DB Cox- Three Poems

beat

cold rain reclaims
worn tire tracks
of piss-yellow cabs
pointed cross town
by gypsy hacks--insomniacs
from new york--new jersey--new delhi
chasing american dreams
down midnight avenues
red, white, & blue illusions
slipping into the darkness
of rearview mirrors
lost in the shadows
of sacred skyscrapers
that sigh & bend in the wind

throwback poet
takes a break
over a warm subway grate
listening to subterranean trains
rumbling back & forth
on fixed steel rails--
dreaming 1950s dreams
of benzedrine-fueled ghosts
rust-covered voices howling about
chaos in the cosmos--
the last desolation angel
takes a drink & thinks
about a stroll to the depot
sit & raise a toast
to the 3 a.m. greyhound
leaving empty for the coast


down in motown

down in motown
a street preacher
shakes a tambourine
& dances along
cracked concrete--
praying over the remains
of toppled houses
& lately vacated
assembly lines--
stone-dead illusions
that can never
be raised from the ground--
hollow invocations
ride the night
on a twisting breeze
curling round & round
down in motown

down in motown
spent ashes fall
from a neglected
cigarette jammed
between metal strings
running over the headstock
of a pawn shop guitar
like blue veins
leading to the heart
of the matter
open notes stumble
& stagger behind
bottleneck moans
sliding along
an empty dance floor
a post-apocalyptic bluesman
with the face of a refugee
growls ominous phrases
that crack like glass
red-hot pieces tumbling
among trumpet trills
& dissonant
piano arpeggios
broken chords
overturned & burning
down in motown
motor city fades
& rolls away
madly backward


house of cards

whiskey-laced voice
of a sidewalk showman
stirs the night air
under a bigtop sky
vanishing coins
shifting cards
a homeless magician
works the boulevard
shell games
on a suitcase
covered with stickers
from this place--that place
hustling & rustling
every crosstown bus
that drops nine-to-five faces
ready to be taken in
one more time
before the last bus
leaves the station
& the flim-flam man
disappears
like the burned-out letter
on the sad cafe sign
just up the street
where he sleeps
in the back booth
& dreams
about an empty picture frame
on a bone-white wall
in the shattered
house of cards
he once called home