection through
and through
The figure in the
window.
As she cleans the
glass
And the fulgor of
the sun engulfs you
Was I to fill your
mind as you reach for the heights
Of the window?
Would I reach for
those heights with you
And find life? Or
is the fulgor of the sun so bright
That I might burn
up inside?
Either way love I
know where it starts.
As you go about it I
wish to take it apart.
I would have played chase with you.
Snaking between the
legs and underneath.
The chairs and
tables
trying not to bump our
heads.
While we are here
let us reflect
on how you and I will
remember this.
I am not he man
that I was
even a century ago.
Guise
She followed me
from Panama
In the guise of a
woman
I did not
recognize.
In this guise, far
more docile
Than her famous
form: the Black Jaguar.
At once taken aback
by her arrival
I am not properly
dressed for guests.
Before revealing
herself to me
She takes on the
whim of the women
Whose skin she is
in.
All over the
Caribbean pursued.
Latin America.
The Dominican
Republic.
Port Royal.
I am someone heard
by word of mouth
Can cast demons
out.
When it comes to
the flesh, yes?
Make a woman feel
joi de vivre, yes?
Having seen it done
through the eyes
Of every woman she
ever was
Before her cover is
blown.
In the midst of it
a knowing moan.
I know again, it is
time to run.
Matters not I am
the Mad Hatter
And at pursuits end
the hunter, the hunted.
Back there you are
a star. Panama.
The Black Jaguar.
Some Sunday morning
without warning
On approach, or
sound.
There you are yet
unaware
Of what you’re
looking for
Or what madness
you’ve found.
Cold World
It is frigid in the
city.
Nothing is moving.
Everyone staying
home.
No one going out
Foraging beneath
the snow.
In the summer
believing
A rose will be in
full bloom.
The seasons that
have come and gone
Since the new
millenniums new year.
They’re bringing in
women from outside
The cities, state
to begin the thaw.
Mary says the
neighbor man cannot find
It to save his
life. Love.
The men of the
cities trying to find wives.
Thomas says,
“forget about it,” at ‘Stanley’s’
For dinner one
night.
Over burgers and
steak fries on the west side.
Think about the
women in Bloomington.
Ann Arbor. Midland
even.
Whose got their
mind on them?
Hurry On Now
She looked a kind
of way
Like she had to say
something.
If by chance I might
not like your words
And the things you
portray
I begrudge you not
the right to say it.
What happened at
dusk now turned to night.
The gloaming hour's
bright sunset.
I declare her
confession here the pay off.
Say it was heaven
and all it took
Was more than she
could stand.
It is heaven in
sight
Upon the sea of
felicity she can see land.
Say no more unless
you say the truth.
Tell your people
calling for you
Where you’ve been
when they finally reach you.
Hurry on now. Take
everything with you.
By nights end
you’re eyeing your Bible.
A thousand hail
maries
And prayer for
recompense.
For words a proper
lady wouldn’t say.
I dare say your
confession here the pay off.
Say it was heaven and
all it took
Was more than she
could stand.
Upon the sea of
felicity, she can see land.
She looked a kind
of way
Like she had something
to say.
Sure that it wont
be heard again.
We have sentiment.
We have heaven.
Beyond the immortal
shores,
We have no more.
Bloodline
Send the children
to their father’s house.
This town is awash
in pity. Heady fragrance.
Wade into it like
the streets are flooded.
Every woman for
themselves.
They talk of
bloodlines and saving first times
Pomp and circumstance
for one mad man.
I cannot take all
of the blame
Simply for my name,
this frenzy.
I’d come from the
coast, coastal cities.
They’re always in
heat but a cool breeze
Get around the
towns about Camelot.
Proud as all get
out. They’re international.
But when the storms
come about
For a coast they’re
nowhere near.
In the meantime
they check the wires
For sightings of me
and my caravan.
Of admirers and
wives. Seek a queen
To help me drive.
Once we’d walked
the coast
send the children
to their father’s house.
East Providence is
awash in pity
Such pleasant
hosts.
What they know that
I don’t know,
Makes the natives
close their doors
And windows tight.
No one likes to be
second best.
In the Days of duels
In the days of
duels.
They took place as
is their way.
Within sight of the
King.
Without anticipation
that he would
intervene.
Step in. Declare
the practice outlawed.
There must be a
reason for it
However flawed.
All over the
Kingdom
There are many who
would
Go to the gun.
Their love
An honor to defend
even as she pleads
for life
they fight. The prize.
The many duels
inside and
outside of polite
society.
The capitol city or
anywhere
there are pistols
at hand
For the right to
delight in things
to their heights.
Regardless they’ve gone
and corrupted it.
They shoot half
cocked without benefit
Of discipline.
Treated as no one’s
business but
A conversation
between men.
But someone must
bear witness a winner.
Therein the need
for an audience.
Where the
similarities of cultures begin and end
The jewel of their
desire
the central figure
of the conflict
She pleads for
life.
It is for her
honor, for which they fight.
As well she may be
betrothed to the one
For whom her love
is unrequited.
In the days of
duels.
I Come Again (The
Gods Must Be Crazy)
As if the Gods must
be crazy
I come again.
I want what I want
And you are the
extent.
Unlike when last we
met
I wont have to work
My way into the
house
While your father
celebrates
Revels in his wealth.
A snake oil
salesman in my eyes.
I will duel him
myself if I must.
My intention now as
then
Test your
resistance
Your evasive
measures.
Seems now I am
closer,
Closer than ever.
All of this before
Your father knows
I am in his home
And goes for the
gun.
The Gods must be
crazy
And they keep him
In a deep sleep.
That we may
Revisit the old
days.
The old fight
she had put up
The Gods must be
crazy
For my yearn has
returned.
More than a yen
Or vice.
More than this
Or any lifetime.
I must act on it
though
To their benefit.
The Gods.
You must resist.
For the game of it
and romance yet.
By destiny I abide
As I am striding up
Dayton Street
And you prepared
For mysight.
What I Paid For
I saw the grey car
Four door.
Grey day rain.
Since before summer
Money I owe you.
As enterprising as
you might be
We both know
You were holding
out on me.
Blame it on the
downstairs neighbor boy
Breaking in and
stealing bit by bit
Off the top.
What he got to see,
the early bird
The cream of the
crop. The in and outers.
Out of towners.
From as far west as
Brownstown.
House guests with
balloon glasses
Get a pass because
of who they know.
Someone who knows
someone.
Who knows someone.
“I know she told me
your name
but I cannot
remember it anymore.
I came to get what
I paid for.”
Tell the others
who’d be bothered
She’s got her
hackles up.
Until money changes
hands.
Then stand and
wait.
Wait for better
than the rest of times.
Than what the
others get.
Anything more than
you can give me.
Best be what I paid
for.
Mary
At Soprafina
With the glass
everything.
Pavlovian
conditioning to her dresses.
If I could sweat
her
My breath would be
a mighty wind
To lift her spirits
there.
As if she had taken
my voracity for my own.
It would thrill her
to no end.
To have a hold
there.
Discretion is the
lesser third of the whole
Behind demand and
consequence.
Her throaty
laughter in the aftermath.
A Dream To Sell
Growing it slowly.
Unknowing.
Doing and undoing.
A dream to sell.
I won’t tell you
how to dream.
Wait for the
aftermath
and after that.
Beauty and sage.
I must wait.
Wait. Wonder
and wait.
A Thousand Kisses Deep.
A thousand kisses
deep
And later in the
evening
Wonder how can she
sleep?
Her exhalation
fickle yet sanguine.
Her eyelids
aflutter. Her hearts break.
She cannot take
another. She’s just killing time.
A thousand kisses
deep.
A thousand and one.
Whatever cleaves to
us has fallen down.
Stepping away from
it to lay down.
A world of white.
White light through
white curtains.
Catching wind to
filter the cool of our skin.
And later once the
yen has settled in.
A thousand and one
for abdication.
Normita Wade
Normita Wade she
wouldn’t say why.
The summer of 1985.
“The boys say you’re a bandito.”
“Always what the
boys say with you.”
He exits the saloon.
The spirits are not well there.
But he’d get them
back.
Imagine the look on
her face
when he walks back
in with a gem
that can brighten
the entire slum.
But word gets around quickly
and what she hears
she doesn’t like it one bit.
“There’s blood on this diamond,”
And she wants to
know whose it is.
“The boys say you’re a bandito
and the biggest
bandito too.”
“Always what the
boys say with you.”
Vessels
Makeshift or otherwise.
Vessels to cross
the sea.
The perfects storm.
Every town a stronghold
With all manner of
beast.
Wayward souls
wander the beaches.
This must be the
big one.
In the fall, will
it hold?
The bargain.
In the darkness,
Armageddon.
The bargain.
On the streets,
Some seek freely
Beasts for their
salvation.
The bargain.
HE would not
destroy the earth
By water again.
What would HE
expect in recompense?
Runaway
The runaway has come
back again
From where he’s run. A
new clan to find
Will take him in.
Circled the house once
Circled the block, the
neighborhood.
The neighbors, their
doors locked.
Lloyd is in the cellar
waiting.
Patriarch. While the
rest of the family
About the house scattered.
The red brick
townhouse.
The red brick
battered.
His mother for dinner
cooked tongue.
Dark when he comes
back.
Peered through the
branches.
Trees. Bushes.
Black sheep. Black.
No heroes return.
Winnifred. Matriarch.
She’ll tell her
sisters.
All the way in
Florida.
Long Distance.
“Worthless boy.
Not even Donald wants
you
In his den of
thieves.”
Slowly eat, slow, the meat
With its bumpy texture
And bland.
Swallow it down, on
pride choking.
Perhaps safer outside.
Run.
But this time keeping
eyes open.
Run, the only way I
know
Of getting 0ut. Run.
Maybe a bus station or another house.
Winnifred, she says, “Your
father is ready for you.
Where will you run to
now?”
Punch Drunk On The
Setting Sun
There’s a pumpkin sun
setting in southwest Providence.
Head west and drive
right into it
The moon is a boon for
the raccoon to see drivers coming.
Punch drunk on the
setting sun.
On the president
streets. Monroe. Madison. Washington.
The ‘hood starts north
of Taft.
There’s a large park
where the blades of grass
Are an instrument with
the wind.
And its sway is a
melody medley
Of restless swain
Looking to fill their
cellars
With the sound of
sweet pain.
And everyone’s got
one.
Love makes a rally in
the October floods.
Where the face of the
moon
Seems auroral and
polished.
Washed of the dust of
the dog days.
There are gallant
homes in the cul-de-sac
Near the manufacturing
district.
From there east on
Main street to restaurant row.
There is something for
everyone,
On the menu. The lady
will have the stew.
And whatever company
provided her
To her home in the cul
de sac.
Where people make love
with the windows open.
They can be heard as
far west as Mondragon.
The Nightmare Before…
“Surprised to hear from you,” she said.
Mother says you
called.
Surprised that
you’d be
Thinking of me at
all.
What oh what,
The years it seems
a coons age,
Could you want from
me?
The weather
Is so strange
lately.
The hail and
The lightning in
the fields.
It seems as if it’s
coming for me.
Surprised.
Taken unawares.
A nightmare before…
There is a
gathering
Of others at the
shore.
One day you will
get yours.
Angel
I still think of
her when I round the bend.
Joe that boyfriend
of yours
He never would have
paid out his dividend.
So when the
neighborhood changed
He chased away all
of them that would marry
When she is
carrying what is another mans.
He got them running
far away.
Waving as they’re
driving by.
Some of them cab
drivers now.
Afraid to cross
Broadway
Because one of them
might run her down.
Then again it could
be that schmuck Joe.
The cops chased him
out of the neighborhood.
But this
neighborhood is the only place
Where his word is
any good.
I know the incident
on the train
Is only to keep up
her tough gal façade.
But if Joe doesn’t
go it makes her all the more madder that I left.
I still think of
her and how she made money off my friends.
How on the fateful
day me and
Dartanyan treat Joe
as the bogeyman.
Luckily the
dumpster covers are closed when we landed.
She would have
killed him she said had we stayed in the place
A little longer.
I’m sorry but I
don’t believe you Angel.
Discretion
Discretion is none.
As long as someone
has you
By your black hair.
Nice dreams.
A black tee.
Her love
Round and small.
They are jet black
And lay flat and
still.
The hairs that
populate the
Territory about it.
No need for
discretion.
The house a
fortress.
For the love of her
companion.
More handsome than
beautiful.
Her flat face there
is a mutual admiration.
Sappho has come to
Nashua.
Never Say Never
Unless I begged she
seemed to say.
And I would.
Never say never.
She never crossed
her legs.
The window sill is
one someone could sit on.
I’d tell her my
secrets
While we sipped a
chardonnay.
What would Damico
say?
“He wouldn’t enjoy
it the right way.”
She likes how the
dying sun
Kisses the clear
liquid.
The crisp
aftertaste.
She set her glass
down
To watch the
bubbles dissipate.
The fates have seen
to it her beau
Is kept away while
she has brought along
The Chardonnay.
The glasses too.
The wine is
domestic.
The famous
Brandywine label
Says it’s
Providence own.
She likes how the
dying sun
Kisses the clear
liquid.
The crisp
aftertaste.
She set her glass
down
To watch the
bubbles dissipate.
What would Damico
say?
“He wouldn’t enjoy
it the right way”
Books
It looks like rain.
The thunder and
lightning.
The storms within and
out, rage
Unrestrained.
Red wine in a balloon
glass goes right to her head.
Wearing an old pair
of pajamas.
The lack of pride a
sacrifice to Aphrodite.
Across from the bed
A mirror against
the wall.
Thunder crashes in
her head.
She in the mirror
Like the pictures
in her mothers books.
And the beauty of
how it looks.
And she would
pacify herself.
She walks the
hallway feet bare
Counting steps to
the back bedroom.
Ten of them to get
her there.
As if Aphrodite
herself would appear
And there is a
season or reason.
Such an occurrence
would be rare.
Rings from previous
glasses, the bed side table
Stained and drippings
of candle wax.
By now the weather
as her grip on her glass is
Unstable.
It looks like rain. The thunder and lightning.
The storms within
and out, rage
Unrestrained.
Rochelle
Your black heart.
Your winter spell
You covet his
breath.
In a kiss.
A kiss of death.
Mixed with her
antipathy
Is a powerful yen
for him.
You may not have
him to covet
If you kill him.
Subject him to
black blizzard condition.
Without heavy wind
or bluster.
Just frustrate him.
Subject him to
lurking in the black.
The shadows
Rochelle.
Without saying a
damn thing.
Black as the
cosmos.
Black as night
Rochelle.
Don’t tell him why
Rochelle.
Out of the corner
of your eye.
Must he sleep with
one eye.
Open to going to the
gun
Beneath his pillow
or the pills
For real or
otherwise imagined ill.
You may not have
him to covet
If you kill him
Rochelle.
Tease
The shade is a
tease for the sun.
Just underneath.
Just enough on your
face.
Enough to hide the
lightning bolt.
Shade descends upon
the city.
Take the children
inside.
Take them away from
here.
Via city trains. A
wild ride.
Sheets of rain and
hail.
Sheets of passion
and mania.
A deluge of rage.
Initially a steady
drizzle.
But the joke is on
us.
The sun is behind
it.
Always the sun.
With his comrade
the shade.
Laughter in the
clap of thunder.
Lightning is
excitement.
The Sunday showers.
The purging and
cleansing.
The sun with his
grin.
Driving Back From Normal
Driving one hundred miles an
hour.
The light fading.
Washes over you.
A ballad on the radio.
Music fills the space in between.
Fill her space up with
interminable grace.
The passenger seat.
If it’s raining she says drive slow.
Follow the flow. The cars. The
road.
The towns. One stoplight towns. And main streets.
One way in. One way out. The
towns.
Eyes on the road not watch her
sleep.
Clear her throat. Adjust her seatbelt.
A deep breath.
Read a book. The road winds. The back roads.
The steady drone of the highway.
As the light fading washes over
you.
Stink
Drop your eyes
To the sidewalk.
Drop your eyes to
The worn carpeted
floors.
Thick and it’s
Been there forever.
Absorbing the
stench
Of natural
selection.
A beasts reverence
And likewise
disgust.
Love him at your peril.
Mary Ellen knows
and
She goes to meet
him
Outside a building
in the slum.
Sometimes he
doesn’t show.
The audacity of it.
An affair no letting
go of.
The stink on
everything.
Flowers even. She
brings.
Soured on being
kept waiting.
There’s a small stream.
A small bridge and
a few trees.
The stink of being
different
Carried on the
breeze.
A beasts reverence
And likewise
disgust.
Ugly children to
their mothers even.
If there are lovers
of them
Then all is not
lost.
Grace
He says she looks
Just as she did
back then.
She’s got the same kind of grace.
She could afford to
give it away.
A glass of merlot
Tonight.
A glass of wine
Talking about old
times.
How it was a shame
Back then
When suddenly she’d
Pulled her panties
up
Shortly before Mrs.
Robinson
Walked in on them.
There will be
Shiraz the next time.
Long time coming this chat
And he tells her
so.
Remembering there
is no
Mrs. Robinson looking
to find sex in her
house.
And chase the old
boy 0ut.
Say to her face, she’s
got that kind of grace.
She could afford to
give it away.
Miles
Our correspondence
Across the miles.
Damn the devil.
The details.
And make the drive.
Ride the rails.
Either way traverse
the miles.
For all of the talk of
showing you off
And showing you
around.
Behave like gypsies
Rustling up our food
and wine.
Join me aside for
The consummation
Of our love.
All sense of
pretension
Is left at the border.
Our time in Camelot is
short.
Be a sport and wear
the red dress.
Our correspondence
through
Established trade routes.
From northeast to
southwest
Yet central time
zones.
As always forever
yours.
New Years In Halifax
We have no love.
Just time and
space.
Right time.
Right place.
It’s a new year and
Halifax
Has never seemed so
cold.
Shiver as the
Champagne hits our throats.
It’s high octane
and we wont stop
until we come again
and again.
Through such dog
days
and nights a wintry
growl.
Nary a snow flake
has fallen.
We toast our way
into the mornings
and lay as rag
dolls when we’re done.
I am such a brand.
I am Mandingo
With the strength
of many men.
Bicycle
Rush down the hill on the bicycle.
With Quentin
running behind me egging me on.
A rush of relevance
and foolish pride.
That I would exact
revenge for a friend
Who’d said he’d
been done wrong.
But I knew he’d
lied all along.
We’d stolen the
bike because we liked it.
There’s just the two of us now
Since Dusty is in
Arizona.
And Stony had found
Rachel.
Jacqui’s a sometime
friend.
It’s Quentin’s turn
now.
A little past
midnight at the peak.
Ready to descend
the hill and reach top speed.
Mad
The essence of a
man gone mad.
Who has lost all he
had.
As always hovering
over it
Obsessed with its
death.
Its gravesite
strapped to his back.
Never a final place
of rest.
The Gods eventually
tire of it.
The house on Nashua
Point.
The sea to the rear
of it.
To be sure he would
never be alone
When the house,
they burn it down
Around him. The
towns people.
It only made him
madder then.
There is a girl in
the house with him.
By the century he
comes out and takes back
From the town. From
the territory. County.
Starting in Nashua,
island bounty.
Found her helpful
in combating his madness.
As crippling as he
could stand it.
Her bedside manner
in the face of the bluster
Of a disgraced man.
By agreement though
no more beautiful a place
From where they
stand.
She would keep
coming back.
How romantic yet
macabre
When they lob the
first cannonball.
The Orgy Of Heights
When I returned
In the tower I’d
found the orgy of heights.
These people I’d
not seen in a while
Indulge me.
I’d a little money
And the bourbon.
The next thing I
knew
Something changed.
The view.
Different ones.
Different hues.
What have I without
you?
An orgy of such
heights takes
some time and
effort.
Drive, as it is now
her turn
Which she treats
with such sincerity.
I give what is
given to the others.
Some return.
Some needn’t
bother.
All of them
carrying gifts
And wishing well.
They come and they
stay a spell.
Isn’t it nice no
one can see in at night?
Become such beasts
at night.
It is hard to sleep
because of the noise
On the streets at
night.
Drunken students
and car thieves
In the streets at
night.
Until my money is
gone
So goes the orgy of
heights.
Blue Dress Blues
A dress like the
blue dress, deep blue
When you gave me
the news.
It’s off to Boston
with you.
Time to play like
old friends
Because I know
people there too.
What a dress can
do?
Throw in some
nights in the District.
Prefer a black
dress. White dress.
Just like you to
choose blue.
I buy everything to
go with it.
It’s like they come
alive.
Whether it be the
dress
Or the woman
wearing it.
An event or some
night in the District.
Recognize it is of
some consequence who am I
Thereby who is my
consort this night?
The color of her
dress reflects my mood.
Blue. It is off to
Boston with you.
To settle up a
different dress
She’s better off.
Go all the way to
Johnsburg
To show her off.
A red carpet even
of some sort.
Recognize it of
some consequence who am I
Thereby who is my
consort of this night?
What a dress could
do to change my mood from
Blue in order to
recognize a fabulous end.
I’d bought
everything that comes with it.
Rush
She’s coming back
again.
She’s going to come
from St. Louis.
She has asked me
about the sun.
It is high in the
sky.
Not the right time
to come.
Wait until the fall
to give me
comfort in the
storms.
She will drop
everything
And come into the
city for me.
And when she does.
North. South.
East or west, she’s
going to marry me.
We’re going to pack
up her ride
And head to the
justice of the peace.
We may not go back
to St. Louis
But we cannot stay
here.
If they find us it
will remind us
how long it took.
Somehow this might
not
Be as good as it
looks.
Nonsense. She’s
going to come.
She will drop
everything
and come into the
city.
City folk and
family be damned.
Where they’ve taken
her now,
St. Louis.
But she keeps
talking about
“that damned fool
boy,”
how they address
me.
But I know how she
taste
And she fed it to
me.
We’re going to pack
my things up
Her vehicle already
overburdened
Her heart as well.
We may not go back
to St. Louis
But we cannot stay
here.
Perhaps to the
coast.
Make it story book
To remind us how
long it took.
Cleave
Save a man from himself.
Who'd cleave himself to the hem
of your frock.
Save a man by pointing out his
wealth.
And knowing you, a man cannot
help himself.
You tell him he must watch his
speech,
For not even you can be sure of its reach.
Come aboard where borders are
tenuous at best.
Even in bodies of water. Sudsy water
crest.
My vessel, mahogany flesh.
Everything in the name of the
King.
Wench
Something for you
And surely you would take it.
You churlish wench!
In my mind previously imagining,
It were she of all the gals
around,
Would be a most gracious host.”
But her craggy teeth and her
large
ass makes me think twice.
While I enjoy an abundant ass
Like any other fellow
She is a contemptible sort.
A large ass would be a fitting
Description of she.
Now feeling I’d be doing her a favor.
That we are beings of needs you
Would see the great benefit in
it.
You churlish wench.
Take off your glasses
To better your chances
And necessary.
(Wicked laughter echoing
For sometime after
Then throat clearing).
Appetito
To be credible we settle it.
For twenty minutes makes visible
white stitching on the edges of
panties beneath a blue dress.
Take up a small amount of space
at the base of the wall.
In a garden apartment.
A small rectangular window faces
the street.
Projects sunlight onto a northern
wall.
We’re in shadow on the eastern
wall.
Appetito.
An appetite for she who will fight back.
Wrestle . Play fight. Appetite.
The cool of her skin that isn’t
touched by the sun.
Put a kiss on that spot. And heat
is instantaneous.
Lover. Appetito. Eat it up. I do
declare she is delicious in white.
Makes you taller. Near the white
squall of the water.
You are your mother’s daughter.
“You don’t know that man,” she says.
But dammit if she doesn’t say
there’s no other way. Appetito.
Forage
Forage in the black lover.
For footing in the night lover.
No lack of passion this night.
Made grey by mist
And Winthrop street
Streetlight.
No less commotion within than
street side.
The neighborhood, city wide.
Feel our way through the grey.
Wile away the hours for a night
with wide breadth.
With such a love the Holy Ghost
cannot help itself.
Forage in the black lover. Effect a change in tides.
Waterfront coastal pride.
Made it known where I’m going
lover.
Push her panties aside.
At the end of the bend half a
mile further up the drive.
In the mist off the sea. You hear
the echo of our voices.
The twist in the mix that
streetlight haze.
Tear
Tearing at the source.
Ripping. Ripped.
There is nothing but a quiver.
An end to loneliness or just an
end.
Salvation wont come this way
again.
Rearing at the places salvation rests.
But Robert says there is no such
thing.
Salvation.
He’s been through Jersey, Texas,
The Midwest.
Preaching this. Even he must know the sweet breath
Of the rosy depth.
Rearing at places salvation rests.
For the months before and hence
she kept her head.
For the value of her bosom.
For the pulling at her strings
and threads.
One by one tear the barriers
down.
Warm Bodies
Warm bodies
In a room.
Never mind
The others
Like refuse
Thrown about
The bed chamber.
Ever so gracefully
Lay your virtue down.
Zest
Once inside her
Inner tramp takes over.
Low light and just enough space
For a girl to call her own.
Greeted by a cross wind
Blowing east to west.
From open windows
And the door to the portico.
Gives her the appearance
Of walking on air.
A high to die for to take her
right then.
In the summer
The screen door
Is all that stood
Between them.
He walks heavy
On the back stairs.
Lamb and a pumpkin
Sun as garnish
Fills the air with
Its redolence.
Zest. A Spanish Red goes best.
With lamb slow cooked
Since dawn.
It melts in your mouth
Like the salt of a kiss.
Fellowship
At times I couldn’t wait
For some deity to come
And reward me for my faith.
Instead I focus her shoulders
To yonder window.
As light from the eyes of
The Holy Ghost
Through yonder window
Which blessings come
Alighting on her breasts.
This fellowship.
All of it in fellowship.
The open room of witnesses
Seeking blessing.
As well we are children
Of the moment.
Have come for more
Than the wine in the pots.
With our spirits full
I take it upon myself
To be more than witness.
Calling on said spirits watch
As the light from the
Eyes of the Holy Ghost
Are focused on her a source of pride
Its light brightest there.
All of it in fellowship.
Game Over
It is the end of the game that
shook him up.
He blames me for it every time he
sees me.
Lays it on thick.
Always lost in a whiskey haze.
The boys were feeling themselves
that day.
It’s obvious he’s in the same
haze as New Years day.
”The game is done. The game is over.”
It’s all he keeps saying.
Like he’s got nothing left of his
vocabulary.
Nothing else that comes to mind
to say.
Other than the jargon he uses to
buy his drink
Hustle his way in and gamble.
New Years day had been a merry day.
There was revelry and all the
boys
With their money on the table.
They gambled as they drank until
They succumb to their stupor.
Then I took everything.
Trust there’ll be no game no
more.
That fool was tight with the man
Who owned the house.
I’m sure they could hear
The cackle that is my signature
As I let myself out.
His limp is more pronounced.
He’s had to fight his way out of
a few houses.
He goes around accusing some of
the bigger boys
In their houses of stealing.
To their faces.
Ruffled but surly none the same.
He would just spit and stumble
away.
Beast
Wish for him what you will.
Treated as a menace this boy.
His Grandfather raises chickens
He revels in the kill.
In this shantytown.
He’d found Christ.
In prayer their heads bowed
That his teeth grinding would
end.
With the lamps of kerosene
That made it seem
As if the son of God is in the
room.
From the bible as if his eyes
From the caricatures,
Are trained on you.
He is a child of a thief and a drifter
And this Clyde was a myth
For his father has no gravesite
Or proof but his name
That he lived.
For this his Grandmother
Flagged down a peace officer
After she tend his wounds.
Beaten then left there by his guardians
In the shantytown.
For the sins of his mother
The towns people
Do not want him around.
Around St. Catherine Parish.
The little boy put on his
Grandmothers stockings
And prance about.
The old woman would
Go blind in that house.
And to the end, “you must not
take
The lords name in vain.”
Gabriella Meets The
Mad Hatter
Those fool boys and
their fool ways.
Their fool nights and their fool days.
Leave their work and turn onto Jackson street.
Those fool boys and Gabriella makes three. She
a back seat driver. Well lit the street.
A large sign welcoming them to “Heaven.”
The biggest little
town where it doesn’t take long
to find tonight whose life to trade for her favor.
Those fool boys and
Gabriella makes three.
The poor soul can get a feel of her too
not long enough to savor it. To
never be without a woman. To never be without.
Labor of love.
The fool boys and
their fool ways. Fool nights and fool days. Gabriella makes three.
Always with the red wine.
Daylight or nighttime.
Even if they don’t imbibe will it she do what they like?
Tell about it with
any sucker within range.
Whose life to exchange for the feel of her?
Never long enough to
savor it.
To never be without.
Let it slip out
that I wanted in on a night in town With the boys and their toy. Their
place on 4th street.
Barely light or bulbs to see
But
once the boys are done with her she’s coming for me. She
must feed now fulfilled her flesh.
But I am just as hungry and that changes everything.
Ghost
The foyer of the
old building is cavernous. Wander
about the floors of the building like shadow.
Ghost.
Escape by
way of the fire escape.
The wind it growls
and swipes at your face
with claws of a day bitterly cold. And
a night that ages you
What
seems decades old.
That’s
if you can sleep.
The walls are white
but dull
Beneath yellow light.
Feel like your eyes are playing tricks.
You don’t look like
someone who would live here.
Though you look like someone I could revere And I do.
Through the nuts
and bolts, plaster through.
I see you.
On the ride up.
Elevator.
Realize you are unlike the rest of us.
Dare I say “goodnight?” Any
reply would bring out the best in us.
You don’t look like you would live here. But you do.
And, it is in your dreams and desires through
I reach you.
We Will Out
On the trains. Over
streets. Near rooftops.
Porticos and windows. Ledges.
Hedge their way into
stations
so many cars long.
And a theater. The
Aragon.
Bright lights,
on Lawrence Street.
Just bulbs on a marquee. Blinking.
Argyle is next.
I caught the show times.
Ride over electric
lines.
The third rail like my third eye.
Blue lights like blue sparklers
Like blue skies
blue.
Up on high find
positives to be had.
A
commodity to exchange.
Like Wall Street or Financial. Street. Its
worth in years time
Could
be quite substantial.
On Van Buren
Minerva Has
got a claim to her corner.
They
could shun her but at street level
Everyone is
in on the scavenger hunts.
Find seashells on the seashore
To
listen for sound.
Ride the lines,
color lines over distance
over time.
Since ’68 this old neighborhood
Aint
been right. They said go west.
And that line is green.
When I go north that line is red.
It goes
underground.
A breath taken before and held
it
climbs from its womb.
Rises skyward quickly.
Exhale.
We will out.
Hard Rain
Hard rain. Walking.
Cannot see a thing But
other beings running. Hard rain. Other beings. Otherworldly.
No discernable limb Or
skeletal structure. The
terrain fights to take shape
In front of me scattering belongings into puddles And thoughts
into gutters. What
comes out is “fuck this and fuck that. What the fuck are you looking at?”
Another
day I'd be ashamed to take such a tone with a utility pole. It only says,
"gather your shit and get on home. Don't
make things worse for yourself." Perhaps he's right. No need
to get beat up in front of people. Eyes
high and mighty. All of them look down on me. Safe
in their numbers.
Things have drifted into recognition. Which
street I am on and needing to go east.
Just around the corner from home now. Then
inside the tower and up in the elevator To
the eleventh floor.
The hard rain. Hard light. Sidewalk observer.
Southside
of the street. The
beings. with their motorized machines And
their structures that stretch upwards, sky high. Hard rain in
great supply.
Hard rain, when tears wont fall. Rain drops
fall hard. Down
established tracks they slide. Panic. Shortness of breath
takes me back outside. The
rain and its oxygen. When it seems like the
buildings circle the wagons. Red
bricks. White bricks. Condominiums. Hard light. Only
see forms and shapes and silhouettes. Haze. The
beings with their motorized machines, they scatter. The
hard light melancholy. grey.
Providence
Our time on the
beach.
We can hear it from
the window.
The sea.
We stand outside on
the sand
With a kerosene
lamp.
A century old the
little house.
Cannot keep the
sand out.
Receive company on the veranda.
Many of them
Clergymen.
“When will we see
you at service sir?”
I simply raise my glass and toast the
heavens.
Give thanks for
free will.
Give a nod to my
love
for a wonderful
meal.
By the side of the structure
In a gown of white,
Struck by light and
wind.
At her feet I lay
my burden.
Our time on the beach.
The spirits, they
are with us
Here in the gusts
that tear across.
“Have they heard a
single word of our prayers?
Have they heard
anything we’ve said?”
“Perhaps we should
bow our heads.”
Lion
With her head to
the window
She stayed in the
light.
I told her there is
a lion in the streets.
She lay out fully.
Her eyes closed.
She does not look at me.
Her head pointed at
the streetlight
The light of the
television
In the dark
apartment. 3 a.m.
There is a lion in
the streets.
I know because I
fought it.
I’d fought it time
and again.
I wonder how it
found out where I am.
My brother he is a
snake of a man.
“It is in your
dreams,” she says
Without looking up.
Even when I had
finished and
I’m cleaning up.
Her eyes have not
opened
The whole time.
Her bare bottom and
further down,
Her feet where the
light
From the television
sweeps.
“Your lion is in
your dreams.”
She wont change her
tone.
I send her out into
the night,
Send her home.
I fear the fate she
will meet.
I have no more
contraception.
There is a lion in
the streets.
Brandywine
In these parts
people are particular about their talk,
Their wine and
their good times.
Not much else.
What’s newest on
the shelves?
The wallflower lives her life clandestine.
Black leather jacket
and all.
Always outside.
At night.
In her car.
In the part of the
parking lot
with the lowest
light.
Eager to see what
he’d brought
this time in the
paper bags.
She wears those
long dresses
to cover her legs.
She’s got a long
drive home.
And the diva.
She with her,
“leave me with something
until the next time
we meet.”
She with her, “I’d
seen your light on.”
No light but
sunlight
slowly receding
across the portico.
For a song,
a glass of wine.
Any kind.
A finger trace the
outline of his jaw.
An act.
The wine can do
that.
Keep her coming
back.
63rd
All over 63rd
overcast.
White light with a
grey haze.
Like the inside of
an egg
after it has fallen
from the nest to the ground.
The combination
ages the skin.
Through the floors,
through the doors.
Any opening in the
house. They come. Spooks.
The old house once
a home filled with children
Leading one another
around by the hand.
Around the house.
Around the yard.
Graveyard for old
cars.
Cadillac’s.
Automobile parts.
Lawn mower parts.
Broken chairs.
Empty snuff
canisters.
The proprietors
dead but not gone. Spooks.
Including the boy
killed with Reggie’s gun.
Reggie was the old
lady’s son.
Bathed in the grey
from a western facing window.
The light that
fills the entire room with melancholy.
The Englewood
neighborhood house.
Where the spooks
steal her things.
They are ever
present.
The light covers
just enough of the bed
For the spooks are
ready to set upon her.
She dare not turn
her head.
Salvation.
Beholden to my salvation.
The fulgor of the sun through yonder window
Is affirmation.
Her absolute.
My lovers tender
mercies.
Her effete kiss.
To all of this,
consequence.
The depth of my
love and recompense.
She comes same as
she goes
With a pivot to her
hips.
With that the
spirits are caught in the mix.
Stepping blithely,
my Inspiration comes from that.
She comes as she
goes. Through the black door.
White on the other
side.
Merchant
Something’s got to
give.
Used to be come 12
am the phone would ring
And he’d take
requests.
Back then he could
afford to be generous.
But when the
restaurant gig, legitimate,
Went under, the
merchant went back to it.
Used to be he would
meet you somewhere
Or at his home though
danger comes even in daylight.
He’s got the scars
to show for it
As evidenced by the
last time.
Set upon, his face
bloody,
With a sideways
scar.
The parcel reaches
its destination.
Startled children
in the residence
Where the
enterprise is based.
Eat You Alive
The lamb is tender
And the sauce is
hot
Around it. The
dish.
She will have the
Basmati Rice with
it
The spice refreshing.
As well The aqua
blue dress.
Whose maker is
famous
In the states.
I love a woman of
height who knows
Tenderness of lamb,
and long legs.
I am a writer. She
likes a good story.
“How about,
“tonight
man eats woman
alive?”
She’d bought the
dress
Here on the avenue.
The dress, the
shoes.
The entire
ensemble.
“Cannot find her
product
Anywhere else in
Providence.”
The lamb here is
the best
In all the island.
I could eat you
alive
I need not fork or
knife.
Short or extended
chase, pursuit.
I would chase you
the breadth
Of the island.
Whether sinister or
sweet.
Whether it be a
long life reminder
Of this particular
night
And the dish.
The dress and how
she obtained it.
Or short lived and
she would wipe away
All memory of it
with a damp cloth.
In the bath as she
lay dying perhaps.
Jump
The years at
Winthrop.
The corner building
Right off the
elevated stop.
I can remember most
The solitude
The violent storms
Within, and within
them
The eye, even more
silence.
Those who didn’t go
Away or stayed away
I’d sent back where
you came
With your well
wishing
And your, “keep
your head up.”
I’d already said I
wanted to leave
The country in ten
years
Polly said I’d
given up.
I remember to this
day
What a wind tunnel
Winthrop was.
North to south.
When the wind
starts to pick up
It’s like a
blindside
And the sidewalks
are already narrow.
Find up here it is
hard to breathe.
Feeling the oxygen
seeping out.
The little people I
see have no concept of me.
Just those I
haven’t asked for money.
It is only a matter
of time.
I wanted a hookah
and to supplement
My wine.
Every morning on
the wakeup
Scream out, “what
must I have done.”
I could make the
window without running.
Just jump. Panic
attacks used to come.
This way panic
attacks are done.
