poems

  they floated as wraiths

and itched like saints

they scanned for tourists

and horked cheap smokes

they hacked at honor

and licked old bones

they puked the pavement

and smiled at stairs

they wanted money

and all I had

were words

I may not

have pushed

myself

toward

being

alone

I may not

have plumbed

the waste

of heck

had I

not seen

the stars

gleam atop

mountains

cold and

so blue

She was tired and lonely, perhaps—on’ry of course. It of course being summer and the

coarse air and heavy breathing coincided with coarser catcalls, scenes, more pressing

immediate bullshit—the when and where, the how—the
why
she made her way along cracked bricks slathered in heavy air, proud and not turning

back, not wavering, never—ever—saying “not never,” never ever asking, only telling us

the way it is and the way it will be
forever
the only sound the stuffle of Crocs on bricks and the crinkle of plastic in sweaty palms

— her sweaty palms & —
The way it is and the way it should be.

First published in Loose Change Volume 2, Issue 1

Backdrop: brown on some
wackiness purple some
Dre 3000 of
the MLK brickwalk…

birdpoo sidewalks, exhaust,
sweaty smack of ozone,
bullshitter hoot-hollers —
no matter

my sway so resolute
so polyester hot
in heat unending
uncaring

sufficient in self —
see?

there’s a coin right there
and I don’t
even
need it.

First published in Loose Change Volume 2, Issue 1