Let's go grab the money
Hidden in the Christmas Tree
Shoppe mason jar with the
Frosted stencil designs,
Ornate and resembling flora.

Let's take that money,
The three separate wadded
***** of once crisp
Green pieces of paper
That somehow reach the
Arbitrary total of one
Thousand, three hundred and
Twenty dollars and
Fifty lonely cents.

Let's take that 1,320.50
And go see the desolate
Stretch of sprawling
Humanity deferred between
These hiked peaks and the
Dangerous mountains
Separating the west
From the rest.

Let's go there!
Let's go there!
We'll make it across,
Be sure of that,
Be sure of nothing
But that!

Let's use the remaining
Seven fifty
To buy some
Seven Eleven sustenance
To have while
We walk backwards
Down backroads edged
With the encroachment
Of the wild back into
Negative space some
Long-ago engineer
Carved and paved.

Let's tell the driver of
This beat-up
Time-worn down
Overcast grey
Buick LeSabre
That we can pay her
Ten dollars to replace
The juice necessary to get
Us back to our sick aunt's
House in Poughkeepsie.

At the gas station
We'll tell her to stop
Real quick
And hope she leaves the
Auto to go
Pay the schlup at
The teller's booth
And jack the beater
And hope we won't
Have to bolt
Again if she doesn't.

Let's call my cousin
And find out who will give
Us four hundred dollars for
The stolen used parts store
And take that four hundred
And buy:

Two (2) greyhound tickets to get us
Back to our ****** apartment
In Stamford: 64.50 American

Three (3) damp-bunned flimsy
Beef patties glued between
Pieces of government-issue
Yellow American cheese
With all the fixins we please: 3.24 American

One (1) zip of dried out
Seeded and stemmed breaks
From the boredom of
Our own conscious
Processes: 120 American if lucky

At least eight (8) servings
Of amphetamine based
Pressed little buttons
Of confused energy: 200 American

One (1) bouquet of
Red yellow and oranges
Mixed on the petals of
Your mother's favorite
Species: whatever's left American.

In the 2nd grade
a puppy love
crush on the
teacher steeped
deep in me

to my delight
her clear eyes
recognized the
promise of a
chubby boy
in all of his
quaint simplicity

her gentle
voice, friendly
and firm, filled
with caring instruction

the giddy class
attuned to her fresh
brunette bouffant, bunned
and perfectly coiffed,
speaking style and
youthful whimsy,
not a strand of hair
out of place

her svelte figure
flowed through
classroom isles
filling the space
with scented graces
of prescient carnations

that afternoon she
was abruptly called
from the class

when she returned
our beautiful princess
was sobbing

she concealed her face
then turned her back
on the class, crying
in a corner to dismayed
blushing blackboards

regaining composure
she turned
exposing her tear
stained cheeks
and dissheveled hair
to an unsettled class

“the President
hurt his back” she
announced.  “He’s
in the hospital.”

Whoa… I thought,
the President hurt
his back.  That's
terrible I surmised.

our beloved teacher
dismissed us
and resumed her
tearful grief

when I arrived home
my mother was
sitting on the bed
weeping.  “President
Kennedy is dead”
she blared.

my mother’s rumpled
housecoat and
tousled hair flattered
her flowing tears and
anguished sobs.

the tears of women
marked the end
of many puppy loves that day


Bob Marley & The Wailers
No Woman No Cry

Oakland
10/15/13
jbm

I

I celebrate my pants, and sing my pants,
And what I wear you shall wear,
For every thread belonging to me as good belongs to you.

II

I saw the best pants of my generation destroyed by madness, bleaching faded skinny,
dragging themselves through the crowded malls at noon looking for the perfect selfie,
man-bunned hipsters burning for the contemporary digital connection to the social dynamo in the machinery of online relevance

III

Let us go Pants, you and I,
With evening wash spread out against the sky
Like a ghost dancing upon the breeze;
Let us go, through certain half-full baskets,
The smelly caskets
Of unwashed trousers from one-week neglected hampers.

IV

Something there is that doesn't love my pants,
That sends the frayed-torn-cuffs under it,
And spills my muffin top in the sun;
And makes love handles even two can hold to love.

V

I have stolen
the pants
that were in
the dressing room

and which
you were probably
wearing
for a party

Forgive me
they were comfy
so soft
and so stylish


VI

Because I could not fit my Pants –
I kindly split the Seam –
The Problem is quite obvious –
I need some stronger Jeans.

VII

The patterns on your pants   
Could make a designer cry;   
But I hung on to your stance:   
Plaid boldly with tie-dye.

VIII

Call the maker of big pants,
The fabulous one, and bid him zip
In seamstress studs sumptuous sewing.

IX

What happens to lost pants?

      Do they stiffen up
      like paper as it dries?
      Or do they balloon up —
      and into the sky rise?

X

I bought some tremendous pants
and held them beside the cart
half off the hanger, with the hook
fast in the belt loop around the waist.
There was no fight.
No one had fought at all.
They hung a defeated weight,
overlooked and spurned.

Your life may be full of sparkles and ove-lay but the rest of us sometimes struggle under storm clouds.

Anna (one of my roommates) broke up with her BF of a year. It seemed to happen in agonizing, slow motion. Anna wavered, for almost a week, like a feather caught in contradictory gusts, but finally, she gave him the broom.

Jump ahead four days to Saturday. New Haven was a drizzle-fest of cold rain and my suitemates all stayed in. I had hospital volunteer hours that morning (6am-10am) and then managed to whip through my chemistry homework (3 classes) in 3 quick hours.

When everyone was free, we ordered pizzas and wings. We have to meet deliveries at the front gate, and I was barely able to carry it all. “Pizza!” I announced, as I entered the suite, where I was immediately mobbed.

“Le’ me get to the table!” I whined as I bobbed and weaved through the crush like a prizefighter. As soon as I set it down, the pizzas were claimed, and the girls took their usual seats.

Lisa always sits on floor cushions, by Anna, at the low, white coffee table. After a few bites, she hugged Anna, giving her a ”rawr.“ She hadn’t really seen her since the decoupling.
You iight?” she asked Anna.
Anna waved her hands in the air, like she was sweeping smoke away, because her mouth was full, but she nodded, ‘YES’ emphatically.

“Let's play something,” Leong said, meaning music on the linked Amazon Echos throughout the suite. “Choose!” she said, motioning to Anna.
Anna replied, “Don’t Wanna Fight” (by Alabama Shakes).
“A classic,” Leong agreed, searching it out. “Amen,” Sunny chuckled.
“Love it,” Lisa said, dancing in anticipation while seated on her cushion.
“Mmmm!” I added, because my mouth was full of pizza.
Cue ‘Don’t Wanna Fight.’

Two nights later, we were at one of those dances we jokingly call ‘fashion week events’ and Anna arrived a little late. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her messy-bunned copper-cherry red hair was highlighted with phosphorescent hair chalk that glowed penny bright in the right light.

She was wearing a red dress that looked painted on, her face sparkled with ‘unicorn snot’ glitter and her lips were a fun phosphorescent green, as if they were dipped in Kool-Aid.

“Look at her,” Sunny said, indicating Anna, “getting back on the horse and trying to arrange her next emotional trauma.”

“They grow up so fast,” I said, fake-dabbing my eyes like a teary parent.

just thought of really deliciously ridiculous mean stuff to do
Rayne fed me an onion and I almost spat it back in his face
And then he fed me a bite of his dessert on a spoon and left the spoon in my mouth
And I almost spat it on the floor
And then he was breathing out and I really wanted to burp in his face
young tongue gone dumb
from bunned girls harsh sling
delirious
here: clear he is
Romare Bearden
Forrest Bess
I’ll becoming through
The truth will soon be-coming through me
Hmmmmm. What's that? sniff sniff Smell yummy. Hmmmm. Oh! Oh! Hot! Hot hot hot hot!! blows blows hmmmm Yummy!

Am I a copy-cat Romantic
To say, I love you;
Your eyes shame starry spheres;
Your nose is a rose bud;
Your lips are a crevice to treasure;
Your neck a downy repose?
Haven't I read this before,
Between lines of death and rebirth?
You've struck that pose before,
The profile with backlight,
Your cameo hair bunned up
In shade,
Your shoulders sheared off
Just at the ***** of your *******,
Inviting fantasy.
You are the incessant beat of desire.
I will put your picture
In my wallet,
Where the creases become blood lines.
Your likeness will fade
Each time I take it out.