Thursday, February 18, 2016

DB Cox- A Poem



rain reclaims
worn tire tracks
of piss-yellow cabs
pointed cross town
by gypsy hacks
from new york
new jersey
new delhi
chasing american dreams
down empty streets
red-white & blue illusions
into the darkness
of rearview mirrors
lost in the shadows
of sacred skyscrapers
that sigh & bend
in the wind
old myths fade
& dance away
madly backwards


felony face
cuts down the alley
like a breeze
police sirens sing
the same name as last night
darkness covers
the bloody footprints
of a young desperado
as he takes refuge
inside the gentleman’s john
defunct exxon
new address for the dispossessed
a spider-cracked mirror
hides out-of-luck eyes
hard as roman nails-
bony back to the wall
he slips to the floor
laughing at nothing at all
shaky tones falling
into a full-blown hack
bell-cracked saxophone
bouncing death-rattle tones
round & round
the obscene sanctuary
top floor of hell
that smells
like a waiting room
for the cemetery


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


helicopter searchlights
at the edge of town
tumble-down house
sits like a corrupted monument
to a dying neighborhood
front door torn away-gaping
like an open mouth
with nothing to say
murky hallways
always half-lit
by the yellow glow
of glass pipes
where only those
can decode the graffiti
spray-painted along
fractured walls
eye-like windows
stare out at low-slung cars
crawling the boulevard
injecting sub-sonic
bass lines
into the twilight
bad-ass backing track
for well-strapped gangs
settling old scores
over scars as cold
as tagged toes
down at the city morgue
nightly play of d.o.a.
where no one
gets a curtain call
revolving blue-light reflections
stir the quiet
on the street
where the lost
keep house


  1. Riding a taxi compelling of language and insight as
    in a Scorsese film

  2. I'm gonna keep it simple- DB is a BAD Motha-watch-yo-mouth!!!

  3. New York City was my home until a few years back.
    These poems are every car moving toward every street
    light. Great job!

  4. Thanks for reading and responding.