improprieties in late january

 

It is late January and the fog has taken the morning,

every morning, by the throat

and I take a great pleasure in the choking of the early hours

and I take liberties with foggy mornings

and I take liberties with time

It is late January and the fog has taken the morning,

and I was on the Metro bus

and the freaks were on the Metro with me

and under the brim of my hat I pretend to be one of them

and during my eight hours I pretend to be

one of the other kind, the kind with unsullied speech

and neckties, and sterile faces

the kind who always eats at twelve thirty in the afternoon

the kind who insults you with their eyebrows

and after I am done with my hours, I am back on the Metro

with the newspaper readers and the newsmakers

the fog has long let go and waits until morning,

but the freaks have not yet gone

and the drunks have arrived

and the loud, and the stinking,

the street youth arrive, and the crippled

and this is where you find the poor,

the hideous,

the deformed

the obnoxious

and the brilliant

and I am pressed 

as the Metro fills every inch

the vile populace sits with its knees pushed, sweating

and since the fog has given way

I cannot take pleasure

and I cannot take liberties

and with every pull of the cord

I am closer to my destination

closer to opening my legs

and nearer to the next days haze

like the steam of her breath on the window

and as I exit the Metro

It is late January and the cold darkness has taken the day,

and I take my liberties with the cold night

and I take my liberties with time

and I am still too afraid to buy a newspaper

 

 

 

The Verge

 

It originated as a mistake.

A nose, two eyes and a mouth.

No senses, no human expression,

Perhaps used to it -

Atomized humanity, a melting blossom -

On the sharp fringe of the vegetable world.

Lacking collision, lacking balance -

Lacks, for the first time, malice.

Blistered, swelled lips speak no vengeance.

Blood shot eyes see no duress.

Just sheer colossal vagueness, and -

Confusion at the sky’s opacity -

Verging on black,

Verging on absence,

Verging, for the first time on altruism.

And being organic-

No matter what effort made -

It could not be dismantled.

 

 

Some Advice

 

don't write poetry

everyone does it, try coal mining 

use cash

all the time

write your creditors

tell them not to bother

never buy wine over fourteen dollars

(adjust for inflation, 2007)

if you hate classical music

listen to it anyway

avoid shakespeare

regardless of what you eight grade teacher says

if you find god

read shakespeare to him and cross your eyes

feel like wasting some time

vote

never "promise"

if you can't get out of it

never get your news

from "the news"

don't work

if you don't have to

find something you like to do

and do it

find more than one person to love

people are not reliable

don't have kids

unless that's what you love to do

try things you don't think you'll like

then say you don't like them

have many sex partners

especially with other people

buy third hand clothes

the poor are wasteful

if you buy a tv for your car

you haven't given enough to charity

read Kafka

all of it

if you don't have any money

don't worry, neither does anyone else

don't fight in wars

unless they're in your own country

if your not addicted

try drugs, you never know

and last

don't write poetry -

 

you might end up

with something like this

 

 

 

 

 

Black Sand

 

my misfortune beyond control

burning holes  in the clouds for a hand

being drowned my soul

 

pouring over wisdom, a search uninspired

none penetrates, none to withstand

my misfortune beyond control

 

sulking through slow life as required

swimming hard water for holy land

being drowned my soul

 

soaking wet, devils and angels conspired

to soon, rested on acute black sand

my misfortune beyond control

 

vaporizing in fog, a dream transpired

waterbeds of spinal fluid, filled my dry land

being drowned my soul

 

unconscious infected also, none to be desired

death by sand and water, a pitiful last stand

my misfortune beyond control

being drowned my soul

 

 

 

Boston ’s Lights Cringe

 

I have a friend who has taken Boston by storm

Or so he tell me

 

Once we were both the same man

Things have changed

As things have and tend to do

 

When my friend phones me now

It is an inadequate exchange

He talks and I pretend to listen, having nothing to share

Many times I refuse to answer the calls

Thinking it might be from Boston , USA

 

At times I have felt like a terrible friend

And others I’ve only felt relief

The truth in black and blue

 

I can always tell when he’s ringing

The lights dim

And I know who’s holding a receiver in Boston

 

The man is not like me

And I can only stand myself

Sad as it may be

It seems to be the truth

 

I can only help but wonder

Is it only my neurosis?

When my friend goes

Outside

Do the Boston lights cringe?

I hope so