The maudlin minstrels
crying from debtor’s pain
play witness to my day to day…
leave me in need of punctuated
remarks while, “Where’s
your motorcycle, James” takes swing
at my face. A summary of “fakin”
in a balls deep discovery
that April 7, 2007 ruined
the lessons only a father could teach.
My father in the mental ward.
Dear Ted, my guts are dying
it’s 5:15 am
The turn table plays broken air brakes
cans wane haunted, erudite
Some molded beans, a refrigerator
eaten to death. Recycling of two wristbands
boxes of condoms from his nightlife
star-stripped desire floating on misty ceiling:
a backseat driver on a tandem bike.
The discovery deep in pale green light
like hands larger than face,
then accusations of tennis to be played.
“I’ll tell you where you got yo shoes!”
like hands larger than face, pale
propping green couch atop trashcans,
haunted by boxes of condoms and beans,
green from the mold.
A poem lost in thought, banded
from Chinatown ring wavering in tenancy
turning finger green with its metal, cheap.
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