women
amongst echoes and shadows
take off their shoes
before fighting.
I just need a bottle of water
coconut juice
and some sleep.
at the corner,
the woman in line ahead of me
requests a pack of Parliaments and a
small Bic lighter
which she flicks
flicks
flicks
to make sure it works.
she's high on cocaine
being it's one-thirty in the morning
she's high on meth
she's high on
life.
she is bustling with the news of the catfight
these sluts in the night street!
the Muslim behind the counter
sees it all the time
broadly he smiles
smiles
smiles
he can't afford to lose a
sale.
it's another night on Broadway
the strip clubs and
pizza parlors
the bleating and screams
the night sky expanding
with dawn approaching
the constellations bright with pumps and ripped
spandex.
plunked in the Bay
the hard-line bridge faces the
City
with battleship hues
while the day yet to arrive
hosts rainbows and squalls
of traffic, sirens, and typical emotion —
felines we are
with the shelf life of insects
sufficient in our envy and ego
to manufacture the very
stars in the sky
and thus accomplice ourselves
in league
with ultimate promenades of history
black-and-white newsreels
the world at a standstill
the lonely
kitten
mewling at the broken
milk-bottle
another alleyway
another universe.
ooh
la
la.
Look for new place to live on Craigslist
Shave face and manicure eyebrows
Kali's in town
Go see Chumpy Joe about theater piece
Call the old man in his decrepitude and senility
Football scores to argue and digress
Upon the morality of multi-million $ defensive lines
Fabricate for edibility the sorry-ass cantaloupe crying for attention on the dresser
Fragrant orb found treasured in Chinatown
Perched on a garbage receptacle
Cut off feet and cauterize with log embers from beach bonfire
Seal Beach
Ocean Beach
North Beach
You know the beach as far as a promised Paradise
There are things to attend to
For sure
Through the karma and manifest destiny shit
Stagger a bit before hitting the pavement
Forget laundry.
Short for the short poem
Every body other than my dead
Mother's
Looks for breakfast or
Anything more than
This
Short of breath
Short by a score
Or a scene
At 4 o'clock in the morning
What I look forward to
Is recovery of the dream
That streetwise
Unattainable
Goddess
Just beyond my grasp
Beatific whore
Not chancing a glance in my direction
Sleep a rubbing away of the
Paradise in my
Eyes.
Jay Passer's work has circulated the small presses and onlines since 1988. His most recent collection of poems, At the End of the Street, is available from corrupt press, out of Paris, France. He is also the author of a new novel from Pedestrian Press, Squirrel, which is available as an ebook, and can be purchased from Smashwords.
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