Those shoulders
were never a shelter
but once my home
when he still played and loved

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As the body was pulled from the hulk,
the arms and head broke away.
Only the boots attest to a human corpse.

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“What is your name?”
asked the digital interviewer.
“Brahma,” the interviewee confidently responded,
expecting a flowery welcome and a spellbound band.

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Not sure
                Never Never Sure
What god would look like
Should he reappear

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everybody is too busy reading each other's minds,
appearing hundreds of miles from their bodies and
refusing to decay after death; as it is, when you
think of me, I find that I, in turn, am thinking of you.

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The swift banks of my memory
suppress drunken details. I hear
a dissertation embedded in the vases
of death, the abyss that rubs
my shortcomings on your chest

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Going there,
getting there
is no sin;
how you get there
maybe

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Voodoo dolls in
the age of social media
for the purpose of their
cowardly
​spiritual genocide

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Everyone sleeps but him.
A gaunt though alert face
turns this way, that way,
looking for someone
to tell his jokes to.

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In the bask of computer light my boss
says watch for leaks in the room.
I know now what to pray for. Thunder
burps and rain’s radio static steadies

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Mars shines in a crystal rain of meteor showers, comets stream
Through stellar fires that rage in a galactic night forever. 

Walls laced with bullets crumble, stacks of burning tires barricade
Cities that are echoing with prayers ghosts recite forever.

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It’s quite possible that I won’t get to save today
Anyone, not a single Puerto Rican fished out of the NY harbor.
Fortunately, Facebook colors the waiting
Into the shades of hope and angst:

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has no form, no body, only
light and sound.  This complicates
things greatly, but as he sleeps
she enters him gently, rocks
​his chest as he sleeps, inhabits

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Prometheus displays his tats
behind The Dollar Store in Bonita.
The one with the plastic pillars.
Chained willingly to a picnic table,

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the film begins with a house and some blood on the doorstep
and the sound of a distant train disappearing across the moors
destination: unknown at this time
the only listener with his collar turned up against the damp night

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Sharpshooters are still guarding the beaches
in case it happens again.

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Helen of Troy will die,
But Helen of Colorado never.

Counter clerks and soda jerks
Populated the old days. Remember
Woolworth’s? I do, but barely.

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Whether my path is ineffectual compared against
what justice I might sew if my strengths were applied elsewhere.
I convince myself with fear and escapefulness of
there is no pure good. No option only to heal or live as a clean breath in smoke.

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These are the equations
which are sought to unlock
the epistemology of rooms
where sunlight cycles through
the numerical significance
of days passing

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I stick my entire body to his skin
his hair smells like a storm is coming.
As my fingers play in the ravine on his back
my body rattles like thunder beating a windowpane.

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Awake in the darkness, listen:
there’s someone sitting in the chair next to
the night stand, talking to you:

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What matters once you’ve claimed that way as yours,
and walked that bitter mile through the dust,
and pierced the veil, and mastered your disgust,
is pulling all the corpses from the rift.

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i knew Sitting Bull before sitting pretty
and images of bareback warriors protecting the tribe lulled me to sleep in the thud of the wild mustangs hooves
i have crossed deserts, meadows, mountains, and oceans
to get away from my white (wo)man’s burden

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yellow came and told me
paint a dog, find a corner
bodega, steal me some
of them Swisher Sweets, while
red gave me the finger, called
911, kicked me in the shins

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Instead, we rainbowed  the space― hung sexy lace.
I ordered Gitmo closed and asked for the extra clothes
to patch together a warmer wintery scene.
We clothed some homeless folks in Georgetown,
gave them three squares each and a jail house cell.

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It becomes  dark forever at 6.30
as I'm the only one  to get off at my station,
warm train  taking the light away
to stars. In  the west, Passaic
rustles its winter waters in the leafless world
as I walk the resounding mile

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and why should we not feel the fluster further
sensitize our oppression and fortunes
to understudies of undertakers and why should we not care
when they don't upstage us and why should we not fight in the streets
for the same fucking thing everyone fights in the streets for

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     kryptonite drive     the light will change     steel lines shadows shall
continually respond     so make sure you keep your egg in morose
spin dizzy     $1800 rent check made payable to cockroach 
ambassador conversely     each flea has 2 big beautiful eyes

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“Two scoops,” I tell the vendor, “it’s the best
way to ward off despair”—and generous
he is, loading the cone full and high.

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You say he was a good man. he wouldn’t like
My pulling out my eyelash, eyebrow, arm hair

Now. now, mommy, it’s okay. I know you
Remember me with hair—braids with colored,
​Plastic balls settled at the top of a nest of black—

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a statue is watching people strolling

scattering the birds from his head

thinking of the man who locked him in stone

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And you breathe slow like you don't notice
The man's hands following his wandering eyes
And the stench of their findings on his too-late
Goodnight kiss on your already asleep cheek.

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I will walk on my own, stand on
my own two feet, keep my distance
always. I cannot swallow what
she attempts to serve.  I must
look out for my best interests.

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Dark hairs above her lips are exposed
by  your lens. Behind this photo
looms a large volume of Western art.

A coin bought your admission, your presence,
keeps her eyes closed, keeps her voice silent
as if she were dead.

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Sorry about my uncooperative nature
but I’m just not into accepting snake oil

and being bamboozled and sold
on da boastful and promising pitch.

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Metapoesia by David Matthews requires image support

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The 30 year old cool kids are emptying their children and youth all over the parking lot. Dirty diapers without an owner that once belonged to their kids or maybe themselves, smelling like a hefty child support court story...

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if we shimmer, somehow,
above our ivory clouds;
if we are to them
as silvered fish

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                                     but it appears they take themselves where
taken       their destiny is all that’s behind them on
the road       and that child’s voice   not even a memory
within an architecture of raw air

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(Cy Twombly triptych, an
innocent & pre-
plastique Michael
Jackson concert, a
touched de Chirico).

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