THE WORLD CRIED ITSELF TO SLEEP AGAIN
WHILE THE NEWS WAS BUSY SHAVING

The World's apartment is littered with
empty
bottles
and stinks
of stale booze

and in the middle of the
living room
the planet
slumps limp in an old easy chair
sticky and red with blood
leaking from the
open wrists of the lonely
globe
broken hearted
defeated

the World couldn't afford the upkeep on the
digs
or the insurance on the vehicles
one too many folks came begging for quarters at the
gas stations
and the parking lots
of the world

leaving the Earth's children
in the care of
cartoon stepfathers
teaching them all to
count backwards
in forensic playgrounds of
forward bigotry
finally the grass pulled up roots
turned and ran
leaving The World naked and unprotected

inviting the oceans to flow inland and
fill the rivers with salt
like a great flood of tears
washing over the
rugged face of The World

and when The Sun decided not to show up for
breakfast Saturday morning
after being out all night
The World
drunk with pain
decided to check out

leaving the cat hungry and the television
hissing the Home Shopping Network
selling light-up Elvis decanters
to the ageless dark cockroaches
hunting through the rubble
of a last call

the neighbors were disgusted
this wasn't the first attempt

when the ambulance arrived to carry the limp
planet to the local hospital and
pass sentence
a small note was found
clinging to the stiff fingers

"My love is my pain,
please love me."

 

POETRY IS A DRUNK ANIMAL MOUNTING THE MOON

eating greasy dinner
with its
unwashed hands

and belching in your face

it is a sky the
color of conflict
and grieving soil soaked by a
dark shade of faith
held in the tender arms of an ocean
lingering with the salty taste of
optimism
crying against the shore

the
syncopated
relief

poetry is the
table
at which you sit
waiting for something
delicious
and something better to
wash it
down

it is a sweating
cool
goblet full of
love

and the anxious
anticipation
of

 

SO IF THEY EVER NAME THE STREETS

they will name them love
for the children they
never bore

for the cities
built
without eyes

because there is always
more

than the concrete
the asphalt
the cars parked by exhausted meters
the pedestrians
and the victims
begging for the art of it

there is a skyline
that does mascara ads for a living
and then
there is the
beauty of the street