circles

The thing with circles, first and finally, is they have an innate tendency to run into obstacles. To collide with other circles. Squares even. Any number of geometries.     And the circuits they traverse seldom run true.     This goes for alliances. Writer’s circles. Revolutions.     Circles are tricky. Often times prickly.     Stick one with a fork, and

southpaw

There is no such fucking thingas a mysterymysteries are for halfwit childrenA jigsaw puzzle herea conundrum thereall there is are misplaced nounsVerbsa clouded adjectivethe purgatory of a leading left

monk’s gift

Out of the mouth of the pious a working manthe wallet jumped edge straighta temple, upstanding,from pocket crease to pavementimpervious to even the shabbiestfingersrifling stitched corners

the haircut

The poetry, the racking up of words like so many reds and blacks, was making me sick. Mostly I was pocketing the lower register. Yellows. The occasional brown. And my cheek stung from the double kiss.     I collected my young son from nursery and decided what I needed most was a haircut. Some judicious barbering.    

the poet

So there he sitsthe dunce, the dullardthe toeragthe eternal glowing optimistcigarette droolingon unscored paper, what kindof fool is that ?This white man deservingof nothingbut contemptwaiting on a line or twoto drop into his lapas ashwithout the sense of timing evento call it quitswhat kind of truant is that ? His poems, should he promise anyought

brujería

Just when I get toclimbing down out of my assI remind myselfthat they removed his prostateNow that is somepowerful fucking Brujeríato pin on his tail

in the clinic

They sent me for this Cat-Scanto see just what the trouble waswhy i had been coughingbloodas regular as a terminal TB case brewing As I waited my turnto ride the machinea nurse gave me a little cup of waterto drink on down It was far less desperate off the pagethis wait, the bag of rags

the beard

I decided to sport a beard.The more it grew the less convincedI grew. I asked my boyfor some advice.Shaved, you look like Herman Goering.Unkempt, a dirty old man. Could be as closeto a poet as I might hope to get.

pat garrett + billy the kid

When I sayI picked up my son from the subwayI mean I laid in waitwith grocery sackshalfway between his stop and the houseI am getting oldthe wine is not so easy on the jointsundrainednever mind the other shitthe food, this and that, the perishables He took one bagwithout my asking, he is a stand up

after siberia

Like Chekhov’s mousenot Kafka’sgoes out the bellowraw and prolongedTo scream with pain, to roar, to marshal helpwhere nohelp is forthcomingNot from the balconybut between the stalls

my uncle

My unclekept housein the fashion of a serial killer Rooms fullof valvesin boxes like excised organs A monkeypuzzle treecasting shadows on the half landing soldering ironslaid outlike spoons After my grandmotherdiedI went from room to room searchingfor just onebodybut never uncovered anything much beyondthose valves a partially eatenlunchin a speaker cabinet A newspaper: The localhoodlumstooled

a winning ticket

Let’s assume I take a pencilscratch the words “lottery winner“on a blank piece of paper,put it in a stamped envelopewith my name and address on it,mail it to myself.Will it solve anything ?For once to go so easy on oneself ?

apples | oranges | MP3s | M9A1-7s

To exposethe workings of one’s bowels in printoffends most people,the smear of the ordinarythe taint of the awkward. They would sooner bend and flushthan pause to examinethe fabric of selfto open one’s guts with a scalpelis a squalid affairbetter left to the half-crazed imbecileclogging up the plumbingin hospital or zoo. To bare one’s flaccid ass

DAMNEDDAMNEDDAMNED

stickmen

Tap, tap, tapthe stickmen gomoving over the bric-a-brac of shatteredconvention, the gimcracks of a gimp weddingtap, tap, taphalf erect on sticks as stickmen area caravan on stiltsa paucity of drummingjuggling obscenitiesthe delusion of good timingsnuffling suits as only stickmen willtap, tap, tapgo the stickmendancing on one leg, the fats of narrowed  artery, knick-knacks from the

negatives

Her mind is an apartment where good thingsspoiled over long summers Where photographs yellowedgrew brittle so she could scarcely touch them One memory after another dulling so thatall that is left are negatives.

flowered up

Liam Maher, Tim Dorney, Joe Maher, Andy Jackson,  John Tovey, Barry Mooncult ▼ FLOWERED UP: WEEKENDER from “Weekender” 12″ 45 Heavenly (HVN 16X) (UK) 1992

to the management | a skinny poem

We rouse in vicious morningto dress after a suicide,zippered bootsjeans, t-shirtpea coat venting, a mosquitoablazeon last night’s stubble rasha stew of causal nuisancenothing too fancydisarmingly attired,hobbled from the firstThe Watford Gapa jockey might advanceto put his nag down gentlyfuck off,fuck off and diein the fashion of dice,an equestrian ruseno tie, colours lashed, bruiseda breakfast of

granny takes a trip

▼ THE PURPLE GANG: GRANNY TAKES A TRIP from “Granny Takes A Trip” 7″ 45 BigT (BIG 101) (UK) 1967