grinding

and love will come while the sun will blind
shining over your well-schooled smile
and performance kit persona
and that well groomed fear posing
like docility in the chaotic 21st century North America

take off the light
I won't be much, not even less
the closet still stinging black
and eyes swelling like the menstruating crotch
of a chiguagua dog
always purging its foul insides
always looking painful

the leaves turn

away from your last season's rage
it's a system of betrayal
you decide
the congress of want
the society of foreover consume
the fall into cavity I
where the search is circular
and bound to immortality

twisting open the how are you's i'm fine's
in desperate need of oiling
lulled by the watches of
when to do what to do
no whys

I've decided to then become what I hate
a vacuous eggshell
no substance and morbidly fragile
eating animals and slurping at the
Second Cup
full belly, hollow soul
and that forlorn longing
that when the leaves turn
so will I.

OLD BEAT MEN

He was the kind no one would care to
sit beside in the bus
but I had been reading the Beat Reader
so I did
I even smudged my ass closer
cuz his warm alcohol aroma
was like my boyfriend's
and cuz of the Beat Reader
and
every now and then
he would flip his slow and gone gaze
towards me
his matte blue eyes bored

He must write, or have some other genius - I thought
at the fifties grey suit and jazz hat
and the white wife beater clinging fiercely to his beating chest
and I remembered that other 60 year old cat I saw
in highschool,
geared up in his fifties suit and jazz hat
big square shoulders and long hands
and wearing a strut that any young broad would die for
it was cool and chill and smooth and sharp and ready and brisk and oh so styled

The old drunk in the bus then pulled a notebook from his pocket
and wrote in large print letters:

"COMPETITION

WHO IS THE SMALLEST?

WHO IS THE GREATER?"

and then tucked his notebook back in the jacket pocket

I got off before him
and couldn't check out his strut