poem
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TASTE OF DEATH BUT ONCE TASTE OF DEATH BUT ONCE It’s hard to think when the dogs sniffing the floor, yardman’s lawn mowers whining, the garbage trucks hydraulics crunchy hiss as the diesel engine growls. The radios playing trip hop and your old lady’s massaging your nuts. Still you go on, remembering that others have
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Radio What The Fuck four people and a big dog live in a one bedroom garage apartment. behind a duplex. Luckily everyone gets along. The house is quiet, considering there’s two teenaged boys living here. I got bad eyes, bad teeth, bad knees and a bad back. but I got a good dog, good boys;
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Queuing Up (Observations on kulture in Whole Food Groceries) For the connoisseurs of dark the coffee is gourmet chocolate, this is a pilgrimage to Mecca but there is a darkness here that is not a roasted bean or confection a shadow that defies the florescent light this is a place like any other place whose
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My Blue Sun For my son Da’rrell Jamaal Cloudy “The truth is…you’re the weak and I Am the tyranny of evil men. But I’m trying. I’m trying real hard to be the shepherd.” -Jules Winfield I sit half lotus, a wilting flower child Shimmering, beneath transparent salinized beads of dew. Sentience simmering, beneath polluted ash
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In a dream I am Visited by the Buddha I asked him What are you doing here? He said nothing I said nothing.
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After She Gets On the Bus These are the euthanasia mornings when the 609 moon is steel a raised sepia nipple heavy with wet light waiting for some bigmouth to suckle the verse out of this is how you craft your own fate out run the cops and out live the rest keep breathing long
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The Last Days of Leather Walking up Goliad listening to the morning song of the old trees, the irises are flying their colors beneath the soft parade of periwinkle clouds being pushed over the rooftops of the gentries three story condominiums just out of reach of the straining finger tips of the oldest trees the
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Natural Born Love Poem “You know, the only thing that kills the demon is love.” -Mallory Knox This is the love poem This is the poem for 5 am lovers separated by class and birth, Walls and war and death, feuds and ancient ancestral hates. This is a poem screaming at mute screens as
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The White Woman’s Burden “When women go wrong, men go right after them.” — Mae West “Women are the only exploited group in history to have been idealized into powerlessness.” –Erica Jong “She’s a rich bitch ya’ know, she was raised by maids.” —Steve Zissui Our master of ceremonies has just been informed that we
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As If for Robert Trammell As if the breath of a poet could resurrect the dead bird silently decomposing in the slate colored street. The curb ascends, a tombstone for so much road kill; a squirrel here, a cat there, somebody’s whistling calling a dog that cannot answer but this mourning the bird with Verona
Joey Cloudy online 