Nothin' To Lose

It's like,

I don't give a fuck no more-

keepin my head high-

I'm tired of 'em tellin' me

what to do to get by.

Listen, let's hide-

if only for a minute.

Don't worry about what they'll think-

fuck ya image.

Let's ride rhythms,

until we lie in 'em...

Rest in a bed of beats,

n' feel the vibes venom.

Electric strings like snakes

slide through ya-

slither up ya sole (soul)

n' incite stupor.

They lied to ya-

saying ya dreams couldn't be reached...

Show 'em my freedom of speech,

like, read 'em n' weep!

Fat cats wrapped in flags,

impeding the street,

won't see me in defeat-

I do my bleeding on the beat.

People greet me with a shriek,

but I pay 'em no mind...

No time to suppress

this overflowing gold mine.

Blow lines, of this dope shit

through ya eardrum--

Ba ba bangin' witcha heartbeat

to make ya fear run.

The truth is deranged-

may be losing my brains-

but I'm using the pain

to stay refusing the same.

Hands stuffed in pockets-

producing some change.

Mind loose, with nothin'

to lose but my chains...

I'm the kinda dude

who finds solace in a beat-

so if what i say is hollow

don't acknowledge when I speak.

No following to upkeep-

my allegiance is to the real-

so I stay clean n' won't change

the seasons that I feel.

The reason is ideal,

but it's also practical,

'cause once I crack a few

my feelings ain't factual.

Might actually attract a few

who don't covet greed,

n' with an ax or two

cut down the whole puppet tree (puppetry).

So this is it-

I'm tired of being ya goldfish.

To all the figurines-

mannequins I eloped with-

hold this hocus pocus

you disguised hope with

as I dash for the glass ceiling

over my bowl, bitch!

I flip flopped my way

to where the sun shines;

though, I gota say,

it's hard breathing sometimes...

Like an earthworm, drownin'

underground, caught in the circus-

but without the rain

I wouldn't have been brought to the surface.

The truth is deranged-

may be losing my brains-

but I'm using the pain

to stay refusing the same.

Hands stuffed in pockets-

producing some change.

Mind loose, with nothin'

to lose but my chains...

Long Path, Day 2: Palisades Farmer's Market

Two days ago
I slurped a thin sheen of grease
off a dollar slice
with a new friend
local hustler,
a Sec-8 All Star

Now it's mid-morning
Two days walk
from city limits
and the farmer's market
a couple hundred yards
from the trail
hustles smiles

It's a social occaision
my feet are propped
It's smiles and puppies
and air smelling slightly
like fresh yogurt
its tang plays free association
with my childhood
and I am as easy as my feet

Outside Sal's
J told me excitedly
he'd love to go hiking
says it eagerly
knowing he's not going
to get clowned by
a white boy from
Pennsylvania

In Palisades
a man gives me an apple
after I offer a quarter
west Africa trills softly
on his tongue
the Orchards of Conklin
have farmed Rockland
from 1712

A woman watches
at the trash can
as two white men
mistake her table as empty
and then seated
ask to join her
and she politely excuses herself.

A Step Away from Him

It's morning, rush hour,
and people jam themselves
onto the downtown 2--
to say they look like sardines
would be too obvious,
they are softer, yet
more rigid-- a dozen tongues
in a kissing person's mouth.
On the street it's getting
warmer, and a young man
leaned against a railing says
honey
to me, so gently as I pass,
as if we were waking up
together, as if
he were cradling my face,
that I'm surprised enough
to stop and look at him,
even though I don't mean to,
and all the little birds scatter
like the teeth of a drunk
when he hits the floor.

Day 11, Poem 11: Conjure Aphrodite

Conjure Aphrodite
from her birth home
derived from loins
and sea foam
Patron Saint
of ancient
hookers
and totem
for horny sailors
In Mesopotamia
they called her Ishtar,
Inanna
the original
"ill na-na,"
Courtesans
fuck men
in
succession,
unison,
as worship
to their
Goddess
of lust and
physical love

Lover
and surrogate
mother to
Adonis
and Ares
jealous
of this
crazed like a
wild boar
frustrated
young gun Adonis
castrated
and sent to Hell

Nubile boys
and wise
old men
justify
acting on
their base
desires
in her name
they bathe
and play
rites of
passage
and defamation
patrons to
your
celebration

Conjure Aphrodite...

Eat
drink-
each other-
and be merry...

Day 10, Poem 10: Hanging On a String (tentative)

Day
or night
you call
jump like
jackrabbit
heart seizes
pulse jets

My fingers
indelible
inside you
always
keeper of
your internal
rhythm
of your trust
my name
dug in
like incantation
yet another
covets
your thrust
bone
lacking

No recompense
or comparison
no consolation
in makeshift beginnings
to cover
open endings
never ending
where we
began

How long
does this
continue
before
I break?
Choose
and admit
what we
already know
Or go
and leave me
to my ruin
And still
we'll know
the truth

You're calling
again...

Day 6, Poem 6: Moratorium

Someone called a moratorium on giving a shit,
and no one's lifting it
Young men still kill each other over hard glances
Young women still stumble home alone, too drunk,
taking chances

Someone called a moratorium on respect,
and souls grew mossy with neglect
Young toughs go gay-bashing in the
name of church and beer
Young women sacrifice their souls
baptized in cum and fear

Someone called a moratorium on heart and
no one turned as debt dwarfed art
Loves wither and bend beneath the weighty
wind of distrust
Souls smolder in ashes of reckless abandon,
flames fueled by lust.

Were You Surprised?

The backroom of Luigi's Italian in Queens is my family's first witness.The last time I was here, funeral.The time before that, First Communion.Now, birthday.I think of all the witty toasts,
jokes and genuinity, breaded angst and salty love that were muffled because of their air conditioner. I think of all the surprises and whether the reaction to a surprise 50th, a surprise death, a surprise proposal were legitimate enough to be on Bravo. I think of all the times I've not known what has happened to my Grandma, my fatherless cousin, my crippled aunt and how many times I've been boothed, cornered with nothing to say but a psalm for my lossed naivete. Apparently you can't wish anything to an almost fifty year old. They don't believe in birthdays unless they begin with Pinot Grigio. Same menu. I wonder what kind of dessert we had after the funeral. Did they serve the vanilla bean ice cream with a chocolate sauce or something more dense? Morbid, I know, but the guy loved his cheesecake. I'm sure "he would have wanted it this way." A celebration is a cope, as they shove it in your face just put some cheese and sauce on it and hope they didn't pre-order the calamari. Yesterday, I was triple-played by two boys with autism and my cousin who will never walk again. A 30 year old jailed in leg braces, I'll try not to talk about running. Sometimes, I thank God we only do these things at night or else I'm pretty sure Icarus himself would fall threw the sunroof and into my Chicken Parm. I hear he is quite the party crasher and who wouldn't want to be at this one?