solo dancer

November 12, 2008  :: 0 comments

it’s thursday night
the band is on
they’re usually a bit
beat and key
that’s how good they
can be

almost falling off the deck

they’re on now,
on their way:
a fart in the corner
an attack

there’s this one woman
not unattractive

she’s got some scarf over her elbow
it’s kind of caught
because she holds her hand up
because she holds a drink

the vodka inside
is almost falling off the deck

like the music
it’s not.

the band is soft now:
a romance, a ballad
a cupid romeo shooting
himself in the thigh
it’s okay, you can say “loins”
here; fuck it, you can say
his fucking bulging cock
that’s what the band is saying
the bass is walking away
come here come here
what? that cupid myth is
bullshit? then what’s it
all really about?
that business about how he
shot himself
is really that he jerked
off before he saw Persephone—
if that was the bitch’s name

the romance is over
the jive is on, the groove
the strut, the hot step
the swag, it’s saxophoned through
the psyche
the ether
that Esther, that’s it, must be
the name—hit the piano
that’s it!

she’s the solo dancer
not spilling one drop

“eat that chicken” is next.

Brain Size Matters

November 12, 2008  :: 0 comments

man, a lot of people misunderstand
everything. anything. you knew
people were dumb, you just didn’t
know you were one of them.

The Great Mystery

November 12, 2008  :: 0 comments

I see those disgustingly
legs long and bare
under Russian pea coats
with furry hoods
I want to pull down to know
the Great Mystery:
Is her face hot too?
I’m here in this city
seoul, a soul-less
place of cabbies cutting
red lights buses
barreling into busy
intersections spin with
lights people pushing, those
legs are the only goodness
so juicy and white and smooth
long and toned and tempting

What Gets Me

November 12, 2008  :: 0 comments

my throat is itchy
friday’s drinks may have
gotten me

my throat is itchy
sunday’s drinks may have
gotten me

my throat is itchy
all that talk
to get her to come home with me
may have gotten me

What is poetry, anyways

November 12, 2008  :: 0 comments

They want articles about highways
in Arizona. I give them pipe bombs
sucking in air, windows shattering
out, blood sprinkled over.

They want cards with sweet messages
on holidays. I give them presidents
in back rooms whispering into ears
of prostitutes sent from nearby

They want one for the children
they teach. I give them the children
teaching them with mouth to mic,
fat baby fingers rapping a podium,
rocking a poem; shut up,
they’ve forced me to tell them,
turn down the TV and listen!