In first light, your wig and Zofran
on the bed stand, saucer of yellow almonds,
cup of tea, on the floor,
I tilt your chin, open your airway,
perform rescue breaths.
I’d probably end up as one of those sad-assed ghosts that never accepts death and wanders back and forth on this stupid boulevard full of nail & beauty shops, convenience and dollar stores, black barber shops, fast food, chicken eateries, drive-thrus, bars and bistros, the Middle Eastern Market—
Paint barely dry, containing the detritus of fire
Emerging exits slipping out of bounds
Resurrecting your inner idiot, flying at large
An argument never won with a belligerent toss.
in thin dime situations,
it is best to remain calm
a found flannel ensures warmth
you are a smaller version of yourself
Down by the railroad tracks
a mysterious street
hammers before breakfast
where water heats itself
skin aching to be clean
And there are some hard truths. Most Buffalo elders notch their winters with salt, Vicks, and canned trout. They grouse about snowbirds and higher taxes. You can get mugged with ease on Clinton and Sycamore Street. Some folks still wonder why there’s plenty of coloreds around.
Those whose bodies have vanished
in the black hole of disappearing meat.
Those who must ignore their hungry child
because the answer is always, “No.”
Because winter is a cataclysm for creatures like us. We, the green and leafy masses, unfit for city life, need warmth. We can’t create sweetness alone and in the dark, it has to be drawn out of us with rich soil, sweet breezes, and rays of light.
The year was 1965, and while the relocation programs had kind of become used up—that is, officially unpopular with program developers—the push now was to somehow develop the existing reservations and keep Indians at home.
Spooky kine stuff
dat Einstein nevah agree wit
is eerily going on out deah
or in heah
Every night the people of the city gather to receive my work. Ardently they pick up the scattered, dog-eared pages from gutters and windshields, studying every note.
