| ::08:05:08::
::: Working Title: 5 Spot-Viewing the American Flag In Reverse :::
Spreading the word
Of GOD
And the bible, the stories
Have gathering by gathering
At STARBUCKS:
Drink coffee ALL DAY,
SPEAK REALLY REALLY LOUDLY
And carry a Venti
So everyone can
Hear through
The C-A-P-S!
So loud the brown bags
Of leather Sunday Styles
With a wall street
Morgan Stanley baby
With dirty feet
In Birkenstocks
Those seem to be
Spray-painted
In blue Krylon
What of San Remo?
The Cedar gone nothing
But these and all the above
She poses Posey
With her whole body
Anthropologie
Balanced like a yacht
Cast in stainless
And baked in albino
Enamel sex as
A Sumatran tiger
Only this time
We don’t sever
Her head from her
Glowing Chloe arms
She drops her snake
Skin heels on the platform,
Mud on the spikes,
Turns con-tra-post-o
Hikes up her skirt-
Shorts
Oh tiger I know
You hope the glance
Of your supple,
Pedigree ass
Was caught bedside
In my stiff notebook
Of stained-glass,
My childhood deck of C.L. Dodgson
In apple pie red, white and blue
Toy soldiers, caves of crotchet
Throw your magic lamp
Patterns to the wolves shelved
With Tom Sawyer switches
A thousand leagues below
The little women
Of the night
So who is afraid?
Of looking darkly Virginia?
Of of the greyist Jasper?
Or trailing Hemingway’s Hunter?
I mean, Comet,
What can I really do?
With 16 pockets of stones,
A bronze flashlight
And all these iron
Hamburgers?
It used to be:
“The kids are alright.”
And then
The kids are f*cked
Grass Roots style
Carved into the old,
Stiff wooden New York
Of St. Mark’s piss
Before me-
F*CK THE KIDS
Because at this
Queens bus stop
In my mind
The dispute ends
With GIRL 15
Fatally stabbed
With your northern arctic
Plains that spell
The phoenix mission
In my backyard Dedalus soil
Up the cinder
So alkaline for batteries
And asparagus
Could grow on Mars
Sad I fell sad
For these images
I create over
And over and
Continue to dumbly go
Under noticed by
The lost in fear
Of
WHO AM I?
No and not
This one head on I serve
“I serve as a blank screen”
Oh youth, oh Andy
You are not alright
With the worms
Of McKeesport
Because the kids are plagued
With Joey Ramone’s style
And not his diseased heart
Fashioning black Levi’s
Painted to match studded belts,
Frampton love your ways
Hair as classic
As the your L.E.S.
Stars reflecting
In my round, double blank
Screens, while
The other new
New York Black
Is outside your window-seat
Vitamin water brother
All Wilson Twins Rubik’s Cube
And then there was
“ANDY FROM ATLANTIC RECORDS”
Doing research
In laundry for
The first time in N.Y.
And I told him:
#1. Don’t be nice.
#2. Don’t clean the table.
Who knows if he listened?
As he pissed off to
Float the future
REALLY
Of Atlantic
Where he will be
The next big platform and
Imperceptibly
Fuse himself
With the cloud-
Jesus!
How much more?
Suck up
Pop top frappuccino
And try to cross
Beyond my blank screen,
Across the street
1 HR eye exams
Contact lenses
Glasses duplicated
An entire bag
Of chips and salsa
On display
With a key lime green
Umbrella that slaps hands
With the new black
Of my squee-gee
Words working the screen-
A woman of purple
Violets a dress down Madison
With red hair accenting
The homeless wooden chair
In a dented corner
Bin theirs and that
At 78th and Lex
FED EX!
KINKOS!
YOU NEED ONE!
Just one,
Give me
One thought that walks
With no panties,
Gold toes of the ancients
Celebrating pink blossoms
In their taxi cab eye shadow
Dust after the rain
Or just before
The parked and faded on.
Club the gentle men
And light the flash dancers
Who are just too lazy
To walk with the
No-so accessible
Wheelchairs and blades
After everything has bled,
Tapped out
Mister Bo,
Kurt Loder is also
Your also now.
I want to end
But not really,
Ok I will try with
The Windsor,
Its flowers of distinction,
Perfect chemicals riding the loud
GOD AND THE WORD
All the way to
Frenetics,
Overhearing speaks
Of Brighton Beach
Every summer, every summer
Plunging in and drifting out
Beyond the: “...that is not quality of life, is it?”
Oh I hear, hear the swell,
Squeak, squeaky squee-gee
Bump off the subway
Of my screens,
Grates at street levels of
My pen pocket
Fading, fading lazily
Into just a walk with the real
Flashdancers and gentlemen’s clubs
Parked in the shade
Of my tattoo friends
During all of New York’s
Happy hour where
You are always paying
For the speed,
Yacht or houseboat and with
No context I recommend
You DO see the movie
All gonzo
But leave your flares at home
Before you pay for your
15 dollars for a regular
Haircut spinning
The American Peppermint Stick named:
Patrick, Mei and Jules
Pronounced like the month
You are not in
The moment
But try to look at it
Like three flavors,
COSMOPOLITAIN
No sunlight anymore
No sunlight anymore
“Pat? I really want to see a plane show. Pat?”
Wow, that’s just crazy!
No more sunlight anymore,
Slept a couple of hours
On the beach
Like Ratso
In Midnight Cowboy
Trying desperately to finish
The peeling
Of The Onion crossword.
Written by: ~ J.D. Szalla |
