Month: May 2013

***contents removed due to awesome***


As these two men frolicked with urgency, I came to realize that they were operating on a whole other level. Amidst the frenetic cavalcade of motion, they spoke to me of many things, many truths so deep and poignant that my fingers are reduced to cannoli-like appendages as I type these words. If I could only harness the strength of a hundred such men, our troubles here would be over very quickly.

It’s all become so clear.

now the jockey is waving a straight razor

the faces weave

madly along

my synapses



ducking the clothesline,
throwing the uppercut.


the A thru Zed
of no longer caring
of no longer registering
the differences between all these
grim and breathing flesh sacks.

I’ve forgotten how to stop
and I’ve long ago stopped forgetting.

weaving along the clothesline
throwing the uppercutĀ 
weaving along the clothesline
throwing like an errant dream.

I’ve seen you throw fights
nobody thought to bet on.

I’ve seen you
save men for money
only to
kill them on the house.

the tunnels bleed out faces now,

andĀ I’ve rigged the race
all you gotta do is show.

they called him Corsica

and he kept
a brown tsunami
coursing over his chin
and my recollections find me doubting
any real teeth lurked behind it.
they called him corsica
and he once dropped his few books
in the school hall
to save some dude in a pile-on,
only to get left behind,
bones to be picked
by the time
and place
and the way fortune
sometimes goes dotty from 
those close ones
that go to the cards,
those close ones
where the judges are took care of,

those close ones,
where the crowd may start in on
blow-torch polka
if the points go the right way.
they called him corsica,
i saw him playing the powerball last week.
I said hi.
he had a kid someplace he hadn't seen in years,
had just lost his job,
and his joints told him
it looked like rain.
It looked like
steady rain.

vito the barber

vito the barber
took to your hair
like a
revenge ritual,
you could almost see him
 in the moment before you got there,
shears aloft,
 on bended knee
 to the four
 Crown Princes.
There was something
 he mistook
 for justice
 in the cutting,
 the way every snap of the scissors
 was followed up
 with a tug of the untouched hair,
 a grunt,
 a nudge along your
 craned and nervous neck.
and to think:
some guys
sat down
in that chair
and let him
go to work
with the straight razor...
At night
 Vito the Barber
would close up shop
and go walking
Raven Arms MP-25
holstered beneath polyester embrace.
I'd see him
on the street or at parties.
He liked to dance
 and drink Seagram's,
at the same time.

the man with the withered arm

the man with the withered arm
wears a great beige raincoat
even as the wet season
grows hefty around him,
the one great sleeve
rippling mad
like a fore-mast
to show what
you've taken.
the man with the withered arm
formulates plans
and his mind
etches your name in
grade 316 steel
and won't let it go
for the dowry
of a thousand.
the man with the
withered arm
leaves on the lights
at night
while he whittles
chess pieces
from all the shit you broke,
but for reasons
he never speaks of,