tonight:
no lemon slice moon,
no searchlight of white.
a black cradle for black bodies.

cylindrical wax, it’s all cyclical –

mike brown, eric garner,
freddie gray,
meagan hockaday

– across the street
white boy shreds black asphalt,

a sloppy chorus of happy birthday
spills like their foamy pints
over brown tables and black eulogies.

those pale faces, those pale fingers,
preoccupied more with the bubbling
and the stretch of their pizza cheese.

look up from your porcelain plates.
hear our rage bubbling,
see communities stretched translucent.

there is blood on your hands
and guilt to your name.

nausea pulsating glumness
sits swollen in my belly.
half-curled on a stained couch,
chins bubbling in bed,
i listen to elena croon
as lovers and friends slip,
newborn ghosts in my hippocampus.

there is something
nourishing in cafeteria clam chowder.
a deep spice in your belly
to fill up the empty feeling one gets
curled up to a cold back.
rushing home to find an empty,
carefully made bed.

why fall in love?

a new boy means i am writing
poetry, again.

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!

everything crawls everything hums
i move slower here

déjà vu
writing poetry on steps
the church doors aren’t locked
the church does not exist

here
i eat alone
walk alone
sleep alone

today my hair was greasy
my period didn’t come
my sweater didn’t come

crawl back towards the lights
bury myself into my noose
winter will come.

late night fuzzy mind hooked up like an android
to mumbles over pulsating dream pop
john maus sing me 2 sleep with ur electropiano

i don’t want no new beginnings
just wanna park on panoramic way
fog up the windows **** in the backseat..

just want july warm wednesdays to drag by forever

she inhales sharp
the foliage ***** her in       a diver entering the deep
in the pine needles she sees the motions of the universe

she is self conscious about her adam’s apple

she swishes pasta water around in her mouth

google search: how to kiss
                         how to behave in a relationship
                         how to cure chapped lips
… she doesn’t know how to be sentimental, only

to take off her shorts and lay still

it’d be nice to take the initiative

she’s not sad as often now:
there is comfort in apathy and burning liquor and the scent of another on the sheets