Dusk in New York

Dusk in New York

the bloodless scapegoats

entreat underground

in transit to the forgotten

Netherlands of dust and decay.

Dusk in New York

the flock of rats in flight

feed the hunger

in pools of rancid rain water

Dusk in New York, the sounds

reverberate in my bones

the marrow curdling at the stop light

while the bigwigs dance in

red capes on tippy-toes

gloating with the raise of my fare.

Salient truths denied

in breathtaking sequences.

The secrets pile up in the muck

of your glorified trade.

We withstand the heat to later

welcome the monsoon of night

that covers us in a

blanket of blinders.

We rise against in emotion

and in structure.

The skyscrapers, an ancient

testament to the divine.

Our city-

a fluid bible of lies.

New York at dusk

a detriment/confession deprived.

Trust Me

We’ll teach you how to talk

We’re teaching all mankind

how to surpress

how to use

how to amass.

The silence of the killing

We’ll have a big, big smile…

Security from the enemy

That’s our new reality.

Trust me.

The Closing Photo

We looked at old photographs

And laughed at days long past

You came and left and came again

Leaving all your baggage and your trash

I wonder why you lie to me when it’s been years

We’ve wasted but amassed

Running to and from the truth I hide with the:

“I have to leave for class…”

the books not been read

the beige pages dog-eared and folded back…

you show me what you could have done, will do, it’s coming (!!!)…

and yet remains the mask…

your open face is close to mine,

a fantastic kiss never delivered

your blue alleyways of the mind

have been flooded with abandoned children.

The dollar store glasses continue to

choke your shipwrecked vision

it’s been replaced with

a (dare I say it?) dream in remission.

The filth masquerades

Disguised as prudent ballet…

Will the doors to our true nature reopen?

My confidante,

my ivory sister,

the comforting chains of yesteryear have finally

been

broken.

 

(“The Closing Photo” was inspired by this photo by Irvin A. Kelly)

Whistle 3 (2000)

The tide rushed up and choked me.

That shit dropped on me hard.

It’s dark and cloudy in my head.

I only see blue

and black

and foamy things.

It’s so damn cold.

 

A pillowcase is on, over my head.

I close my eyes and like butterflies-

It felt so good

It

Felt

So

Good.

 

Walk around like a mummy where’s my mommy he’s ODing he’s drinking I’m screaming we’re laughing

 

Talk about the bus ride home.

How am I getting home?

Shit, how the fuck am I gonna get home?

 

I’m wet like water.

I’m soaked like the rag that I am-

that I was.

A candle flame so bright, it fights to survive.

It whispers, “help me, help me…”

What keeps blowing me out?

 

These reels-

they play in slow-motion.

I can see me laying there in black and white

naked on the bed.

I’m smoking rings; they come from a mouth

that said things

I didn’t say.

 

Just draw some pictures on the paper and talk about everything you know

‘cause we know it all.

 

Dirty dreams, they’re wicked scenes-

as corny as it may seem, I was like that 20/20 girl, that dateline episode,

the 6 o’clock news chick.

That last Sunday morning-

I sat as if the sound was turned off, as if the remote was on mute,

as if I was never turned on at all.