The Stark Comma

Grifted from the madness of it all.

thirty ONE none

she was 25,
chicagoland
labor room
my mother
redheaded
freckled- cursed in contractions:

was pushed out
  a corded orwellian
and I’m begging
the gods for more time.      split in

half, the logger dripped
in lager for his thirty first.       just one.

hard to love gone bitter as
I circle the sun; mother gives
wishes and in fashion, quip a

thanks. she held me once, fresh and
sprinkled.wonder what she truly
thinks of me. I’m sorry, I used to
be
somethin.

a sweet poem rarity

awaken to hear footsteps, gather
my shirt, my pants. rub my eyes as
I make my way through hallway, living
room kitchen. she’s there, the bluebird of
dawn brewing coffee dressed in an
endearing warm glow doesn’t
know I’m near, right arm glides around
waist, left arm atop breasts      nose
to locks    as she kisses my hand with
audible content

think, I could do this for another fifty.

since swaddled

take your rings off, your earrings off take
all that jewelry off.     slough off all that
binds those diamond mines; it doesn’t
belong.

     now, head out to a patch of pines, or,
elms- the ones man left in their curation of
metal and rush hour woe.   inhale deeply.

   nothing more than a celestial cue to let
  

   you in one big secret. as coyotes like ants
  follow their suburban tract of land
.             secret is,  that  you’ll be okay.   and

you
are
loved.

waynes expert tailoring needs a new sign

haven’t slept in a long time. I mean really slept.

anxiety throbbing all the way down
my joints, nippin at my heels, needed
a night drive. went yuppy, north of
chicago to a tea joint but before that
bought a bottle of wine at a super
                      market where I stole
some grapes and looked at married
women in the frozen section. tea joint
doesn’t have a wine opener; dismay but

free vegan pumpkin bread from the lonely
employee who is attractive and may be

attracted. tell her my car got fucked by
a two by four that shot at me on
the freeway this morning; don’t

think she cared much. I want to get
drunk but.   instead I get a fair trade pour
over: awaken  for what.  take

a break from my notebook filled with
nothing to have a smoke, probably my
millionth and notice that waynes expert tailoring needs a
    new sign; it’s flickering- symbiotic. my

gas tank is empty, shop is closing and just want my wine

drive back with gas light blinking whilst
passing numerous stations then think about
a niece that I’ll be cradling soon- oh need to change my
ways: porsche

zips by with models laughing and kissing put on
a local jazz station- miles davis get stopped
by a train
lit million and one, looked over at what’s left of
my passenger side mirror as it hangs there wondering
If I got enough gas to make it home

point of this all, this night, is that
I don’t feel quite right.

gobi romantic

swoon over motionless
ladies half undressed in
department store windows.
    everyone’s a couple; this is
  gobi romantic. and I
divorced myself from it cause
I’m statue jotting on brown
        napkins: to retard and

starve.

opus

I grow silver roots in
my italian coiffe- the
sunlight only accentuates my
retirement.          be not me to
tell one mental
break
    down from
another.

Good grief. Where’s my fucking
watch?

I don’t want to return to
where I grew up but I keep
coming back, like a
playwright to his
shitty
    opus.

and the universe pines, no, spins for
me. I

am opus.

a boom

there is genius somewhere
down there like a boom in
williston. you dredge and
construct a derrick to bob
for something meaningful but
it’s dry. get a couple neat
highball glasses or a bender in a
gin pole but
same result. scour through
all the plots you have put a
pillow in only to shuffle on, lease
anew but dry. but one day, when it feels
like the sun is gonna burn ya out and
all those memories and emotions and
lowests and pratfalls do a patchwork
haze; a

boom.

waikiki

in between turquoise motel doors and
a parking garage full of screaming
girls; okra, potatoes, zucchini and
chops sizzle in foil.

eat like caveman at midnight and
talk like sailors under a waxing
cratered.

smoke too many and tequila, this
is a goddamn perfect night.

waikiki and the purity of a
stranger dinner.

nuremburg

piss on the side of
new

construction. there are
bullfrogs clamoring for
attention: porch lights
set the driveways to

noir, keeping the thieves
away but perhaps your
husband snoring other
side of queen is thief. fuckin

brain is noir chowder.

put cock back in cotton and
smile for an airport couple
roar

miles away. the pond is full
of horny bullfrogs.

a weak crescent just
above my shoulder makes
me nervous and tells me to
sleep.

my first untitled outfit

stub my cig out a few puffs in and
relight. stub, hand reaches then flame.

fucking human nature. this will kill
one day but hey. forgot my plastic
bottle of milwaukee:

gravity is the lesser evil. pull. pull
you sonofabitch.

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