nothing useful
bars empty
except for me and ramon
towns
empty
rebels are coming
2:15 am
blue-black night
lit by canopies
of
phosphorous light
satellite phones down
its just me
and ramon
we drink whiskey
straight from
blue bottles
with
chinese labels
ramon smiles
his teeth, perfect
i trace my name
in dusty walnut
its no longer
mine
i can hear the crack
of weaponfire
rumble grows
jesus unfolds his hands
i watch faces of
frustration
burn american flags
ramon offers another bottle
rebels take him away
they
ask me about baseball
and seven-eleven, mickey mouse
and brittany
spears
i smile, we share a drink
they accept my forged papers
seems im canadian now
one leaves then they all wave
so long
i trace my name in the dust
and wander off as well
blues jesus
got my plugs in, blues blaring
jimmy yancey ripping up and
down the gate,
thick brown fingers, light on
black and white, soulful
notes singe
gray corners of my wicked brain
this cat with good hair and fat eyes
talks loud to some
innocent, no look,
pretender, folded back deep into a
run-the-numbers-same same cushy chair,
bleeding out jesus with hands
moving,
jaws running and words breaking
through my blues tranquility
i see through letters dangling
up close like a whores
smile
waving at me from a black tar
stage, weaving shadows through
red-blue light
he keeps talking - champion jack dupree,
professor
longhair, van piano man walls
- drown in his soup, splayed
across
faux granite floors
if i wanted to hear lies about
jesus, id go to
church, take your
mouth and fuck off, leave my blues
alone
hopeless pinatas
moon rises too slow
reminding me
of what?
i
havent a clue
but a memory
edges forward
slow like Sunday
slipping in the back door
propped open by
winos seeking
salvation
its summer, my 44th, 45th,
cant quite recall
doesnt matter, really
time is a waste
only train tracks
clacking,
late night whistles
break my skin
she says something
my siamese senorita
love, whiskey,
foundations
of daily life
hopeless piñatas left over
from cinco de mayo
hang from formless branches
buttered by long days
and careless
bashings of
drunken warriors
i stab out my last smoke
its bright flicker protest
wisps of graying smoke
rise slow, up between the moon
and i
and
its damning slowness
my balls are too big to break
sitting in a coffeeshop
late
just me and a low-rent
clerk
that would rather be jacking
off to a victorias secret
catalog
than making minimum wage
doing nothing
big guy walks in
loud mouth, fat face, sweaty lips
i
want to punch him
instinctively
has that swagger
the kind you buy
dont earn
the kind you steal
from others
clerk looks up
sighs, serves, retreats
big guy keeps
talking
sucking oxygen
from a peaceable evening
hey, man, he says
whatcha
doin
nothing. writin. fuck off.
writin what?
yer obituary, poetically.
asks one too many questions
up tight, in close
breath
burns coffee stains
onto my skin
hey, buddy. fuck off, will ya?
poetrys for pussies, ya know?
it takes four seconds for me
to put him on his ass in
the back alley, my gasp hanging
hard on a cold night
bring it, motherfucker. bring it.
he scampers off, back to his meeting,
his congregation,
his four x four cube, back at whatever corporate dysphasia he slithered from
i go back to my coffee, my words
and write this