The Last Poems



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.

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