America'd get its independence
two days after I lost mine
to a high school halter top
twisting my heart like funnel cake.
Although love was still
much a concept four years ago,
I new what "a break" was.
It was the last fifteen minutes
of geometry, ten seconds
beside the Homecoming goal line,
it was me on a rotting bench
watching myself in shallow water
two slow moments before diving in.
Blue Skidoo into a boulder
because I don't know what I'm doing.

We played H.O.R.S.E. with Mountain
Dew cans last night, but sat more
on the bench than the sidelines.
Wiregrass crept through the faulted
court in lines. Lines like bike spokes,
like greasy dreadlocks, like power
lines. Enough **** left to last
the rest of the game? Enough
till "E," 'til we're empty?
Mountain Dew foul shots bank in
and lay on the court until tomorrow
night's game.

Funny, isn't it?
That a woman no more than a knee-high coffee table and a few copies
of National Geographic away from me
is holding a cell phone in one hand
and an apple in the other.
One will eventually **** her,
and the other will make sure a doctor
isn't around when it happens.

The black, iron God arm punched
placid-blanched clouds, and dangled
cat cable down to lemon-vested men
with chalkboard faces.
Basic algebra, today's date, daily
syllabi, God-fearing anecdotes,
and the evils of homosexuality.
Fornicating with other dudes
is like moving Jesus' rock
with your ******'d *****.
Let sleeping dieties die.
We find them buried deep beneath
**** ceramics by T.V. criminals,
rapists, murderers, buzzers, free-
lovers, angelheaded sweethearts.
They have nearly four dollar souls,
barely enough for a Wilpo dinner
at Hepburn Diner. #2 breakfast
with one cup of Columbian cartel
coffee with a pinch of whole milk
to take the edge off, so he won't
be gripping the booth vinyl when
a "freedom" flash cop car passes.
Police cruisers are just bigger bicycles
that we're afraid of, sporting cereal
box baseball cards in the spokes.
Cops were the kids that needed help
their first time fresh off training
wheels. Training academy training
them for low-speed cat chases through
flower beds.
Sweet daffodil, you didn't have to die
like this. You could've drank straight
from the pitcher at a stranger's dinner
party potluck, seen the guts of a New
York highrise, shared the coke left
beneath a woman's botched nose job.
You could have been more than this.
You could have been more.
You could have been.
You could have.
You could.
You.
You, daffodil, stamen-down
in Miracle Gro and dog ****

could have been more.

Like an outcasted stoop kid,
I sat glass-backed, bar-assed ten
feet away from the main streets
waiting.      Waiting
for some leaves to fall off treewires.
I waited for inspiration in the bitter
November chill biting at my ankles.
And I got funny looks from football
cap colleagues on this dressed-down
Thursday. The trees were practically
naked. Scarce blossoms and partridge
leaves crisped by the stagnant air.

The door'srustedhinges-aircrack-
waking ends a four hour sleep
short. I found out she was a lesbian,
and allergic to ****.

My mouth tastes like plain Pixy Stix
and I can only swallow in short bursts
like a camera or pool water over-
whelming the filter hole. It's like
untreated brine that I'm swimming
around in, ******* in, trying to sweeten
it with my natural body oils,
but it's not working

because my pool is also a lesbian,
and allergic to ****.

Pure cane sugartar that sits on teeth,
sits on a canine porch swing
and swings too far, kicking the enamel
siding, wood knots, and greying-thin
windows. More exposed than Brad
Pitt's marriage or JonBenét Ramsay
on the cover of Old World News Daily
in the dentist's office. And there we
are. We're bleached white and burning
beneath paparazzi bulbs and a
a ****** case. Brief case money/
two thousand fourteen and it's still
relevant, still useful blood money.
Novocain lightning flash; burn a tree.
Cali home tucked behind parsley
palms. Fortune teller, baby, O.J. didn't
do it. Not The Juice, not him.
The gloves. The gloves. The gloves.
Comfort of picket fence rainbrushed
paint stripping. Raymour retail
of a mocha-cushion couch half-off
'cause the back's spattered with
toothpaste and taxpayer juice
like Grandma's cancer handbag.
Put your feet up, stay a while.
Don't leave.

Between half steps,half words
Half thoughts.
When the sun sets

Let me climb the night,
Align  stars
Scribe charcoals around moon.

Create seasons for you.
Catch the leafs of autumn,
shadow between our palm,
And grey voices under snow.

I'm tired of writing poetry for all the desolate disgraces I see in this world. Homeless hit a peak of 2.5 million children country wide in this land of opportunity. How are you supposed to survive with no role models or daily inspiration? The lessons you cherish are when your next meal arrives, not waiting on your pension. Suspended through the thicket of all this strife, and they are the ones who are grateful day and night. The smallest hospitality does not pass through their ears while comfortable in the heat you're deciding which brand of beer to choose. Intoxicate yourself like your problems will just vanish while a little girl no more than four begs strangers for a sandwich. Then blame the victims for stealing your bits of gold, when all they wanted was a blanket to keep out of the cold.

Wireshell trash can sweep-brushed
by Fusion, Alero, Chrysler Something.
They’re filled to the brim like sepia-stained
skyscrapers with swivel chairs and water cooler
pow-wows. Boss’ talking fax machines
and projections for the second fiscal quarter,
flipping a stock EKG reading on its ***. We’re
all millionaires. All up like the NYSE at seven o’clock
in our living rooms watching the fireplace
playfully threaten our investments while CNN
sends money through the VCR slot. Cars, no
garbage trucks, cars, cars, scraping hubcaps off
the high sidewalks like beautiful harpsichords.
Neighbors. Suitcases and dresser drawers
packed tight with meat tape, paper towels,
and coffee mugs/fine China make heaped trash bags
seem obsolete. There’s no garbage here.
Downtown’s neon district makes enough
that they could afford a glowsign on every window,
every square inch of every lunch special, gallery opening,
or Salvation Army bell-ringer.

Forget New York,
we're the city that never sleeps.