"War of Words"

Learning how
to spell
and

writing with hot
lead

I REALLY LIKE LOVERS OF POETRY

 
I really like lovers of poetry. I have a faithful
friend who is always interested in my new
books.

When I hand her the next edition, she asks me
to read a few selected works from it.
And then she asks like this:
And what do you get out of it?

And I answer her with a question:
In what sense?

Then she explains:
In an economic sense.

Then there is a two-minute silence.

And after a while we are already talking
about problems with nature conservation.

And so we have been together since time
immemorial.
I really like lovers of poetry.

(translated by Grzegorz Wróblewski & Marcus Slease)

August

Teal blue of my fairy strands
The murderous blues
The hauntings of sun dried cuts
Kill your belongings
It's August
They said
But I'm still
Hooking my drunken soul
My red wined Coolings
Can't
Your own dealing
Homicides across globe
My spirits a childish grimace
Enjoy your youth
Sip be merry
A good natured wife
Milk of human kindness
Halted on
London bridges
Cycling through ages
Your white coloured tie
Pattern of your very being
Still my child's sweater
Warm sipping
A home cooked meal
But
The city's on fire
A Phoenix Soul
Soon a torpedo glory
Sky high nebulas
I screamed through
Be drunken white
Your own patterns
Still it's August
They said
And My.

I stepped in vomit today
it oozed between my toes

I write this because

it’s not everyday you step
in your own filth

wait, actually
it is




THE GREASE IN THE EMPTY PIZZA BOX

I feel awful
the day is putrid

greasy pizza box
condom wrapper on the floor

last night was champagne moonlight
today the sun is a hangover

I don’t think anymore
I just react
like the squirrel on the deck
when I open the door
I run for my life

I’m tired of it
I’d like to just get it over with
my death could just be like
jumping into cold water

but I remain
I sustain
I don’t know why

I’m lying here on this unmade bed
crushed under
the weight of these words

AT 3:32

at 3:32 a.m. a freight train whistle runs
up valley walls into my bedroom

mixing well with images of lust, blame
and heartbreak jamming my head;

a throat-clutching moment.

if I smoked cigarettes it would be
a good time to chain smoke

so the wispy tar cloud could lift me
off my blue sheets, carry me

closer to exquisite memories,

closer to where a boastful locomotive
soul is born onto this world,

the bull iron thing always pulling out
on time, guided by someone who knows

how to navigate every tricky, twisted
track without getting lost.




STEPS OF THE SCAFFOLD

The fires of love, part of a scheme, a raging tentacle at times
that closes in on the fleshy throat. It’s so difficult to learn
from the scar, to sit in the confessional chair and beg for help.

It appears we of human need are born to play with matches,
to drink heat, to lay at the gold altar of lust, ignoring nails
in the floorboards, waving off answers hurled our way,
directly and with good intent.

Silly at times, unwarranted, yet we remain possessed with hope;
we cast off the cost of scorching temptation, tick-tinted desire;
we seek to be touched in a way that ignores crackling thunder;
we want to be cuddled, drooled over, fused with cherry blossoms,

a safe place where we aren’t face-slapped, where the stringy soul
isn’t hung out to dry, where our bravely galloping dreams
don’t slide too damn close to the steps of the scaffold. 

Burger King

There's this guy
at my apartment complex
who walks to his fast-food job
every single day.

He wears
the same shirt,
the same pants,
the same backpack,
the same pair of headphones,
and always has
the same blank expression
on his face.

And every time I see him,
I can't help but wonder
if he's just dedicated
or completely insane.

Reflections.


Silvery opulence
amidst
Snow clad hours
My forever blue
Anatomy of love
A golden rose
Bow tied piano scape
Scary as love
Around wintry snowflakes
He embalms my soul
Autumnal palsy
His goodness gracious
Poignant peak
I couldn't summon my notes
Momentum reflections
Necessary
To be written down
For me
When Autumn comes
I will gather
My snowing pal
And
I will ride these
Paper towns
With my oceanic wetness.

1981


Whatever happened to gliding down the Slip ‘N
Slide or getting a toasted almond bar from the
white uniformed Good Humor man? Stickball bat set 
aside, we flipped baseball cards, and I won a tall
stack. Then lost it to a random flip, an early
gambling addiction. We played Ms. Pac-Man at the
pizza parlor; she ate the pellets hungrily. One
kid had a quarter on a string like Buster Keaton
when he cheated the gas meter. The sci-fi film
Escape from New York came out; crime was real in
the Bronx. Our house got robbed when a kid squeezed
through a narrow basement window. The teenage
neighbor saw and chased the burglars down the street
with a baseball bat, but all my mother’s jewelry was
gone. She cried. AC/DC’s 1980 album
Back in Black still tore up the airwaves. Poor Bon
Scott died a grim death, but Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ‘n’
Roll” was playing everywhere on WPLJ.
Black leather clad Joan was my first crush. When 1982
rolled around, I discovered WNYU, punk and
new wave music, plus Greenwich Village, Bleecker
Bob’s Records, and a one-dollar subway token ride
to anywhere worth going. But 1981 left an
indelible mark on me like a tattoo or scar.  

RAFI 21

in me is an abandoned housing project
in me a million unlived lives
each in their respective cell
wasted trying to escape
taunted by the shoes on telephone wires
a graduation from the hood
without you
my heart is a ghetto
without you
I am a ghetto

RAFI 22

I miss you
a love as strong as an oak tree
I took you for granted
and got lost in your curls
you are so much beauty
you remind me of myself when I was free
you remind me of my life on my own
before I met you

“on a scale of 1-10 how are you feeling?” 

 
disconnected—my  
body remains on the ground,  
my head in the cloud