When the Streets Peeled BackOnce, I was a pioneer. I was a tidal wave in a woman's womb. Once, I was burning and belligerant, trapped and convinced that I was dangerous. Once, I was a longing between seems, between sheets, between teeth marks and tall tale.When the Streets Peeled Back
Once, I was screaming, dripping with lust and passion on a paint brush. Once, I was more than myself could bare.
And then the streets peeled back into ash. And then the shins of soldiers appeared. And then the soles of sovereignty were here. And the beat of breathlessness went tripping through my ears.
Once, I was a nameles
I Live In A City of MonstersI live in a city of dinosaurs. They stand still. And pretend to be structures of steel and drywall. But I know the truth. They breathe And blink When everybody is focused on trafficI Live In A City of Monsters
And tabloid scandals And the incompetent coffee-boy mixing their frothy rush-hour drinks.
I live in a city of crying geese. They moan like sinners. But I know better. They're all just faking it to ward off the gunmen. I envy their longevity: I went hoarse three weeks ago And I'm surprised I'm not dead yet.
I live in a city of reanimated fossils, Whe
38We should go out dancing dear. We should go out dancing and stay out the whole night. Wait out the whole morning. Then come back drenched in dew, Dancing until the crowds awake. Dancing until the sun rises and you are resting Cold and barren. We should go out dancing. Through the people you know. The people I know. Strangers and veterans, nurses, and vigilantes. We should go out and never come back in. 38 witnesses witnessing38
Our diligent dancing. We should go out dear, go out dancing.
When The Poets DieWhen we die, we dance beneath the soil. We build cities, sixty stories under six feet And have tea with dead pets and dinosaurs. Our bodies cramp coffins while our heads and our hands dream. This is the afterlife. This is the death Where people play party games And drink until their bones are dank. This is the death Where proper is a pre mortem mystique This is the death. And we are the devotees The polygomists, the poets The lovers of lovers of lover of words. So we speak as the world unravels above us. And our blocks and our corners and our street signs decaWhen The Poets Die
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