Who turned summer on "high"?

May 27, 2010. 5:57 am

I saw it change from black to sky before my eyes.

What a busy world I’m slothing through.

I tossed a tired butt on the bike path

just to prove I was up first—

not groggy, just sloppy-eyed.

My final drag sends my gaze towards the glow

—those vapors are hard at work,

clocking in after I’ve clocked out for the last time.

But I don’t mind;

There’s no shame in this hike to bed.

I’ll split my pillow wide

once I pass this pathetic jogger.

“Deep”

Such a July night, it’s sticky.

not sugary sweet like Harlem- Sorry Langston-

think deep.

Get out the atlas if you need it,

and trace the veins from the heartland to the swampy toes

of “freedom”- see that they’ve been neglected

with snarling nails, and the burning crosses

just adds to the athlete’s foot.

Skip the scenic drive down the coastline;

there’s no (room/need) for your convertible,

not in this jungle humidity.

Stop tracing once you see patriarchy and mansions,

once you smell bourbon.

And remember, your cotton collared shirt

was picked from this baked landscape,

and ripped from its mother in the deep.

a haiku

Longboarding barefoot

I can’t afford to slow down.

No shoes, no service

Cincinnati Poems (written during our formal last weekend)

Synergy or something

I didn’t storm out

but there was thunder in my head.

I bought a pack of cigarettes,

that usually helps.

usually.

That’s why I started walking

to shoot straight

with these hungry pigeons.

There was this crinkly man

sitting against a Walgreens

who asked me for change,

said he hadn’t eaten in two days

so I shelled out a knuckle of quarters,

and gave him a fresh Turkish smoke.

I even lit it for him.

And as I was leaning over him,

tenderly holding the flame

to his shit-out-of-luck lips,

that’s when it hit me-

that’s when cliché materialized-

misery loves company.

Last call

Here I am again

wading through straw hats and jazz-

hailing the bartender,

spilling.

I’ve got last call to catch.

That firecracker with geraniums in her hair

is thirsty and wearing symptoms

of dance fever.

I’m doing a dance of my own,

holding my watery scotch over my head,

dodging sweaty shoulders.

I’ve almost made it back to Flower Girl

when I see a sight

that nearly jars the J&B from my hand-

I see you.

You’re waiting by the jukebox

for Baseball Coach to retrieve

dos tequilas

and you’re happy.

Dark side of the bed

When you’re in bed

and you can reach out

but you can’t touch her

and you can force a smile

but she can’t

and suddenly the bed

is way too big for two,

that’s worse than sleeping alone.

And it’s half past SNOOZE

when I wake up, gorged with sleep

while she's fast awake in dream land

so we clasp hands

from the dark side of the bed.