it is okay that my son’s face goes white.  I am using my son for water.  some of his blood leaves him to become a rooster.  some of his blood hardens in the coffin of his wrist.  some of his blood enters an incantatory narrative.  some of his blood is the body.  some believe the body is drought’s battery.  I am big on bodies.  you might know my father by his spearheading of the ghost indictments.  or by the clock you call love that he called the lifespan of his wife’s pregnant hostage.

Rattle Snake Bob came swaggering in
with a gun in his boots n' smell'n like gin
He had one green eye, and a wandering blue
make'n ya wonder which one was look'n at you
With burry vision, and a sloppy slur
the swanky restaurant went silent in a minute, or two --
cause he was standing bear *** naked wear'n just a single shoe
waving his gun up in the air --
with last nights Chili n' gum mixed in his hair
My- oh -my how everyone stared
everyone knew to hit the deck
when the bullets went fly'n and bouncing like heck
See --
Rattle Snake Bob had a twin named Rob
who'd gone to Princeton and was a total snob
he'd majored in golf n' minored in Law
with a penchant for ladies...
that were dating ...*Bob

Billowed and pasted, rollicked and wasted,
the night takes hold and Samantha, you remember her,
she's smoking again. This is her last pack though.
Drinks poured. Drinks spilled. Kate and I are talking
like people with scheduled late afternoon love affairs. There's
a car alarm going off in the distance. I love this blouse. Is it new?
No. It looks new. I love your perfume. You aren't wearing any?
Must be a natural—and the first to arrive at the party, Chris and
Evan, they're the first to leave, and we listen intently as one, or maybe both, tumble down the stairs. There should be waivers for second floor
apartment parties. Kate, you deserve so—I know. I know. You've got this light. Jesus. I'm just saying. Is it radiant? Yes, it's radiant. And they're lighting their drinks on fire now in the kitchen, some concoction of amaretto and 151 and a kickback of Coors. The flames reflect in their eyes, their cheeks a soft amber, and most of them are smiling, not sincerely, but when was the last time you could give yourself over completely to joy? There's a siren in the distance. Someone says they're coming for us. I'm going to the bathroom. Do you need help? And there's this ceiling fan with LCD Christmas bulbs strung around the blades. A myriad of claustrophobic yellows and whites and blues. Have you seen that video of the ****** having a baby? And he brings it up on his phone. Someone says, Oh my god I love this song from the bathroom. I hadn't noticed the music before now. Drink this. What is it? You'll see. And Samantha she says she's got to step outside for a second. And someone drops a hookah coal on the beige carpet. There goes the deposit. There's incense. There's a Scentsy. There's Febreeze being sprayed liberally. Can you drive? Can you? Do you want to? You know? I've ate a lot today. The songs keep getting skipped. Parquet Courts, Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Chvrches, Miley Cyrus—wait, wait put on some SWIFTY. We're going to fire up in my closet if you want to join. It's a walk-in. Evan's back now. He kicks a mirrorball across the kitchen tile with Chris, who's also back now. Where's Samantha? She's smoking. She shouldn't be alone. You remember last—That won't happen again. I'm just saying. Well, you can stop saying. Sirens again. Closer. We're in the walk-in. Kate tugs on my sleeve. I take a pull off the bronze pinch hitter. Do little circles with my head. ****, she says. What? It all starts fading out, the rush of dark, the rush of light. Someone says trash can. Sirens. I'm just trying to—Shut up. I'm just trying to—Shut up.

i.
OVERWHELMED! Reading Philip Whalen's "Sourdough Mountain Lookout"
in a Boston cafe' good music good vibes quick approaching
afternoon chocolate croissant puffed up in my belly heart puffed up
in my chest ready to yell leap skip jump make a ruckus frantic
search for pen and notebook of course the notebook is left in Ned's
dormitory almost don't have a pen and feel a short fall in my
gut. A walking (or sitting) cliche, scratching thoughts onto a
napkin as they come, total organic no preservatives except I stopped
to think before writing "scratching" -- no! not the word I wanted
the correct word is STREAM, STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS, FLOW OF
EMOTION - like the beat legendaries whom I idolize but
what do I know... generations later, only had
"******" (the cool hip term several
decades ago) and **** bourbon "Satan's ****" that leaves me
sick and *****. Good delusion! Couchsurfing across the country,
drop by without notice, run broke, read books - poetry & the Autobiography
of Malcolm X, living off my parent's hard-earned capitalist cash...



ii.
Often I fear I am too young and
tender to survive in this world. Moments
like these - sitting, reading, basking
in a cafe - can make me overwhelmed,
Got to drop everything and sit, elbows
propped, palms cupping numb face,
to slow the rush of emotions pulsating
thru me. I am too big a fool, fall
in love too easily with everything.
The boy barista is prettier than I,
thought he was a girl when I
approached and shocked by his voice.
Angel with a black septum ring!

don't call out her name
she will not
there is a hole in the bottle
a blanket on the floor
the hallway isn't empty
shoes scatter when they fall
don't turn at the corner
or start towards the door
the light from the window
never reaches very far
shadows cast the grey
the grey narrows to a point
meaningless gradual losses
have taken her astray
don't turn away
you can't reach her anymore