Phone Call With Ma After A Nice Reading of Women Poets

No Ma-

not like

Danny Thomas,

that's not

what I said,

anyway 

the point is

I always 

thought

she hated me

and she's

like,

such a

great poet.

No, I never

met her

I am just always

afraid that-

in my poetry,

I come off

as a misogynist,

Yeah Ma,

sure I guess

you could say 

that - I guess

you could say

I dabble in 

misogyny but

I am not

even sure

I know what 

that means.

Okay Ma

whatever

uh huh

love you too, 

call you 

tomorrow.

City Weeds

A cotton haired black man limps
down the alley singing
a Cuban love song
so beautiful it belies
his disheveled appearance.

The pigeons at dusk,
chant the same mantra
as the night before and all
of the nights to come-
oh no, oh no, oh  no.

Shiny new cars whoosh
down damp side streets
with no sense of remorse
for dying days events;
still they flee.

Misfits, and the wretched
and the tragically hopeful
spring from cracks in the sidewalks
and from the shadows
among sparse city weeds.

It is the magic hour.
Out of town soft touches
and Tough Willie booze,
and the big lick good fix
is just out of reach.

It is the time of day that writes itself.
Karma's clock- between tick and tock
between malice and melancholy
when Angels and Demons
call truce. Sublime.

For the cement spawned weeds
it's the only thing that is real.
And darkness cools-
and for the weeds of sidewalks
it is the only thing that is real.

Tetelestai

Why?,
my gut shouts
but
my eyes
can barely
whisper
how fucked
I feel,
and she is
all shoulders
shrugged
and cliches and
I hate
how much
I love her
right now.

I am left hanging
in pain,
a man
crucified,
a whining-spirit
martyr,

and worse I know
I will
rest in it.

Slumping down
hanging on
my arms
empty of you,
then
pushing
off feet
nailed in place
by selfish sadness,

overly anxious
to run to you,
a moment's relief.

I am convicted.
I am pierced.
I would die for you.

You will not have me.

it is finished.