She’s at the i-don’t-care stage

Again

It’s the middle of the night

Again

It’s a good sign

She thinks

As it always is to those

who don’t fear her

or try to revere her

It’s a good sign she thinks

To those who defy her

To those who remind her

It’s a good sign when she’s angry

A good sign when she’s cursed

When the story hits a manhole

Like a digger

It’s better for the worst

Whatever that means in

Her female desert of freeze-dried tears

She’s at the i-don’t care stage

Possibly for years of a rage

For what she has left on the shelf

It’s the middle of the night

Again

It’s a good sign

She thinks

To go for a run

In her dreams

 

Smokin’ Willy’s Weed

Goes down easily

Teasily

Unforgiveably reasonably

Grateful for the friend who delivers

De letter de sooner

De better

Message well-earned from

Lightning circumstance

Opening the poetical nerve of those that hate us

Who tolerate our presence

I am honored again

I am hungry and fateless

I am older and maceless

Because if you want to undermine

Do it like lemon rinds

begging a bluebird

Until the surprise rings explosive

Then you know you have told this story before.

And nobody died.

Nobody came before.

Nobody died in this nobody war.

Smokin’ Willy’s weed just like before.

Painted on cave walls

Destroyed by wars

Grateful for the friend who delivers

What goes down easily

Reviles beastiality and the

Slow thrust of rivers

Destroyed by war

Grateful for the no end of endings

Begging a squirrel to monitor sendings

Of good will and happily ever afters

Grateful for the fuckers who discovered the boardwalk

The underneath

The choking remark

On the failure of boy and girl

Grateful for the no end of endings

Begging a squirrel to monitor sendings

Of good will and happily ever afters

Grateful as fuck with no nod to pretension

No unreliable mention of war

She seeks a slower less angrier pace

Squirrels on call to keep the peace

I am fucking lonely she wails

To no one in place

I am sack cloth and ashes

I am no ones disgrace

I am older and thinner and historically sound

I am you with your arms wrapped around

My complacency

For now until I run the race of me.

Smokin’ Willy’s Weed

Goes down easily

Teasily

Unforgiveably reasonably

nyc 1.22.24

 

It’s time to write a poem she said

 

Opened front doors forecast dread

Still lighter than a darksome home

 

Pecking naive transformation

Wounded like a crossing guard

She bangs her chest in absolution

 

What about this fucking poem

She screams in flightless fury

Searching for the nowhere compass

Redirecting dreams unknown

 

Her small arms reach familiar height

Leaves bloodied reason in the lane

The child becomes the ageless poet

Picks off attackers in lyric refrain

Never to set false hearts alight

 

Mustering truth among the shards

Re-made from broken arrows shot

She bangs her chest again with conviction

Renounces steps from false Camelot

Humored forever she follows intention

Escaping from the thumbless bard

 

Kneels and pries her uncorked anger

From a fully loaded glass of wine

The bag of lies they offered her

Full of listless danger tricks

Transparent as their unsound friendship

Returned forever their shipment of lies

A poem arrives a welcome sign

 

Dropping words in her once barren lap

A prayer to the end of everything

Depends on the sender

And the poet who believes 

Fully christened urges to rend 

Clarified fury on liars and thieves

She pens in silence her atheist prayers 

In a rarefied notebook to pain

 

They will force her inner child exposed

In their foul-smelling bunker of lies

Slowly invading the song of the poet

Wallowing then in spineless endurance

Like lice in the hair or cancerous starlings 

She paws the earth a misread boar 

Transitioned out of unbending fury

Front door knocker heralds dread

Winged doves arrive instead

 

It’s time to write a poem she said

 

nyc

1.3.23