cardboard sheets

the best walk is in the morning right before the sun completely rises the odors of garbage and French bread coupled with bus ozone and weed exist in a universe of the mind and the alley

there are men lined up against the buildings and traffic electric boxes their hoodies exclaim to the world that they are Raider Laker or Ram fans cigarette crack meth and weed wafts creating a unitary phantasmic god of smoke

some women stand by the liquor stores lighting a toke some women have little children and they stand waiting for the crosswalk light to change some women walk on blind to the world face in phone heading for a loft to be beautiful the click emitted by the heel of their Louboutin only amplifies the agony of sleeping bodies on the cardboard sheets

is it possible to be clinically alive but haunt a building is it possible to be shrouded in death and still feel the dullness of life Bandini where is the Spring time

morning is thriving and as the minutes whiz by the city gets hotter the fire department connector pipes have an extra gleam today as i study them they have written upon them the secrets of the street urchin in the sharpie pen dialect

fruit and tamale vendors mushroom up and down the side streets they methodically feed their families by feeding the mason crews contracted to erect unobtainable luxury the divide between those and us is so great by now is our poverty obtainable for them

of us lost angels

photo by Rob Banks 2021

promises are like water to me

for you they quench temporarily

all that i fear for you and us

like the thirst of the dying

i can stop making promises

that i won’t agonize over the shit disease insanity violence and utter hell that we both see

we can compromise and believe

that there will be promises of better life

like we will plant flowers

but they might not smell like roses

as the smell of decay clings

promises can be multi everything

disciplinary lateral purpose conscience

promises are sugar and wine

rat poison

one daft note fleeting in the wind

a fart or love

i can’t tell where we are going

or how to get on this new road

let’s not make promises anymore

let’s just stay eye to eye

let’s just see what i will do

how i will move and act and love and lose

i refuse to promise that i will not turn the other way

if you don’t promise that you will make this inferno go away

i will say that i can accept my heart broken

and that when the camera flashes your way

remember that humility diligence and hard work are the better red carpet accessory

for you

our queen of us lost angels

fat wives

during the times of kings and crooked priests when land was worked with skinned hands and God was kept from most fat wives were prized possessions throughout the times  borders planes punk tunes politics wars of worlds and lipstick trends tea cup dogs and reality shows churches of every persuasion color and flavor fat wives are now abandoned dethroned and berated yet among the kings and dukes earls and car owners big boned brides and fruits from loins each pound of flesh was a gold brick in their safe now strewn across my street and the streets of the city fat humans lethally  lethargic forced to eat poisoned industrial concoctions trash and starches because the bottom of the begging cup has nothing more than the guilt coin of the popular collective unconsciousness

cup o soup

the chill condenses
as when porridge does
and the tips of my fingers
begin to ache as if to crack
like when i used to pour vodka
on the giant designer ice cube
since i was little i liked corners
memories of life and how its come to be but hasn’t changed me
at an angle framed by brick weeds and piss the King Eddy has closed
window and door a silent rigor mortis
no more free drinks or musty teamster gropes
skid row catches the eye
twilight lives here day or night
but at times it shimmers
like when a man sings a new song
like when i can afford
to tip him five dollars
i like the twilight i feel
and when she staggers to me
and tells me her story
i think that all of us here are missing some teeth
that justice is served
that in this twilight here
Lennon’s imagination
is clear
we are all important because of our story
our statistics aren’t of value
in the twilight of these years
we are one
and we can all use a cup o soup

defectors of defeat

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
–A Farewell to Arms (1929)

i not ever one to stay settled
not in a chair nor a desk or a flipped car in the middle of the highway

i not ever one to cry fold up or whimper after the first punch slap or ranting curse

gables decisions transfers petitions bus stops late nights running away to dark alleys

broken arms scraped face bloody nose bruised halo twisted wing midnight summer clouds intrigued

books parks veterans of various fights  teachers preachers women brothers fractured holy lives

war with peace along the edge we’re marched too soon where time has earned the essence of our hands yet not the moxie of the spirit

that ruthless city

if a trail could be found to his beating heart it would be through his ears

the sounds of giant groaning flares flying moons shooting stars music of the cosmos

my voice is not a song it merely croaks and moans steeped in manly brick and mortar

inside the blinding glare of chiming heavenly beings are lively rays displaying all

down to his change cup inside the saxophone case on the shadow washed asphalt somewhere in that ruthless city

i want to rip my hair out

i’ve seen multiple coroners tents these few weeks white tiny like a fortune teller’s but there are no chances no predictions no suspicions just finality i’ve not felt myself murder being televised 5G capitalized on death’s dealings my smile and gentle nature up on stage demands the talent and strength of an opera singer the gall of most world viewed presidents laying down or standing still mind woodchips all of my plans palms to the sky warm sun light reminds me that there is a God i’ve seen the death of my father dressed in blue he brought down by what he held up all of his life i’ve seen the death of my mother and the sting of unfamiliarity that divided us i alien child no umbilical cord on my feet walking slightly off smell of medicinal debauchery from last night peppers the air snippets sensationalized wishing shards of words empty whirling eddies of promise obscure delicacy is what i want when i want to be alone middle age was always middle age at any point in time imbibed in the yolks of many situations took on the foil as well as the queen as well as the beggar as well as a fiend feeding rats in the alley in the middle of the day with words that mean nothing but carry weight just the same i’ve seen too many coroners tents bottom line no one gives a fuck is the appropriate cause of death on the only certificate some of us will get privilege tells me to take some time trim my cherry tree smell the air inventory what i have and be grateful count the finches outside fighting on the bush that has a doctor and expensive fertilizer i want to tear my hair out at times rage knock over bureaucratic tables like Christ in Jerusalem

valium crash the news looks bad the ship has lost its hull

there are walnut trees on Pluto i think
crystal diamond blue
horizon upside down
center dividers stars in bloom
Ernest H waves from a black velvet bull nebula
shooting at gazelles in heat
downtown city hall fenced off from vagrant free radicals steady to explore
news of the day inner tubes
floating up the ice tundra
teeny tiny core
liquor stores
barbershop
bank building
bikini lounge
margaritas screaming opera loud
golden arches
chicken all militarized
taco toll
franchise whores
open for business
Pluto has one cherry tree
at dawn we read thee Book
thee Morning Star’s dead light
we shouldn’t tell those lies
could the gropers mashers and fiends
grandpa killers darlings of infallible machines (wink wink)
dare to go where print castrates them
Pluto tired just like us
rotates on her side
ferns and fossil bones fuel
glistening surface ice
Charon chases Papa like a Marx brother
down a Cuban blvd
Che comandante semper fi
make a left on Broadway
Pluto grows tomatoes
shipped to Mars
on backs of rain forest mamas