the bloom dawdles and yawns,

cracking a taste of purple

on my waterfat thigh.

you are among the greats
the grand
the unholy giants
their feet stamp the earth
to fine dust their hands
****** our insides you
take what is not given
it is taken from the beginning.
what is left i don’t know
maybe regretting the hatred’s
spew, the battered women,
many half-eaten teeth
ground to their cores in fits
of anxiety, depression,
upped drug prices i am
sure of your devices
i am sure of your ends.

i'm a southern boy

with a southern mind

southern lips

southern eyes

i'm a southern man

he who buys

southern hips

with southern lies



down south heat

baked bone lives

downtown crooks

with softer knives

the hippest kids

some Memphis folk

hot fried eggs

bowls and tokes



on down yonder

up o'er dere

cast-iron fingers

rusted hair



it rocks my pocket

and shakes my knee

t'see cat on the corner

and a dog in the street

but that's hard cash

and a filthy life

here in *****

here in strife



twangy me

twangy wimp

simple *******

you're a lil' limp

lame in the legs

fast in mind

lazy *******

you'll get left behind

you're no devil

but you're no saint

quit making silly songs

****, too late

Pipe-smoke, a wet night-
Studying arcane whispers,
The tower breaks.

The ego in the silent world-
February brings snow,
like a spider's crawl.

I don’t know what to make of this. The half-naked Russian model rupturing in the tub, one hand rubbing salt from her habit of weakness, another clutched a swill of wine. Her pill-loaded lover, always blurring. Both too young to bear the death poem of lullabies. In another room, in another town, a redhead stranger sits soaking next to me, governing my drunk body back to senses with her mouth. Outside, a gaggle of youths perch the water’s edge, lapping beer from a spillage of shadows. Soon, they’ll beat their wings madly and rush the night air, running on nothing but ***, *****, and lace. Giddy and octane. I won’t know what to do with it or make of it, still, years later in life… an even more ragged crackpot, taking potshots at poems.

You black-breathed ones, you
coroners of taste. Ring me again
at 5 in the morning and you’ll know me
for worse. Paint-smeared, you stencilers,
you self-imposers imposing yourselves on
my breast, blubbering of goddesses and
jeweled necks—break yours straining
to have mine. Little chickens pecking the dirt
you’ve had morsels enough. Salarymen, you
daddy men, men of drink and belt: I am not fat,
or skinny, for you.