jean thought like a man, felt like a woman, and acted like a child.
he ravaged the earth and seas at his pleasure. he was sensitive to the slightest criticism. as our story begins, he was seated on a soft divan in his oriental hideaway. only a soft blue light burned. his guests had all departed, well fortified with casks of brandy jean had provided them for their long and arduous journeys back to civilization. francois, his green parrot and factotum, was cheerfully whistling, until with an imperious gesture, jean bid him be silent. My stepchildren
—for Deisy, Angel and April all our hands, moths of these wandering halls: your specific absence from his dedicated dissipation was my attempt to locate connection and conceive an ideal of positioning a reconstructed family, the whole of a/our hand(s), warm toward ensuring devotion would continue, unharmed and a healing momentum washing over a family’s desire to reciprocate security among what eyes develop in the pejorative isolation of others’ misleading, myopic indiscretion; with what has formed my aliveness is the animated piano of ongoing rhythms and persistent relief to have found your miracles within the hand of my preceding absence of holding 1. The Indian Way
On Sundays she would Wear her mothers saree. Blue and green, with Whimsical peacocks. A garland of Mogras Hung amidst her Mahogany hair; Ah! I was in love. The curve of her hips, The ability of her hair To imitate the sea. Sneaking kisses between Her trips to the temple Her sitar lessons, I crawled into her heart. I was ravenous; For the caresses of her caramel skin. Ravenous, to hold her hand Under Van Gogh's stars. How subtly would she smile; Mocking my ignorance Of lust and love. How silently would she mourn My brief charm On her fickle heart. How breathtakingly would she hide, Her partial devotion To my lips.
1. Pterodactyl Pimp
The reptilian fingers of greed Outstretched in doorways , alleyways and side streets On urine tarred walls They line up pedalling flesh And egos made of PVC Rose pink , fake bake and cherry noir Pop the night with snatch and grab thighs A tea coloured wheeze rests on her knee And ferret eyes feed her lies The plateau between moda acrylic and shiny mink Is Everest high Pound shop mints won’t mask the stench Of jolly roger phlegm Fuzzing the dawn with feral desire . Session 1: Starched Afternoons and Sedative Evenings
the nothing landscape has lost its everything composed as frost mirage ice cracked in visible compliance the struggle of texture over glide swirl or less the missing and the wanting 1. Lesser Winds
My favorite poet died in Baltimore And I stopped drinking And began reading And fell praying All my days long For the psalms he wrote And tales he spoke And the dreams he dreamt Were lesser winds Than what he meant My favorite poet died Now I'm starting to breathe. 1. Licking the Stripper Pole
Maybelle said, “Quickman, you should start selling wigs door to door, I know ladies that love fake hair. You could come to my domino and bid whist hall, the ladies would eat your white ass with a fucking spoon. What do you say?” Quick said, “There ain’t no pain with John Coltrane, baby. I’m no maniac milquetoast eating mulligatawny soup. I like to make love and shred time with out injuring eternity and listen to the wind.” They lined up, panthers pacing in stiletto heels in pools of tears, drinking cocaine in the kaleidoscope rain. Licking salty limes and drinking mescal straight from the bottle. When Quick left three days later, the queen of cool was on his hook. He had a pocket full of C-notes. He’d shaved lots of peaches and licked more than he cared to comment on. His geisha cowgirl was using a blowtorch on his triple beam, she had no love or pity in her heart. 1. Summing up the World’s Problems
An armored Dunbar truck passed me on the road while I was walking home, suffocating the atmosphere with its black fumes of death while transporting bags full of Fed Notes to the nearest bank. |
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