On the stoop. You hear a deadbeat shake moan
and turn. She burns parallel to us.
It's here and I say Drop from a sky's there
and I will be your mouth. See how this critter
hush is a chain of chins that clatters
far far south towards the mural on my head.
My ladder can be your next house. I love our
mistakes, baldy, and I'm saying the parade
whooshes by, implies our house. There's nothing
I want to say in the way of "brutal honesty."
I'm rough on clothes, bright on skin, and it's
fine. Polish off the gristle. Flunk too soon.
Let me gift you your shining fists so
we can crash the party between them.
4 comments:
i might enjoy shake and moan on the same line....and maybe i (as per usual) get lost in the shift between brutal honesty and im rough on clothes....but the thing that caught me here is the fight between violence and affection...the words have a sharpness..a tetanus quality...combined with a freshly- laundered-shirt-smell of genuine-ness...its moving
man, i wish i'd thought of moving moan
yes, i know, its a ridiculous and superficial critique...i just thought "deadbeat shake moan" (without breath in between) was jazzy-good
haha no no i was serious. it IS jazzy-good! wouldn't ever say "superficial". that shit is important, at least i think so.
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