My friend Shira

whose name means song and legs mean trouble

wrote a lovesong to God,

hoping He’d buy her redemption

but instead He bought her a sandwich

from the central bus station,

salmon on whole wheat no cucumbers.

So

I sat with her on the top of the nearest mountain

flashlight in my mouth, rock in my shoe

and watched the buses run later than they’re scheduled to,

hoping my epitaph would read

“She might’ve

She might’ve

She might’ve been wrong”.

Five minute street artists
and insomnia mongers.
****** drunk blondes
and finger snapping phat booties.

Street geniuses
bred by Machiavellian philosophies
cypher dreams over tokes
of marijuana smoke.

Color worshipping narcotic traffickers,  
and bread winners
parole corners
sporting fitted caps and twisting fingers.

Senile war veterans
beg for change in cardboard boxes
from the American dreams
they afforded.

Hard workers with every ethnicity
molded into each pore of their face,
rub shoulders with tourists at traffic stops
barely escaping tires crushing their feet.

Sartorial geniuses with no pants
switch hips in knock-off stellos heels,
selling the origin of the world on avenues
next to Arab Halal food.

Cooperate ties and blue collars chafe ***** on subways.
nodding in and out of Daily News articles  
while oxygen blessed by asparagus ****
pump through their noses.

Summa *** laude number runners dictate economies
From sky-crapper offices,
And powered rain swallows their concrete each winter,
With no apologies.

I do my
Best thinking
When I am cold
And I do not mean cold
Such as
Mild shivers and
Light body quakes
I mean
**** straight
Runny nose
Over the top
Wooly sweaters
And hot chocolate
To soothe
My frozen bones


I suppose the
Intensity
The feel of my
Frigid skeleton
Pressed against my
Clammy Skin
Wakes me up


So I sit there
****
(Because God knows those sweaters were hideous…)
With a glass
Of frosted judgement
And ponder over thoughts
That were previously resolved
Only to reconsider


Why in God’s name
Did I say that to her?
Do his stares really mean
What they imply?
Did I leave the stove on?
Till my mind
Liquefies
To mere mush
And the chills
Overtake my curiosity
Are replaced by
A mug of hot beverage
Of my usual lukewarm distaste

Walking a little bit sideways
While on the wrong side of the road
several weeks flow into days
and every prince is just a toad
though the nothings are a something
'cause the world is viewed through eyes
of a vocalist that cannot sing
and fancy men without a tie
cause suicide is just another way to die

My Feet are
perpetually *****;
toes Sinking fast into
early afternoon mud

My Eyes are
impossibly blinded;
Sensitive from the
long winter imprisonment

My Skin is
eternally Kissed;
sweet rays of warmth
mingling on the surface

My Heart is
pounding fast;
Exhausted from
splashing through spring puddles