Monty III
How close to the fire
do you want me,
how much like light,
when the hem of your coat
sings
and my body doubles over
and you forget to swoon
over the punk icon
in the bathroom
but you bring me back water
and I feel like the driest plant
in the most foreign desert
your eyes are radiant
like a pain turned fatal
but I need your pain
in my palm my tongue
my thirty thousand
incoming missiles of loss
I think the room rolled up then
into a ball of pure nothingness
and I think you swallowed it
and fed it to me like a gerbil
out of a war zone whose only
food in years had been the sound
of his own name
bracketed like a bar drunk
between the exit
and just one more
like I don't know how I'll crawl
out of this one with my clothes on
you read me Whitman
by the window
and then tell me one of your strange,
strange dreams
behind us a room
full of fabulous people,
the famous photographer
and, I imagine, one too many
wrinkled old ladies from Warhol's factory
with their cruel indoor eye wear
and their lost sense of wonder
“I have the feeling that I'm standing in a room full
of awesome right now” you said
“It's all a plastic cup” I reassured you
why won't your smile ever close
why are you so beautiful
from the inside corner
where the light is fostering other light
and the house on the hill of your eyes
lights my mouth on fire
and screaming isn't loud enough
so I just stay silent
as silent as late night highway
as evaporated water
as soul stuff laid into moss
and over fingertips
I can't put it out,
this cigarette of a feeling-
this endless burn.
Pops
Erica defiant
puts her legs up on the table
fingering the fruit
with unwashed hands
city sounds
like a snapping travel stick
either end is oh so unbearable
come again,
why aren't you a more steady shot?
Who wants to know?
The impound-compound
sweat of trash
advice for today, don't look
so god damned happy
all of the time
bellow out from below
the fire escape
where someone's parents first met
hooked on heroin
1979
Puerto Rican punk rock stories
could fill a book with the sordid
one liners my old man passed on to me
now he's heavy into god
but still sneaks the Ramones
onto his turntable late at night
with his headphones
hugging his ears
I imagine
at the very least
he's deeply conflicted
rehabilitated, codependent
bad back, hepatitis c
but he must have been something fierce
in those days
you'd never know it now though
I think
all in all
he's probably just really,
really fucking afraid to die.
It Had To Be That Way
There is this rift in your jaw
where words that have carved caves
underneath your tongue
unravel
each time you put the trash out
at night
you remember how as a child
every star in the sky
drew your eyes
up toward their burning white
like dust that never settles
your heart went wild
every time you saw something
for the first time,
cartoons, stockings, cigarettes
you lose count
of what is owed
the soul or fear
of nothingness
ending in a dream
black as your 4th grade
crushes hair
she borrowed your pencil
and never gave it back
some things you don't get back
youth, good looks, happiness,
knowing,
letting go,
forgiveness.
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