Where the tunnels are a midnight park
and the gray trains scream like haunted witches
Hunker down in a bittersweet one-eyed dragon bliss
And drool dead-eyed along tracks of electrified veins
Crawl into holes un-holed
Take a nice spin around that cold metal pole
Feel your soul un-souled and sold
Where Gil scot heron once silently screamed alone
But god damn, did that man have a soul!
Did his voice not echo truths along peoples roads?
Did his poetry not shout the truth to people without a comfortable home?
Do his words not exceed his physical state in the undying ebb and flow of an ocean of pure soul?

Clenched fists/raised fingers

gravitationally b-line

his digital hair

Full moon demon scratched

Explosive screams above trees

I buy a cliff bar

Play with life

Like Blondie under the Spanish spaghetti sun

Stare calmly, cool lidded

Like velvety Rick in the sandpaper dark

Fedoraed in a Moroccan park

Or hunker like Bonnie next to Clyde’s car

Lipsticked and dressed slick in Texas

60’s hipped  and Hollywood riched

through silent moves and gestures

infinite hectares of pain undone

My brothers face gives me pure joy
His freckles dance as he walks under street lights

His starry eyes glow like cigarette tips 

on starless Essex county nights

And his thin mouth fluidly sashays as he talks

Words drifting in golden fragments 

Completely ployless 

Invisible ebony blankets hit the pause button
Coddling the body in restless rest

Pernicious slippers dress feet worn thin 

Cozying bodies in utter jest  

Pricey poison falls down and in

Rushing a slow beat and pounding the chests 

of seemingly pretentious gluttons 

Who are really just upset guests

(The vacation of the distressed)

Pillows surreptitiously whisper distractions 

Robbing the brain of its regulatory best

Screens steel the brain for big ol’ nuthins

While echoes of truths draw pangs and yearnings for ones inaccessibly distant nest

Tides of milky red 
Ooze out of my porous phone  

And through the aged toshiba pixels in my home 

And from the cracks in my works walls 

And out the small pimples on my pale dome

Tides of milky red fly

Out of the mouths of bearded babies that get hard from the sounds of their own voices
Tides of milky red drip

from the stupid spittle of blonde toupeed gargoyles that are making big choices

Tides of milky red shower

 the barren parking lots of night

Wetting and reddening the broken needles 

Painting the crushed cigarette butts

Washing the matted hair of beaten down bugged out tattooed skinny white girls screaming in the silent dark  While coming down the concrete catwalk to elope with themselves in a confused 2 am isolation horror show 

Take us all straight to Frank Sinatra Drive

Jive right quick a gasoline Conga line up I 95

Where the skies are white and the wind blows cold through distant mountains old

Where sages whisper empathetic truths into the waning western light