shepard fairey

ras

ras

ras

ras

ras

ras

ras

gustav dore

our boys

death and burial

wm

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Roasta Locka Wack-Wack


is just my pen name. I'm given one
sounding a bit more refined, although

it's nowhere near so sublime. While
I'm on the subject, however, I should

probably say this: I've less reason
to employ a pseudonym, than

a boot-black. Or demolitions expert;
or councilor of romantic liaisons.



I Dealt Blackjack At


the Queen's Table; found my fortune
at her knee. All in all, she was

quite the sport. Slow to anger
when I'd cheat; fairly tolerant

of indiscretion, and almost never
complained when she busted.

Actually a pretty nice girl, just
like the song says. Not my type,

though. I'd sooner your back-stabbing
blonde with a bone in her nose, than

any of them fat-ankled Windsors.





Monday, May 27, 2013

Go Ahead, Ignore Me



I won't even know it; my aim
is pretty well off-trail of

your greasy smear; wide
by a couple of states, I guess,

on a good day. Maybe you
can nevermnd that, but

get this, junior: it's not just
my bright white linens; it's

their threadcount. And,
this woman that I love now;

I mistook her for a Ronnette.
I'm not even joking. Yeah,

she's half my age, and married,
no surprise there...just my type, right?

So it would seem. At least,
we needed no introduction.

She looked up at me several times
as she filled my prescriptions,

and each time, smiled
so very sweetly.


Occupation Nation, Last Word – Once


there was a will to get home that same
day; eventually, complications stretched
long into morrow. This peculiar mix of
right now and maybe never before or again
is giving me the heaves at the jump-cuts.

Nevertheless, and not for standing on
ceremony, we should perhaps cling again
to our naked proclivities, let us depend upon
their stout and loyal service, to once more
comport, just as if real juice throbbed in

their stems again, yet and that still with
a head full with beans, or even somewhat less,
some benighted corpulent, one not even
a legume. oi vey, I would say to that, and
there's a rough mix, matey. a particular bad

end. hey I pay rent here, there's the stripe,
here's my chop, if mayhap you don't like it,
feel free, mon, move right along, I won't
say smartly. I try to be fair. It's not what
I'd call an overriding concern, just a cobbed-up

thing to aim at, a target, like beets in a basket,
high atop a pole suggesting, somehow, we are
getting there; that this is the bridge to the
payout, trail to where the air begins to pound,
announcing a space-occupying presence, bearing,

of course, the resident's key and brim-full the vial
of incipient, or is that eminent, liquor of drama.
live virus, jack, wafting up from that thin-tubed
neck to nowhere, its own dreams, complex concoctions
never-laden with concerns such as space and

where does one, so to say, actually, huddle,
hunker down, live, that is, you know, like, hang?
Wouldn't most of that more likely be conducted
just beneath one's hat, or lacking that, more
exactly then, reside right between one's ears?

and that then far more I risk than any simply-
surrounding construction, so seen as more likely
and more properly fit to transport the man, indeed,
the king of kings, the all-seeing eye of the lord?
not less. well, these questions are not so easily

assayed. There's the ayes and the nays, and
let's never forget to lift up sore thanks for our
pensive contemplatives. still, we admit, it exceeds
even the inevitable, we're professionals,
we can feign surprise; it is, after all, even at the

lowest stripe of least, quite incredible, and never
the least bit less than it; year upon year we fail so
at failing, getting nowhere, and not in any time soon,
a sustainable pace, and level of maintenance. and
if the strap starts to slip, then, still,

we keep coming, arriving, bearing the meat.


Saturday, May 25, 2013

I Read In A Quiet Voice
















too quick for reflection, a mere flit-speed
dead flush to and skewed exactly zero from
really aligned with that crazy mixed-up coconut
Lucy, before Carmine's spinning butterfly toes
sank any chance never had by one such as me --
poet-recluse, bard of the meantime, till we get there.

There being where being there alone
expects light-piercing literal dashes to
do just what primordial dashes do best,
and leave space for a mark, again, like me;
taken at short odds, and spilled long:
how many, remember now, is it ... nine?

No, no, seven, seven cherries make the rack.
And the man (not that one), is he forged first in
profile's brief suggestion of image? or faulted, first
for leaving, then for going (not quite the same);
and only lastly, for the brief wanting of
more than they were near aligned to. 


Saturday, May 18, 2013

The Chalice Of Chastity


would not be obtainable from
the far side of too far, too soon;

long before the milk-weed stick had
gummed up the gears of evening,

I was marked for disposal.

 A black sash banded my proclivities
from disclosure before my public;

and this, well before
the nation’s were beaten to callus.

If not for beginning in dark, without
number or name, with my

thousand ears and eyes,
I could have been a contender,

if not the champ.

Monday, May 13, 2013