Two More Poems

The Bluest Line


Gobs of Burroughs’ protoplasm

made viscous with winter’s numbing cold

molded like putty

placed into seats

and draped with shabby precision

into strikingly pathetic forms


See the postures of silent, faceless despair

like a stinking coughing wax museum

rag heaped bundles exuding funereality

until any expression of happiness

becomes wildly inappropriate


Yes thank god, this is our stop

Let’s get out

out of this clanking mausoleum

this hospice for societal rounding errors

and into the sweet cold night air

oh to be young and optimistic

to be young and mobile




When Nature Calls You Ni**er


Seeking relief

but instead thrown backwards

by decades

into those bygones

that were thankfully forgotten


An obscene reminder

cloaked in casual servitude

another callous tradition

that won’t be easily given up


Put a coin in its hand

and use the other arm as a lever

the coin will drop

into the gap

in its fat, red-lipped, grinning mouth


No thank you

i’ll dry my hands on my pants

i’m not going to tip you

for making me ashamed of my skin

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