Categories
Poems

A Prison Song

the continuation of Philadelphia’s Market Street on Delaware’s eastern bank

is poisoned atmosphere discontinued thru abandoned structures

there are no stores in designated places

along the one way four lane formerly city street [this is no longer a city]

with no fear of getting hit [it’s already hit]

on its own accord the blood moon once full

bled out and yet the gray visage remains

if only because of parting clouds and in that instance poetry is seen

by some the few walking this still street

what liquid courses thru our veins tonight Walt Whitman?

as ghosts stride by your beloved Delaware they try and catch a glimpse

of your penultimate abode only 200 yards south of Market

and yet the view is obstructed

by the panopticon prison

rising as the one of countless American/Babylonian towers

in the cluttered but abandoned Camden air what thoughts course thru ghosts’ minds of you tonight

Walt Whitman?

the date is Thursday April 17th 2014

and there is a fair situated on the former foundation of another prison tonight

directly north of the big pale blue Ben Franklin bridge

imagine the revelry

the prison was only torn down a few years ago

and now it’s a big fucking party America screaming drunk children revitalizing the cities

kicking out the residents

redistributing the poor not the wealth

the prisoners shipped to the suburbs in privacy

not so subtle slavery what do you think Walt Whitman?

how long is the party going for? will we overstay our welcome?

there are no peaches left, no penumbras,

what fun is there in eyeing the grocery boy now?

“the sodomite is dead!” they said and still the phantom mob stands

on what used to be known as Mickel Street

America changed the name to MLK Boulevard in mock honor

and all the blacks incarcerated are laughing thinking of you Walt Whitman

our precious American saint rise from your tomb at Harleigh

and break the tower’s foundations once and for all

 

Categories
Poems

Inanimate

as you leak long and slow

worrying about rupture

all hunched over wincing

drunk off pain

you take a break from monotony

it’s raining outside right now

but that doesn’t matter what matters

is pain staring back at you thru a mirror

the absence of soul and meaning

knowing that if you could see forever

that there would be an infinite number of you

although artificial

as the cold fluid supposedly water touches

your fingers suddenly stopping somehow automatically

when you should stop feeling

if only you’d stop feeling

Categories
Poems

Plongeur

These fingers have grasped ceramic and glass,

turning and scrubbing dishes and instruments

of consumption. These hands have been immersed

in hot and murky fetid water, working and toiling

until the night has worn down to the final minutes

when hours of work must be finished.

The grime and grease of more than thousands

of leftovers stained on dishes must be obliterated.

These callouses break and reform through bleach and detergent,

these fingers have grasped plates, bowls, glasses, mugs, pots, pans, and every kind of utensil

imagined, cast away food half eaten, not eaten, thrown away food dumped in plastic

bags mixed with poison, for those just one step below to dig through and savor.

These hands have contemplated searching for sustenance, and so the mind

wanders, spine slumped over, the dish washing machine compact and half-working.

These fingers have ended nights with desire for a cold clean glass,

while the hand rests upon a common grail and ponders whose hands it has passed

through and ponders more the covenant between each proletariat.

That each and every person mind their own, and drink and sometimes moan,

but never belabor too much the plight of pointless labor.

Categories
Poems

Unspoken Consolation

This dog is a reincarnation of a reincarnation

of Allen Ginsberg because he’s mystical

and gives me queer looks.

He loves to smell piss and shit, and he’s beautiful

and black and white and if dogs were poets he’d be

the masterful, subversive beta-male.

Ginsberg stares at me thru big brown eyes while wagging

his tail, thinking about absolution.

Now he’s licking his penis and grunting.

Now a cat is sitting on my lap staring at the wall,

since he’s a reincarnation of a reincarnation

of William S. Burroughs, he’s crying on the inside

about murder, but not really feeling guilty. The animals have seen

it all before, but not for forever.

Categories
Poems

By Myself and Not Alone

I am sitting at a table eating

a microwaved chimichanga

with a short fork and blunt knife

the burrito tastes better than this poem

I am sitting here inside this poem

writing and eating and looking down

thru the glass into my knees and the contents

of the chimichanga are drifting thru me

a formerly frozen mash of dull brown stuff

stuffed into a fried tortilla then crammed

into many freezers until my own, which is me

and the poem I am inside the poem

and the chimichanga is inside me

and you are a person presumably

if you exist

and I will be eating you as well

as you eat me

there doesn’t have to be a reason

but I’d rather like it if there was

wouldn’t we all, that’s why we’re all eating one another

and what else can you do except

eat frozen food

and breathe chemicals

because we all know the chemicals are eating us