cover by dante orpilla
DOGS
I listen to the dog
bark
until I cannot stand it
anymore
and I go to the window
and yell SHUT THE FUCK UP
and the dog does
for about a minute
and I think of shooting
the neighbor full of lead
but, of course, I wont
because,
first of all,
I dont own a gun.
FRANKLY, THIS STORY IS ABOUT UTAH
awoken,
like a bad dream
wiping crust from eyes
rising
scratching my ass
stumbling towards the door
had you come back to me
could that soft knock be you,
I covered my crotch with my hand just in case it wasnt,
a turn of the lock and twist of the handle,
revealed
a folded up pamphlet
and not the love of my life,
fucking Jehovahs Witnesses
dont they have better things to do
at nine thirty in the morning.
FORCE FEEDING PIGEONS CORPORATE ADVERTISING
the future
never stops littering the landscape
with lies,
lonely and
isolated bench
I spy on you
but only from a
distance
cigarette burns
winos
and
bird shit
molests your
faded lacquer stain
armies of trash and ants
reside
on vacation
near your rusted metal legs
acid drenched summer rain
your only relief
from the heat of
constant
corporate advertising
cookies
whores
cab companies and flower shops
your only few words these days,
Im feeling deceived
theres
no one to trust anymore
these days
in
2013.
LAST STOP: THRASHERVILLE 30307
Welcome to Terminus City,
a few steps
outside of my domain
room 208
the one I can barely
pay
the damn rent on
down fifteen concrete steps
into another world
altogether,
the Georgia heat smacks me
in the face
the aroma of garbage
and fried chicken
engulfs me
billowing out of silver
rusting pipes on top of a
fast food restaurant,
crack heads
and dirt stained
bums
await my arrival
no I dont have any
spare change
man,
all I want is chicken fingers
and fries
and then the chance to returnto room number 208
the one I can barely
pay
the damn rent on,
the heat in killing me
people complain about the long
wait
eighteen minutes later
a small white box
is given and received
small white packets of ketchup
and BBQ sauce
are inserted into a white box,
seven steps later
the front door is opened
the Atlanta heat punches me
in the face again
different bums
now confront me
once againno
I dont have any fucking
change
man,
up fifteen steps
through the door
two flights of stairs
and keys are
rattling,
entrance to room 208
has been granted
see you tomorrow world.
HIS WORLD IN A SHOPPING CART
Sitting at a downtown stoplight,
The weight of the day on my heart.
Too much busy, too little fight,
Pressure crushing my will to start.
He approached from a side street to the curb,
Carrying his world in a shopping cart.
Homeless and mumbling, mentally disturbed,
Layered in rags like abstract art.
His shoes held together by duct tape,
Greasy hair sprouted from a long dead hat.
Shuffling slowly, toothless mouth agape.
Dirty and smelling of long rancid fat.
His cart rattled with bottles and cans,
Treasures hed gathered since the dawn.
Hard to recognize the human, see the man,
His eyes blank, his face thin and drawn.
He stopped, tilted his head to the sky.
Hed felt the sudden coming of rain.
Then he looked over, caught my eye,
With a dirty face both blank and plain.
The rain streaked dirt as though he cried,
Yet his face changed as he looked at me.
He broke out in a wide, toothless smile,
And said, What a glorious day just to be.
As he moved on I felt a rage,
Like a thick, growing, tumor down deep.
Feeling anger like a man encaged,
Wanting to hurt the mild, the meek.
And I wished
Id never seen the glimpse of heart,
Of he, who carried his world
In a shopping cart.
SYNAPTIC SYMPHONY
Why wait
for the lowercase g
to have its tail
fully restored? Only depressives
bother to read
the warning printed
on a label.
You can
make noise
when you cant
make music.
You can
become an entomologist enamored with antsif thats what
you wish.
You cango somewhere
they still cut
sugar cane
by hand.
Or you can
stay and help me
braid these tiny
white flowers
in the night winds
blue-black hair.
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