balloons rise from the dumpster
gray tan rats tail long hairless
a human toe with eternal peace tag
on it
locked hair packed with spoken
sympathies that help not at all
corporate could not taint you
only made it to throw you out
from the land that have everything
we smoke a pipe if chaos
talking stick
dwindled down to shavings
you told them forever more
it’s just about the money
not about the skin tone
even my anointed kingly fathers
sold us out
Poetry
Sunday, school
the mattress sags
bones lay silent
skin burnt dry
head in doubt
heart up ass
ringless fingers cross
non sequitur prayers
Leonard Cohen verse
cry for help
no tenderness brought
broken twice again
number seven gained
habit births vice
child repent now
kisses down throat
poisons swallowed slow
wednesday at the fire escapes
silence stares from the insides
of the old pile of sticks
on some mornings there’s the smell
of Cuban coffee and always
the stench of dying kidneys
on the streets
we shiver and sweat together
only appropriate credentials
get to play the martyrs
Desi yells at Lucy
at the exact moment the gates of hell
have broken loose
we all just hapless renegades
begging for a push
and even though it’s hard to walk
within our modern tomb
we postpone the end of life
one alveoli at a time
psalm 23 LA style
today was a bitter day
i contemplate giving up
the people i love
have violated my trust
stomped my heart
spat in my courage
to all i said fuck you
in a moment of haste
i walked out to the street
not believing what they did
i suppose we are just human
Liberty i work with your poor
your huddled masses yearning
for something
my compassion and loyalty
dragged through the hell of your mouth
beat by the hate in your heart
and God
i feel alone
afraid
thy rod and staff
comfort no one
today was a bitter
confusing day
its become so very easy
to look the other way
but in the end
i couldn’t walk away
so God help me
as i walk into the fire again
flor
born
under
the
sun
clean
warm
life
affirming
she
shows
her
face
unto
her
father
who
greets
her
star
with
nightingale
song
trees
in dream i walk PicoUnion
Lydia Lunch hair do
fringe beneath my eyes
the hotdog vendor burns
her inventory
hands in jean jacket pockets
a gold Volvo stops an inch from me
i wear tap shoes to hear a click
because the LAFD sirens sicken me
in the sky there is a subtle sun
negotiating with the trees
one particular tree caught my eye
as he bent in an uproar
almost majestic in size
he blocked me from Hyperion’s
cancerous sighs
chewing Bazooka Joe’s
careful of my side eyeing
in case the fentanyl groupies
demand my food bank box
the city tired as she is
steady her sidewalks remain
in spite of the oppression
‘and the wind began to howl’
protested from a Tennessee plate
Robert England cabin
suddenly the driver and i lock eyes
as lady Vyvanse begins to ebb inside
my pupils begin to show
but my dream turns out
is a hell bound reality
stoic
the magnolia trees
with hearty roots
ripping through sidewalks
i walk with empty hand
your face grey eyes fedora
button down vintage shirt
Dickie pants a reall bad ass
appears to me like a mirage
me a sick old girl
grown leathery tough
round my ages
im astonished how easy
its become to not give a fuck
when the Los Feliz sun my face kisses
then a mouthy bird with riot chirps
suck me back among those trees
those quiet late dark nights
when in your car
id give you head
pleading in my heart
youd love me back
yet as years
travel on my breaking soul
your face that i use to adore
is just as stoic as ever
the flicker
the damp cold of the night
stuck to faces like wet tissue paper
in the alley where we smoked
being cool knowing all
i saw the flicker
invisible the signal
i shrugged it off
as too much alcohol
just the same
the flicker was there
tiny sparks of anguish
her eyes flashed
like wings on fireflies
then she slept
i took some steps
toward her head was brick
vomit eulogized the space
shoes torn and taped simultaneously
her wig tarry straw
7 of her fingernails fungused raw
morbid were my thoughts
approaching her in wonder
sounds escaped here and there
from her cavernous mouth
two lips as if she wore black licorice
upstairs above us
a hipster whistled
dark is the night he tweeted
the holy 18:28 she repeated
both bowed our heads to the flicker of our fate
her thighs
near the exits she stalls
pondering how to leave
the halls are all she’s known
selling pussy causing brawls
she says in sobbing whispers
before reporting to dad
i’m too old for this journey
legs bruised lips split by the cops
she mouthed off while raising her fists to the sky
then a shooting took over
so they let her off
with a warning that judged her
deep in her soul
later come problems
with bottles of booze
her daddy just told her
go visit Bruce
she stops at the station
to clean up her thighs
words less spoken 