everyone is waiting
for their shot at being forgotten

by minds or by times
or by unending rhymes.



ain’t nobody get scared like he get scared
nobody makes their hate whistle blow as hard as he do
the five great lakes of your body shake and flood
the gift that pops and bangs suffered through
was likely an elongated infinity
shortened each time he took a hot breath

hot gates

a logical thermopylae
tiny places for people to insert themselves like soap
in a sponge

i watched a crackhead get ready for the day

i will watch over you, crackhead
i stand on rails above rails
over rails and watch you
make your toilette
rest a galactic purple felt shopping bag over your honored skull
(black and perfectly smooth (glabrous) so overcome with
negative peels)
spark your life back into your system
i see you do it
your head covering blocks a clear and focused wind

a hidden globe is only a (desirable) side effect

it’s morning, the morning chained by your habit
i watch you in the midst of mine

you were not the only one wrapped in green:
take a bath in poison cause
crackhead sprays himself with stolen orange juice
hands, fingers, palms
elbows, teeth, jaw
the shining head that glares three floors below my own

the drug interjects “blindfold, ha!”

he stumbles
3:30, a bit early for a morning
for a crackhead

you sure clean up real nice
you look like someone famous
off you go into the second level of existence
on the normal street

your morning routine a forgotten gray



i hate seeing two suns
double moons
the infinity of stars and their twins

whoa you’re definitely the tallest sugar plum.
apparently you went to see the ballet
and when you finished, i found you

and told you you were great.

a symphony of forever tomorrows, always saying

i was the nominated one, the one with the charge
belted by sunlight and worshipped by stars
the end of symmetry and the wisdom of our homes

too loud and too particular.

pigeons (II) prose poem

i’ve covered you in the way you cover a saucepan locked in poverty. the ones that always have tomato sauce or something like it stuck to the pan. You say it will just cook into whatever you put there next and make it taste that much better. Nothing tastes like poverty not even the metal from a belt buckle not even the oatmeal someone always brings home. the elite people around us always stare at us like we funny but they only stare at us when we go over by them.

what are the natural resources of this place for the pigeons, the infrastructure of time is not even enough for these pigeons. a million dollars, a million educations…nope not good enough. for the pigeons, please. please the pigeons.

pigeons, please

pigeons (I)

booboo has brown on his back
winter’s white

oppress yourselves, pigeons!

sit on my step, sit on my porch, raised 3
floors up
raised like the opposite of wages

you pigeons, you moral desires
begin again, perched or not
sleep with the foot up

like my foot is up

meme les pigeons vont au paradis
“even pigeons go to heaven”
experience the heat of paradise

the music of grass
the heaven of your nightly coop