Vagabond King
some poems
1050 Baxter Street
write down everything you see
Teenage whores- blacklight, bored
Bare blank carpet
Old case, tarnished brass, filmed glass, displaying ass and rubber flesh
Everything tied to a price tag
Contempt stuck on painted eyes
Barely old enough to get paid to suck cocks.
Dig until you bleed
Dig up the sullen southern weeds behind the
fence line and you will find it,
roots wrapped in red red clay. You will find it
and it will stain your hands.
There are arrowheads yet to find in the Piedmont earth.
Do you realize how many bones you walk over in a day?
Somesoul built his home here, once,
Another man bled, heart flattened by a crude lead ball.
or by the blessings of a brutish blonde belle
There are bodies yet to find in the Piedmont earth.
Quick, think of something of value and worth!
Think of what your daddy taught you, some
Something like
don’t you be bringing home some nigger girl,
or,
Son, you’d better not be queer.
There are gods yet to find in the Piedmont earth.
spider I Dare you
Drip a little closer, spider,
Silk a line down and
Spin me all in legs,
so symmetrical
Dare a moth to tangle up, down like this
Show me what you showed her
Sit me down, tell me
ugly little miss,
impeccable
Dare a moth to tangle up, down like this
The hold the holes, the web the thread,
The pillowed dead we lay our bones upon
The hold the holes, the web the thread,
Precursor to the corpse,
Build a coffin on the back porch
interlude
Spread like hungry roots across this cotton-
vines to tangle, touch,
crime to kiss crime to search to find to learn
criminals now, now
what was I to you but paraffin wax and sweat?
you know who you are
You trussed-up little shipwreck waifs piss around bars like these,
thinking yourselves mermaids.
I don’t get paid enough for this shit.
You can’t even sing, you Odyssean failure, you never had a hand in it, just held your hand out.
You children, you petty girls, you scared-of-all-black-strangers girls, you tits-out-but-don’t-look-psuedofeminist trash,
I hope I have a daughter one day so I can teach her to look down on people like you.
I don’t believe in monsters I don’t
lo, a confession:
at night, when it’s still and safe
the corners of my lips tighten and I salivate,
fantasizing of gripping his last breaths in my aging young fist
of the last brick handed blows he lands before my knee divots his broad swastika’d chest
of digging uncommon soft neck skin deep under long chewed fingernails
of his lurid shudder shake kick when he finally (comically) fails to accept this.
Dedicated to {redacted}. I will meet you again some sunny day
meaculpameaculpameamaximaculpa
your eyes, I promise
Furrow if you wanna, lady,
I was looking at your eyes.
Tug the skirt down and ruin your good looks
With a hooked down burnt bra frown, go ahead,
I was looking at your eyes.
US 24W outside of Defiance, Ohio
I think maybe I’ve been driving too long.
I hope that wasn’t a body I just saw.
I hope maybe that he died before he started to burn.
I keep thinking that I smell it.
I hope they get the goddamned crows away till them get him in a bag.
I hope his family hates his guts or else it’s gonna be real goddamned sad.
I don’t feel right.
Journeyman
12-31-09, somewhere between Norwood and Athens, GA.
In G major.
Well the brickmason drinks like a fish every morning
And he’ll cuss like a sailor at them boys on his wall
He’ll work like a devil
But he sings like an angel
All them old Irish folk songs ringin’ out against the stone
Singin Oh-ho, mavourneen, oh-ho mavourneen,
Mavourneen my darling, in the morning I’ll be home
Oh-ho mavourneen, my darling mavourneen,
Mavourneen my darling, I’m coming home
All the carpenter’s got
Is a thumb and a half and six fingers
But he’s a sight with a hammer
Eyes plumb, level, and true
He’s got a habit from the sixties
Two girls back in Mississippi
And he’ll see ’em for the sunrise
If it’s the last thing he’ll ever do
Singin’ oh-ho mavourneen, my children my only
Best thing I ever made and the best gift I ever got
Oh-ho mavourneen, my darling mavourneen,
Mavourneen my darlings, I’m coming home
I’ve got no home to speak of
No love to drink of
And it ain’t for lack of trying, I’m just used to me alone
But I can’t help but think of
The good life I mighta screwed up
And the girl I mighta married if I coulda kept myself at home
Oh-ho, mavourneen, I’m sorry my darling,
I’m gone before the morning, in the morning you’ll be alone
Oh-ho mavourneen, my darling mavourneen,
I’m sorry my darling, but I’m not coming home