racist poem 1

racist poem 1.

Between
the Ashkenazi Jews
and
the nice Irish folks
that tolerate us,
you'd think
there
would be
a
decent
fried potato
of some kind
near my house,
even at
this hour
on Shabbos.

recovery

Spent poets
don't die,
their words

just change hands,
returned to the register
then passed out again
for change
on promises
bigger
than the price

I thought
when I didn't use my words,
I'd get to hoard them,
that Webster would give me
his signet ring and say,
Okay Ruby,

here come those years of famine,
so before your syllables
devour everything in sight
and still aren't one millionth as fat as you,
lock them up and
pass them out sparingly.

Instead of mics,
hit doors.

Instead of crowds yearning
for black belts on paper,
try talking to people
who want to shoot
the next person that knocks on their door,

people burned so bad
piles of ashes form themselves
into mouthes to say DAYUM!
and send them moisturizer.

Instead of rocking in my house,
try rocking a block where every
single
house
is boarded up,
and the doughboys
tell you Reagan was gangsta.

At least they know.

But I saved up.

And it wasn't enough.

cars were made into tanks.

and i traded rhymes
for trying to change the times,

maybe now I get my words back.

Pennsylvania Snacks

this is just to say
I have eaten
pretzels
that were on
the counter

and which
you were probably
saving
for dessert.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so salty.

when i lie down, and when i rise up

when i lie down, and when i rise up

disbelief.

Waking up November 9th, 2008

Waking up November 9th, 2008

Now what?

tears four years in the making

Y
e
s.
W
e.
D
i
d.

what's in a measure?

what's in a measure?

riff, chord,
just rest.

1 comments

sheepish tired poet
tries anew.

victory

victory

another word
for
new battle tomorrow.

resiliance

don quixote stands,
looks for bigger windmill.