By the East River and the Bronx
boys sang, stripped to the waist,
along with the wheels, oil, leather and hammers.
Ninety thousand miners working silver from rock
and the children drawing stairways and perspectives.

But none of them slumbered,
none of them wished to be river,
none loved the vast leaves,
none the blue tongue of the shore.

By East River and the Queensboro
boys battled with Industry,
and Jews sold the river faun
the rose of circumcision
and the sky poured, through bridges and rooftops,
herds of bison driven by the wind.

But none would stop,
none of them longed to be cloud,
none searched for ferns
or the tambourine's yellow circuit.

When the moon sails out
pulleys will turn to trouble the sky;
a boundary of needles will fence in memory
and coffins will carry off those who don't work.

New York of mud,
New York of wire and death.
What angel lies hidden in your cheek?
What perfect voice will speak the truth of wheat?
Who the terrible dream of your stained anemones?

Not for a single moment, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
have I ceased to see your beard filled with butterflies,
nor your corduroy shoulders frayed by the moon,
nor your thighs of ****** Apollo,
nor your voice like a column of ash;
ancient beautiful as the mist,
who moaned as a bird does
its *** pierced by a nedle.
Enemy of the satyr,
enemy of the vine
and lover of the body under rough cloth.

Not for a single moment, virile beauty
who in mountains of coal, billboards, railroads,
dreamed of being a river of slumbering like a river
with that comrade who would set in your breast
the small grief of an ignorant leopard.

Not for a single moment, Adam of blood, Male,
man alone on the sea, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
because on penthouse roofs,
and gathered together in bars,
emerging in squads from the sewers,
trembling between the legs of chauffeurs
or spinning on dance-floors of absinthe,
the maricas, Walt Whitman, point to you.

Him too! He's one! And they hurl themselves
at your beard luminous and chaste,
blonds from the north, blacks from the sands,
multitudes with howls and gestures,
like cats and like snakes
the maricas, Walt Whitman, maricas,
disordered with tears, flesh for the whip,
for the boot, or the tamer's bite.

Him too! He's one! Stained fingers
point to the shore of your dream,
when a friend eats your apple,
with its slight tang of petrol,
and the sun sings in the navels
of the boys at play beneath bridges.

But you never sough scratched eyes,
nor the darkest swamp where they drown the children,
nor the frozen saliva,
nor the curved wounds like a toad's belly
that maricas bear, in cars and on terraces,
while the moon whips them on terror's street-corners.

You sought a nakedness like a river.
Bull and dream taht would join the wheel to the seaweed,
father of  your agony, camellia of your death,
and moan in the flames of your hidden equator.

For it's right that a man not seek his delight
in the ****** jungle of approaching morning.
The sky has shores where life is avoided
and bodies that should not be echoed by dawn.

Agony, agony, dream, ferment and dream.
This is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
Bodies dissolve beneath city clocks,
war passes weeping with a million grey rats,
the rich give their darlings
little bright dying things,
and life is not noble, or sarcred, or good.

Man can, if he wishes, lead his desire
through a vein of coral or a heavenly ****.
Tomorrow loves will be stones and Time
a breeze that comes slumbering through the branches.

That's why I don't raise my voice, old Walt Whitman,
against the boy who inscribes
the name of a ******* his pillow,
nor the lad who dresses as a bride
in the shadow of the wardrobe,
nor the solitary men in clubs
who drink with disgust prostitution's waters,
nor against the men with the green glance
who love men and burn their lips in silence.
But yes, against you, city maricas,
of tumescent flesh and unclean thought.
Mothers of mud. Harpies. Unsleeping enemies
of Love  that bestows garlands of joy.

Against you forever, you who give boys
drops of foul death with bitter poison.
Against you forever,
Fairies of North America,
Párajos of Havana,
Jotos of Mexico,
Sarasas of Cádiz,
Apios of Seville,
Cancos of Madrid,
Floras of Alicante,
Adelaidas of Portugal.

Maricas of all the world, muderers of doves!
Slaves to women. Their boudoir *******.
Spread in public squares like fevered fans
or ambushed in stiff landscapes of hemlock.

No quarter! Death
flows from your eyes
and heaps grey flowers at the swamp's edge.
No quarter! Look out!!
Let the perplexed, the pure,
the classical, noted, the supplicants
close the gates of the bacchanal to you.

And you, lovely Walt Whitman, sleep on the banks of the Hudson
with your beard towards the pole and your hands open.
Bland clay or snow, your tongue is calling
for comrades to guard your disembodied gazelle.

Sleep: nothing remains.
A dance of walls stirs the praries
and America drown itself in machines and lament.
I long for a fierce wind that from deepest night
shall blow the flowers and letters from the vault where you sleep
and a ***** boy to tell the whites and their gold
that the kingdom of wheat has arrived.

yesterday may have been my birthday.

you need two hands, two feet,
a multiplication table
an abacus to count my years,
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, perhaps, a century.

birthdays.

a point of inflection,
a point of opportunity,
a present presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody else created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
when asking myself

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you have tasted grief?

have you not but
a singular pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake made, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be faked,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then this day,
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les délicieuses friandises to sweeten life,
please keep theologians, logicians,
philosophers on retainer,
even historians, those future fortune tellers,
if needed, unnecessary explanations -
or just satisfactory rationalizations.

none know,
or can provide,
still and yet,
a year round
a priestly sacred chord,
to grant relief,
absolution,
songs of hallelujah,
erasers of the ache of
perpetuity worry.

those ancient pains,
grow fresh daily,
the loss of one element
of my body,
prevents my primal knot
reasonably to be untied,
everything should be permitted
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse,
and asking myself

what if the poetry ceases?

though the bones creak,
snap, crackle and pop,
the body they carry, the heart
eccentric~centric: tire shop patched,
yom kippur white resurrected this day,
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers,
and the last one special,
spoken standing.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers likely refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....
so I ask myself

what if the poetry ceases?

be assured, I am told
scientists hard at work,
on the forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint,
trap and tap some words,
into your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat, scented waters,
provide aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived,
the muses, the Devils
all herein, feted, and sated

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

yet, I cannot help but ask

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm.

could it be
Morrow?

bath drains,
rosemary and mint odors dismissed,
the Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all dispatched,
didn't they have birthdays too?
didn't you know,
Hey Michelangelo!
the Renaissance come
and gone,
nobody tole ya?

t'is the day
my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
seven or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries, some blackbirds,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem~song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

yet, but,
always one thought recycles:

**what if the poetry ceases,
how will I breathe?

How shocked was I when my mistress, Filthy Fiona,
Told me one summer's day she had one up the spout;
After all, the silly ***** was on the pill (and in any case
Half the time my seed had gone up the lesser used route).
But, accidents will happen when you least expect them:
Maybe her recent attack of diarrheoa had upset the apple cart.
O, how relieved was I when she told me she had booked herself in
To the Marylebone Abortion Clinic for a good old pump-out session;
And, even better (much better), I wasn't expected to foot the bill
As her private health insurance would cover it nicely,
Thank you very much indeed, God bless you, my darlin';
The excessive premiums were clearly a fine investment.

Like the gent I am, I offered to drive her there in my pink Porsche 911,
But she insisted I need only pick her up after the remedial session
As she had made other travel arrangements to get there; and
One cannot argue with a dame under such trying circumstances.
How I would have relished the amusement of those who saw the ****
Arrive in one bloke's car, deposited caringly with a consoling hug,
And collected by a different chappie, with a kiss on her plump cheek.
But, after all, 'twas only fair I found out later (with a gay grin)
When she told me she really had no idea who the father was
Although her two selected chauffeurs were the best two bets.
How I laud the foresight of the percipient abortion law reformers:
Our sad world has more than enough unwanted ******* as it is.

The mystery of you flows in white did I draw you from chilly waters and you were
Reborn to me if the colors speak that are showing you in finest light are true the perfect blending of
Flowers in profusion that contour to your essential frame do you not form the center of a spraying sprig
Of unequal quality as in life woman divides herself between wife mother and daughter I choose to
Further divide her into honor for a brief moment speak of dishonor men can at their low point can do
This with ease and apparent arrogance I’m not an old fashioned relic of the past others speak these same
Words you shouldn’t use fowl language in the presence of a lady not all of us are accustomed to
Chauffeurs and butlers but you still can be a gentleman you can esteem the greatest gift God ever
Created man is sadly knot headed it takes a woman with deftness and grace to loosen the knots on with
Her honor the great place for this discovery is in an ancient temple a woman is a rare individual sadly
Bought and sold way too cheaply by both sexes one under fire and constantly having to defend her
Worth and at times they succumb to the lie that they are not as good as men well look in on this scene
Deep in the jungle heavy with undergrowth indicative of life you stumble on this rare find as can be
Imagined it leaves a lot to be desired time has broken outer walls the outer court lies in disarray and
Then the inner sanctum built to hold off the ravages of time some things remain as they always have
Others for one reason or another have suffered and show wear but near the altar over to the side one
Last help is giving for you to condition your mind to give up the occupying thoughts that would bar you
From your true blessing that all this was created to provide first you hear the gentle cascading of a water
Fall for long periods of time the sun strikes squarely in the middle and to add eloquence and boldness
The water receives this assistance the ancients were greatly versed in paints of extraordinary
Pigmentation and of lasting durability they coated the solid rock with a green that was sheer and
Imitated the glory of sun in the waves of the sea they sought to have it breathtaking and they succeeded
And as the center piece they had a statue of a woman of striking qualities was she a goddess or a high
Priestess she was adorned in white her dramatic pose flowed out to the end of her gown there is a
Depicted statement captured here she holds a pitcher it is full and the tint of blue shows this and the
Idea is she just drew it from the pool and is offering it to all of the strangers that come and are thirsty
In this solitary fact women are observed so acutely as stated sometimes women pressed and crowded
Feels the need to be showy or go overboard to please that is the farthest she can go in error her beauty
And privilege is derived from the tenderness she possesses just small acts that denote mercy carry more
Weight than ever can be found in outer attempts to be **** or alluring that is for private times that
Understanding and love combine to give a flourishing it goes the distance to bring the final completion
You wear a garland a crowning a defining moment that only women can know celebrate who you are

walking through artificial American Dream
where the air tastes like $100 shirts
and the fraternity of extravagance
the light shines through the perfectly spaced trees
to turn everything filigree
and all of the people
walking tall and confident
like plastic action figures of success
the silver spoon tastes bitter
when it’s been in someone else’s mouth
just like the $30 dollar entrees
and the four story department stores
these people are not my people
my people sport scars which they wear like tattoos
my people sport second hand cars with junked up speakers
A ferrari engine sounds like a the cries of every young kid
who falls into ghetto trappings of big dreams gone unmatched
and even the homeless people were eating ribs
drinking starbucks
with cups filled with ten dollar bills
the prestige drips down the wall
like fresh spray paint
to drip into storm drains
where diversity goes to die
this alien land of hostile takeovers
and university donors
where the **** is non-existent
but *******, cirroc, and xanax
flow freely
chemical castration of the lazy philosopher
an injection of man made ambition
where the hands on the Rolex
keep tight around throats
because being late to that meeting is no option
Children being driven around by chauffeurs in Bentleys
women being driven by the promise of security
I think to myself
I’ll never see the benefit in the scheme
which leads to El Dorado
and Atlantis is just a myth
maybe I just bleed the black and Gold and Richmond
like the ink dripping off my hungry fangs
to see the benefits of injecting a syringe
of Hoya blue liquid sapphire
to get so high
that I lose sight of the ground forever

Por el East River y el Bronx
los muchachos cantan enseñando sus cinturas,
con la rueda, el aceite, el cuero y el martillo.
Noventa mil mineros sacaban la plata de las rocas
y los niños dibujaban escaleras y perspectivas.Pero ninguno se dormía,
ninguno quería ser el río,
ninguno amaba las hojas grandes,
ninguno la lengua azul de la playa.Por el East River y el Queensborough
los muchachos luchaban con la industria,
y los judíos vendían al fauno del río
la rosa de la circuncisión
y el cielo desembocaba por los puentes y los tejados
manadas de bisontes empujadas por el viento.Pero ninguno se detenía,
ninguno quería ser nube,
ninguno buscaba los helechos
ni la rueda amarilla del tamboril.Cuando la luna salga
las poleas rodarán para turbar el cielo;
un límite de agujas cercará la memoria
y los ataúdes se llevarán a los que no trabajan.Nueva York de cieno,
Nueva York de alambres y de muerte.
¿Qué ángel llevas oculto en la mejilla?
¿Qué voz perfecta dirá las verdades del trigo?
¿Quién el sueño terrible de sus anémonas manchadas?Ni un solo momento, viejo hermoso Walt Whitman,
he dejado de ver tu barba llena de mariposas,
ni tus hombros de pana gastados por la luna,
ni tus muslos de Apolo virginal,
ni tu voz como una columna de ceniza;
anciano hermoso como la niebla
que gemías igual que un pájaro
con el **** atravesado por una aguja,
enemigo del sátiro,
enemigo de la vid
y amante de los cuerpos bajo la burda tela.
Ni un solo momento, hermosura viril
que en montes de carbón, anuncios y ferrocarriles,
soñabas ser un río y dormir como un río
con aquel camarada que pondría en tu pecho
un pequeño dolor de ignorante leopardo.Ni un sólo momento, Adán de sangre, macho,
hombre solo en el mar, viejo hermoso Walt Whitman,
porque por las azoteas,
agrupados en los bares,
saliendo en racimos de las alcantarillas,
temblando entre las piernas de los chauffeurs
o girando en las plataformas del ajenjo,
los maricas, Walt Whitman, te soñaban.¡También ese! ¡También!  Y se despeñan
sobre tu barba luminosa y casta,
rubios del norte, negros de la arena,
muchedumbres de gritos y ademanes,
como gatos y como las serpientes,
los maricas, Walt Whitman, los maricas
turbios de lágrimas, carne para fusta,
bota o mordisco de los domadores.¡También ése! ¡También!  Dedos
teñidos
apuntan a la orilla de tu sueño
cuando el amigo come tu manzana
con un leve sabor de gasolina
y el sol canta por los ombligos
de los muchachos que juegan bajo los puentes.Pero tú no buscabas los ojos arañados,
ni el pantano oscurísimo donde sumergen a los niños,
ni la saliva helada,
ni las curvas heridas como panza de sapo
que llevan los maricas en coches y terrazas
mientras la luna los azota por las esquinas del terror.Tú buscabas un desnudo que fuera como un río,
toro y sueño que junte la rueda con el alga,
padre de tu agonía, camelia de tu muerte,
y gimiera en las llamas de tu ecuador oculto.Porque es justo que el hombre no busque su deleite
en la selva de sangre de la mañana próxima.
El cielo tiene playas donde evitar la vida
y hay cuerpos que no deben repetirse en la aurora.Agonía agonía, sueño, fermento y sueño.
Éste es el mundo, amigo, agonía, agonía.
Los muertos se descomponen bajo el reloj de las ciudades,
la guerra pasa llorando con un millón de ratas grises,
los ricos dan a sus queridas
pequeños moribundos iluminados,
y la vida no es noble, ni buena, ni sagrada.Puede el hombre, si quiere, conducir su deseo
por vena de coral o celeste desnudo.
Mañana los amores serán rocas y el Tiempo
una brisa que viene dormida por las ramas.Por eso no levanto mi voz, viejo Walt Whítman,
entra el niño que escribe
nombre de niña en su almohada,
ni contra el muchacho que se viste de novia
en la oscuridad del ropero,
ni contra los solitarios de los casinos
que beben con asco el agua de la prostitución,
ni contra los hombres de mirada verde
que aman al hombre y queman sus labios en silencio.
Pero sí contra vosotros, maricas de las ciudades,
de carne tumefacta y pensamiento inmundo,
madres de lodo, arpías, enemigos sin sueño
del Amor que reparte coronas de alegría.Contra vosotros siempre, que dais a los muchachos
gotas de sucia muerte con amargo veneno.
Contra vosotros siempre,
Faeries de Norteamérica,
Pájaros de la Habana,
Jotos de Méjico,
Sarasas de Cádiz,
Apios de Sevilla,
Cancos de Madrid,
Floras de Alicante,
Adelaidas de Portugal.¡Maricas de todo el mundo, asesinos de palomas!
Esclavos de la mujer, perras de sus tocadores,
abiertos en las plazas con fiebre de abanico
o emboscadas en yertos paisajes de cicuta.¡No haya cuartel!  La muerte
mana de vuestros ojos
y agrupa flores grises en la orilla del cieno.
¡No haya cuartel! ¡Alerta!
Que los confundidos, los puros,
los clásicos, los señalados, los suplicantes
os cierren las puertas de la bacanal.Y tú, bello Walt Whitman, duerme a orillas del Hudson
con la barba hacia el polo y las manos abiertas.
Arcilla blanda o nieve, tu lengua está llamando
camaradas que velen tu gacela sin cuerpo.
Duerme, no queda nada.
Una danza de muros agita las praderas
y América se anega de máquinas y llanto.
Quiero que el aire fuerte de la noche más honda
quite flores y letras del arco donde duermes
y un niño ***** anuncie a los blancos del oro
la llegada del reino de la espiga.

Who You Are

The mystery of you flows in white did I draw you from chilly waters and you were
Reborn to me if the colors speak that are showing you in finest light are true the perfect blending of
Flowers in profusion that contour to your essential frame do you not form the center of a spraying sprig
Of unequal quality as in life woman divides herself between wife mother and daughter I choose to
Further divide her into honor for a brief moment speak of dishonor men can at their low point can do
This with ease and apparent arrogance I’m not an old fashioned relic of the past others speak these same
Words you shouldn’t use fowl language in the presence of a lady not all of us are accustomed to
Chauffeurs and butlers but you still can be a gentleman you can esteem the greatest gift God ever
Created man is sadly knot headed it takes a woman with deftness and grace to loosen the knots on with
Her honor the great place for this discovery is in an ancient temple a woman is a rare individual sadly
Bought and sold way too cheaply by both sexes one under fire and constantly having to defend her
Worth and at times they succumb to the lie that they are not as good as men well look in on this scene
Deep in the jungle heavy with undergrowth indicative of life you stumble on this rare find as can be
Imagined it leaves a lot to be desired time has broken outer walls the outer court lies in disarray and
Then the inner sanctum built to hold off the ravages of time some things remain as they always have
Others for one reason or another have suffered and show wear but near the altar over to the side one
Last help is giving for you to condition your mind to give up the occupying thoughts that would bar you
From your true blessing that all this was created to provide first you hear the gentle cascading of a water
Fall for long periods of time the sun strikes squarely in the middle and to add eloquence and boldness
The water receives this assistance the ancients were greatly versed in paints of extraordinary
Pigmentation and of lasting durability they coated the solid rock with a green that was sheer and
Imitated the glory of sun in the waves of the sea they sought to have it breathtaking and they succeeded
And as the center piece they had a statue of a woman of striking qualities was she a goddess or a high
Priestess she was adorned in white her dramatic pose flowed out to the end of her gown there is a
Depicted statement captured here she holds a pitcher it is full and the tint of blue shows this and the
Idea is she just drew it from the pool and is offering it to all of the strangers that come and are thirsty
In this solitary fact women are observed so acutely as stated sometimes women pressed and crowded
Feels the need to be showy or go overboard to please that is the farthest she can go in error her beauty
And privilege is derived from the tenderness she possesses just small acts that denote mercy carry more
Weight than ever can be found in outer attempts to be **** or alluring that is for private times that
Understanding and love combine to give a flourishing it goes the distance to bring the final completion
You wear a garland a crowing a defining moment that only women can know celebrate who you are

The mystery of you flows in white did I draw you from chilly waters and you were
Reborn to me if the colors speak that are showing you in finest light are true the perfect blending of
Flowers in profusion that contour to your essential frame do you not form the center of a spraying sprig
Of unequal quality as in life woman divides herself between wife mother and daughter I choose to
Further divide her into honor for a brief moment speak of dishonor men can at their low point can do
This with ease and apparent arrogance I’m not an old fashioned relic of the past others speak these same
Words you shouldn’t use fowl language in the presence of a lady not all of us are accustomed to
Chauffeurs and butlers but you still can be a gentleman you can esteem the greatest gift God ever
Created man is sadly knot headed it takes a woman with deftness and grace to loosen the knots on with
Her honor the great place for this discovery is in an ancient temple a woman is a rare individual sadly
Bought and sold way too cheaply by both sexes one under fire and constantly having to defend her
Worth and at times they succumb to the lie that they are not as good as men well look in on this scene
Deep in the jungle heavy with undergrowth indicative of life you stumble on this rare find as can be
Imagined it leaves a lot to be desired time has broken outer walls the outer court lies in disarray and
Then the inner sanctum built to hold off the ravages of time some things remain as they always have
Others for one reason or another have suffered and show wear but near the altar over to the side one
Last help is giving for you to condition your mind to give up the occupying thoughts that would bar you
From your true blessing that all this was created to provide first you hear the gentle cascading of a water
Fall for long periods of time the sun strikes squarely in the middle and to add eloquence and boldness
The water receives this assistance the ancients were greatly versed in paints of extraordinary
Pigmentation and of lasting durability they coated the solid rock with a green that was sheer and
Imitated the glory of sun in the waves of the sea they sought to have it breathtaking and they succeeded
And as the center piece they had a statue of a woman of striking qualities was she a goddess or a high
Priestess she was adorned in white her dramatic pose flowed out to the end of her gown there is a
Depicted statement captured here she holds a pitcher it is full and the tint of blue shows this and the
Idea is she just drew it from the pool and is offering it to all of the strangers that come and are thirsty
In this solitary fact women are observed so acutely as stated sometimes women pressed and crowded
Feels the need to be showy or go overboard to please that is the farthest she can go in error her beauty
And privilege is derived from the tenderness she possesses just small acts that denote mercy carry more
Weight than ever can be found in outer attempts to be **** or alluring that is for private times that
Understanding and love combine to give a flourishing it goes the distance to bring the final completion
You wear a garland a crowning a defining moment that only women can know celebrate who you are

Covenant of all ages,
Contrite despite the hatred here many feel!

Begged emotions,
Vexation of treasured spaces,
Inherited shackles to the debackle of brutes and feathered conquest!!!

Chauffeurs for you to lure,
Cheribums of wooden steps!!!

What ***** didst thou come from frosted faced vampiress?
You succeed in all pleasures,
Yet for thy measure your still undressed!!

Not like the rest,
Your timbrel makes settled noise,
Hard to avoid when thine feet trip over each step!!!

Church organs rattle about me as hymn book's not always around,
Some are phonies,
Many lonely,
Coheed to icelandic ground!!!!

Groupies meet in secludes corners,
While adorers temp with foul mouth tounges,
No blacks to white, or whites to black, just two players making one!!!

Orange cones to ex out any leaving plan's,
No clothing stands here!
This is not a mall town shop!!!!

No ice-creamed malts,
Just rags connected to colts,
Where trainers come from thy gambling slots!!!!!

Wounds to every room,
Dont get hung up on thyself,
Wherein harlotry cometh in,
Surely all grins are tiredly screaming out for help!!!!!

When I first fled my hometown,
I was told there was a separation:
a continental drift that dragged me by the wrists
and it was as if i was a ballerina that twirled
away too swift, so deep in desperation.
It was my fault, I say.
Home looked like marble tiles and candelabras on mahogany, so grazed with grandeur
solemn servants and chauffeurs
a prison echoing empty space
prim and proper, neat and tidy, dental dexterity
and a library of unsealed books i don’t read.
When I first fled my hometown,
I was told there was a separation,
but i had dreams too big to fit my pockets,
and living at home was essentially sedation.
It was all my fault, I say.

When my home shrunk
into 228 square feet-
stretched out 8821 miles away,
I was ready for reparations:
Ready to cocoon myself inside
for 28 hours, to be locked up in my little tower.
I’m free now, I say.
Home looked like my only dish,
unwashed for three whole days
sheets one solid colour
white walls
pantslessness
and an entire shelf of unsealed books i don’t read.
I rise to the setting of the sun;
water boiling in a kettle, and
i make instant noodles because there’s never
a place more silent and shielding
than home.
I am free now, I say.


When I bought a place of my own,
Home was just the right temperature
but too many cluttered corners.
my mind exhales
A pair of incessantly open arms await me,
and i get shamed for the books i lunge around
but don’t really read
there is no spit in my face
but there are kicks at my back
i am learning
that all the freedom in the world doesn't keep you
from the prison you hold in your own mind
i am learning
what a home feels like
for the very first time

i open my eyes to sunshine and orange juice
and the morning breath of a lover so oblivious to misery
our souls sing in flawless harmony

i am finally home
*and my mind exhales again

says the neon sign gleamed,
refracted on your face
that sullen evening – I do not have

many nights to remember. If from a high
place I imagine you flailing,

what would call you back? What for?
You, coming toward the light – the subservience
of the next face

chauffeurs us. Unfazed, will me to pretend,
if not, then carry on the next meeting.
I will whisper to myself: this is how I sustain beatings

You have no use for poems.
Neither do I. You, dressed in your best,
I, submission refined by sartorial. Notice how my hand
continues to displace geographies. The thinning
  horizon of a candle, almost a faultline.

Slumped on your back as if comfort were a burden
to say: keep this time together with its fever. These often times
the last moments seal them shut out of histories.
When we came into,

I had a falling out – there is a straight line we could
run into and this instance might enervate

into a single drop of honey into your mouth. I await that
prophecy like it was the final thing before I resign
to incompleteness.   Delicate essence

the    neon sign says, glaring through the
  glib downpour outside. You laughed at our
unpreparedness, but the readiness that was obligation when
  separate had no omen of rain.

I am watching myself again. Everything was slanted
by rain as the living err me. Even when together,

       feels like emancipation. Going disparate places.
Outside it continues to rain. You asked if this rain washed
   this city whole and gave it a new name, would I still remember.

It is June from time since then, the skies still attentive.
I will not come out until it rains.

The year of cigarettes.
This year as a ghost.
The year of chauffeurs.
This year of sweater mornings.
The year of not being __ enough.
This year of risks.

I'm not sure where home is anymore.

Just seeing that dumb red hat
gives me the Heebeejeebees,
the Holy Camoleys,
I get the *******,
the John B. Scrotes,
I feel Ben Carsoned,

as if I've been Rogered in my sleep
by Quasimodo & then been forced
to pleasure the Seven Dwarfs,

I have the shivers,
I plead repugnance,
I share the odium,

I experience that near frenzied disgust
as left by a cold slug traversing one's
naked arm in the dank moonlight,

when that oh so ridiculous red tractor
hat is worn by men who have
chauffeurs & bejeweled
golf carts,
& look like a fat cat's fantasy
of a fat cat,

to Make America Great Again for that matter
maybe you have to go as far back as Sitting Bull,
Red Cloud, the Shawnee, herds of bison,
counting coup, & eagle-feather headdresses,

Making America Great Again does not in any
way involve Leroy from the hills feeling better
about his race or Donald J. Trump coming
forth as some sort of Poor Man's Moses.

I hate that stupid hat!

I'm afraid to write—
Afraid ,because they made it forbidden.
They stitched our tongues with fear,
Since truth to them is rebellion.

We live in a world full of injustice,
Where they claim,"we are one family,"
Yet at the table ,some are served wine,
And others only water.

But who will address the truth
If we all live in intimidation?
Who will name the villains
If we always bow down to injustice—
Drink poison and pretend it's cure?
Will this world ever be better?

We are told to walk on dusty roads,
While the "special"ride high with chauffeurs.
School slam doors on children
Whose  only crime is poverty.
But tell me,is this humanity at all ?

But our tears are not water.
They're fire.
Each drop consumes and leaves a mark,
A day is coming,
When those who made us weep
Will pay the price
For every single tear.

Although our voices shake with fear,
Our hands tremble while we compose,
We will rise, we will be heard.
If not us ,then who?
If not now, then when?

Aux petits incidents il faut s'habituer.
Hier on est venu chez moi pour me tuer.
Mon tort dans ce pays c'est de croire aux asiles.
On ne sait quel ramas de pauvres imbéciles
S'est rué tout à coup la nuit sur ma maison.
Les arbres de la place en eurent le frisson,
Mais pas un habitant ne bougea. L'escalade
Fut longue, ardente, horrible, et Jeanne était malade.
Je conviens que j'avais pour elle un peu d'effroi.
Mes deux petits-enfants, quatre femmes et moi,
C'était la garnison de cette forteresse.
Rien ne vint secourir la maison en détresse.
La police fut sourde ayant affaire ailleurs.
Un dur caillou tranchant effleura Jeanne en pleurs.
Attaque de chauffeurs en pleine Forêt-Noire.
Ils criaient : Une échelle ! une poutre ! victoire !
Fracas où se perdaient nos appels sans écho.
Deux hommes apportaient du quartier Pachéco
Une poutre enlevée à quelque échafaudage.
Le jour naissant gênait la bande. L'abordage
Cessait, puis reprenait. Ils hurlaient haletants.
La poutre par bonheur n'arriva pas à temps.
" Assassin ! - C'était moi. - Nous voulons que tu meures !
Brigand ! Bandit ! " Ceci dura deux bonnes heures.
George avait calmé Jeanne en lui prenant la main.
Noir tumulte. Les voix n'avaient plus rien d'humain ;
Pensif, je rassurais les femmes en prières,
Et ma fenêtre était trouée à coups de pierres.
Il manquait là des cris de vive l'empereur !
La porte résista battue avec fureur.
Cinquante hommes armés montrèrent ce courage.
Et mon nom revenait dans des clameurs de rage :
A la lanterne ! à mort ! qu'il meure ! il nous le faut !
Par moments, méditant quelque nouvel assaut,
Tout ce tas furieux semblait reprendre haleine ;
Court répit ; un silence obscur et plein de haine
Se faisait au milieu de ce sombre viol ;
Et j'entendais au **** chanter un rossignol.

These Days ...
Let Me Tell You ...
I'm ... TIRED of Driving ... !!!

But HELL NO ...
I AIN'T ... " Riding " ... !!!!!

Cos' ...
When I See How Some Drive ...
It's Like They're ... IMPROVISING ... ?!!!?

There Was A Time ....

LONG Ago .................................................................­......

When It Was ...
FUN To Drive ... !!!

But ...
Nowadays' I'm Quite Pleased ...
To ... Get Back Home ALIVE ... !!!!!

I'll Explain What I Mean ...

This ...

ROAD RAGE ... Behaviour ...
Is Simply ... OBSCENE ... !!!

The Language In Use ...
Is REALLY ... UNCLEAN ... !!!

From GROWN Men To Women ...
To Those In Their Teens ...

I Just ... Can't Believe ...
The Things That I've Seen ... !?!?!

Men ...
REVERSING ... Down Roads ... ?!!!?
To AVOID Those ..................... They Goad .........

It's Like ...
They Thought That ... " Their Car " ...
Could Stop Them ... Taking BLOWS ... ?!?

The Words In This Prose ...
Simply ... Go To SHOW ...
That ... Actions You Take ...
When Driving On Road ...
Can Possibly Leave You ... ?
With Blood On Your Nose ... !!!

Or ...
EVEN WORSE Still ...
Bring Your Life ...
To A ... PREMATURE Close ... !!!!

I'm Learning These Days ...
To Just ..... Keep My Cool .....
and AVOID These Young Fools ...

cos' Young Drivers These Days ...
Like To Drive Round With ... " TOOLS " ... !!!

Knives and ... GUNS ...
They Keep ...

"Stashed In Their Boot" ... !!!!!

This Story ...
... IS TRUE ... !!!

One Day I Was Driving ...
Behind A ... " Young Group " ...

Who ...
THOUGHT They Were TOUGH ... !!!
And Were Acting ... UNCOUTH ... !!!

Their ... IGNORANT Driving ...
Made Me ... HIT THE ROOF ... !!!!!

I Was ... ON MY OWN ...
There Were ... THREE of Them ...

I ... Beeped My Horn ...

Next Thing ...
They Jumped OUT ...
of Their ... "BLACKED OUT BM' " ...

A MATCHSTICK White Boy ...
and Two ... Asian Men ...

In FACT ...
They Were ... " Boys " ...
With A ... ******* PROBLEM ... !!!!!

I Was Feeling ... "low" ...
and READY To ... BLOW ... !!!

I Parked ... IN THE ROAD ...
So ... NO-ONE Could Go ... !!!!

I QUICKLY Advised ...
As I Looked In Their Eyes ... !!!

"Let's go, if your ready !
I'm ready to die !"

"Whoa, Hold on now bro !"

Said The ...

" little " ... White Guy ...
The Driver ... Complied ...

BUT Their ...
Drugged Up Companion ...
STILL Wanted To ... " TRY " ... ?!?

I Told Them ...

"Just GO !"

They QUICKLY ...
Said ... Goodbye ... !!!

I Believe I'm Now LUCKY ...
To ... STILL BE ALIVE ... !!!

Just DRIVING ... These Days ...
Can Be A ... " Fight For YOUR LIFE " ... !!?!!

DRIVING ...
... Is A PAIN ... !!!

PARKING ...
... Is The Same ... !!!

Parking Attendants ...
Don't Seem To Have SHAME ... !!!

They're Making Us PAY ...
For These ... " Parking Campaigns " ... ?

THIEVES and LIARS ... !!!
Are Now Up For ... HIRE ... !!!

WILLING ...

To Take ... "Bribes" ... !!!
From Your ... " Average Guy " ...
To Make Themselves Money ...
From FALSE ... " Parking Fines " ... !!!!!

Working In ... " Teams " ...
With ... TARGET Led Guides ...

If YOU ... FAIL The Team ...
Your Dubbed The BAD GUY ... !!!

In LONDON Alone ...
They're ASSAULTED Each Day ... !!!

BUT It's ... NO SURPRISE ...
The Way They Behave ... !!!

The Things They CAN DO ...
Have Left Me ... AMAZED ... !?!

If You ...

Offer Them CASH ...
For A Fine You Must Pay ...

Some Attendants ...
Have ... " Methods " ...
To Get Them ... ERASED ... !!!

For ....

HALF of The Price ... !!!
Man ... What A DISGRACE ... !!!!!!

You Drive AROUND Town ...
Just To Get A ****** SPACE ... !!!!!

Only To Find ................
A ... Uniformed CRIMINAL ...
LYING ... In Wait ... !!!?!!! ...

I'm NOT EVEN ... Gonna Start ...
On The ... CONGESTION CHARGE ... !!!!!

Creators of THIS ...
Are CON MEN With BIG CARS ... !!!!!
With CHAUFFEURS Who DRIVE THEM ...

This Charge Is A ... FARCE ... !!!

BILLIONS Are Paid ...
To Drive Cars These days ... !!!!!

But FOOLS Are ... "Complying" ...
To Hold TRUTH ... "In Hiding" ...

From Speed Cams' ...
To .... FINES .....

These Schemes Are ...
... " Conniving " ...

and These Are ...
Some of The Reasons ...

I'm TIRED of ..........

.... " Driving " .... !!!!!

that moves from its mooring: it was from interstice
          to intersection somewhere in Poblacion.
          I was once there, looking for loose change beside
          the market. Quickly I began as though an impression
          was made past the kiosks dense with the matrimony
          of the tabloids and print: its dearth on the streets
          of Plaridel. Mud caked at the grey backs of gutters,
          a spectacle
                                              of leaves on the ground like deft
          hands place them there for empires.

         the first that I touched: wind,
         last: your face, wind was it only that you and I were
                          never off-tangent, always, minus the blindfold,
             seeking endlessly as though things refuse to be found,
              pulsing in the heat of hiding grace.

      
          and goes back to its source: something too splayed for science,
          only too easy with a child’s fancy – chauffeurs playing checkers,
          crossing each other out within conjunctions – much you or I,
          our weights syndetic and our weightlessness, imagined – as if phrasings
          loose like waters from the spigot left open: mother arrives, haranguing.
                       like how it was simple for the wind to remind us fit to this
                 meet constantly receiving your incidence, and my place stilled
                to familiar topographies.

          a window is left open, with its hands in the terminal of silence
                holding light like obdurate stone; the surrender registers
                with grievous art, you curved like a bent question mark,
           or a swollen oblation borrowing its sheen from the ****
                    of bobbing beacons – the candid Manilascape you kept on
                           fevering for              like an open sentence

               only to find its birth.

Cette nuit-là
Trois amis l'entouraient. C'était à l'Elysée.
On voyait du dehors luire cette croisée.
Regardant venir l'heure et l'aiguille marcher,
Il était là, pensif ; et rêvant d'attacher
Le nom de Bonaparte aux exploits de Cartouche,
Il sentait approcher son guet-apens farouche.
D'un pied distrait dans l'âtre il poussait le tison,
Et voici ce que dit l'homme de trahison :
« Cette nuit vont surgir mes projets invisibles.
Les Saint-Barthélemy sont encore possibles.
Paris dort, comme aux temps de Charles de Valois.
Vous allez dans un sac mettre toutes les lois,
Et par-dessus le pont les jeter dans la Seine. »
Ô ruffians ! bâtards de la fortune obscène,
Nés du honteux coït de l'intrigue et du sort !
Rien qu'en songeant à vous mon vers indigné sort,
Et mon coeur orageux dans ma poitrine gronde.
Comme le chêne au vent dans la forêt profonde !

Comme ils sortaient tous trois de la maison Bancal,
Morny, Maupas le grec, Saint-Arnaud le chacal,
Voyant passer ce groupe oblique et taciturne,
Les clochers de Paris, sonnant l'heure nocturne,
S'efforçaient vainement d'imiter le tocsin ;
Les pavés de Juillet criaient à l'assassin !
Tous les spectres sanglants des antiques carnages,
Réveillés, se montraient du doigt ces personnages
La Marseillaise, archange aux chants aériens,
Murmurait dans les cieux : aux armes, citoyens !
Paris dormait, hélas ! et bientôt, sur les places,
Sur les quais, les soldats, dociles populaces,
Janissaires conduits par Reibell et Sauboul,
Payés comme à Byzance, ivres comme à Stamboul,
Ceux de Dulac, et ceux de Korte et d'Espinasse,
La cartouchière au flanc et dans l'oeil la menace,
Vinrent, le régiment après le régiment,
Et le long des maisons ils passaient lentement,
A pas sourds, comme on voit les tigres dans les jongles
Qui rampent sur le ventre en allongeant leurs ongles
Et la nuit était morne, et Paris sommeillait
Comme un aigle endormi pris sous un noir filet.

Les chefs attendaient l'aube en fumant leurs cigares.

Ô cosaques ! voleurs ! chauffeurs ! routiers ! bulgares !
Ô généraux brigands ! bagne, je te les rends !
Les juges d'autrefois pour des crimes moins grands
Ont brûlé la Voisin et roué vif Desrues !

Eclairant leur affiche infâme au coin des rues
Et le lâche armement de ces filons hardis,
Le jour parut. La nuit, complice des bandits,
Prit la fuite, et, traînant à la hâte ses voiles,
Dans les plis de sa robe emporta les étoiles
Et les mille soleils dans l'ombre étincelant,
Comme les sequins d'or qu'emporte en s'en allant
Une fille, aux baisers du crime habituée,
Qui se rhabille après s'être prostituée.

Shoulders back, eyes front
Big smile, never blunt

Hair curled, makeup done
Don't cry, nowhere to run

Camera’s on, lights bright
Families here, don’t bite

If you think this is bad, just wait
Mornings almost here, don’t be late

Six’ am, shower and dress
Seven to eight, makeup needs to look its best

Eight’ fifteen, act like you eat
Small piece of toast, just a little bit of wheat

Eight’twenty-five, pack your bag
Almost done, don’t you dare drag

Eight’ thirty, chauffeurs here
Mum’s tagging along, don’t jump off a tier

Nine o’ clock, school starts
First class of the day, the fine arts

Every stroke, taken with care
People are watching, so add some flare

Ten o’ clock, science class
Kid says hi, go ahead and pass

Eleven to twelve, flirt with the ****
And sit back and watch as his girlfriend gawks

Twelve’ fifteen, lunch has arrived
All gossip, officially food deprived

Two more classes come and go
School has ended, time for a new show

Manicure and pedicure, don’t stop smiling
Phone stops ringing, just keep dialing

****** at four, study at five
Family dinner at six thirty, try to survive

Eight’ o clock, detox, and yoga
Try not to freak that your life is worse than the battle of Saratoga

Ten o’ clock, just a quick shower
Cry out your feelings, this is your only hour

Cut your ankle, no one will know
Just give it an hour, the blood slow

Lay in bed, just one more day
You can end it after your birthday