The Last Poems
Internet poetry dedicated to Judy Lochness.
On West 53rd Street
An existing toxic city
puffs high
clouds curl into bows,
before and after down-
pours, a stubborn sour taste
of lemons
shifting windy
owlish scowls, growls
in the mildest dreams
a metallic daze
purple clouds over resting towers,
a lazy summer
blurs like a blind bird
without bird legs, too.
A breeze
in the afternoon
or evening carousel ride
careless of morning moon
rainbows of daylight
disappear in chaos
garbage, lemon peels
and dense fog
a blob of smog
city sidewalks damp
in darkness of dusk
and fascists
talking baseball,
people
selling lemon breath
time burns without sunshine
and with many shady streets
to cross
for the one-legged dog,
Yankee fans see a blue jay
without real wings
windy night after a grey day
grazes a tree or street
and changes mood
a sweet little girl’s twirl,
lifting her dress
next to a pothole
and a lollipop’s swirl
clouds sink lower, thicker
for the ass-hat losers
in metropolitan gear
under lamplight
for indifferent people
mostly unhappy
and unemployed
in a cardboard box
of a new home
on West 53rd Street.
On Failing Marine Biology
Aquatic creatures crawl
a gutter of a seabed somewhere
in my head. I don’t understand
marine life, unless I stop and Google
my feelings, nothingness above water
while sleeping in class after just eating
a box of Pringles. The stomach aches
like a deformed whale. A teacher
prods me awake to study a picture
of three dolphins, three mouths open
three eyes staring at me
three more eyes that I can’t see
from a small corner of cold water
they swim away, they’re so quick
in Cuba; tourists watch the show
of sea animals
only available free on YouTube
as dolphins tragically disappear
the retarded ocean otter
appears covered
in black, oil goop
from the ship’s spill
and yesterday’s
rich discovery.
After Emily Dickinson
I wasn’t born in Amherst, Massachusetts
I drink a whole lotta beer in Brewington,
but my soul has bandaged moments
and I want to write like Emily
because there’s a funeral
in my brain
reading
a poem never read
something forgotten,
but it is hard not to see
the news everywhere on Twitter
about the missing girl
an absent amber alert
shame, blame
and rage.
I missed the class on anger
management.
