Small silver-spotlit table in mid foreground, surrounded by darkness... single leather swivel chair rolls into view. Seated, Max: a young Black man, smoking a roach. Dark sunglasses. Suitjacket which he unbuttons and buttons obsessively throughout. White shirt, unbuttoned collar, thin necktie hanging loose. It is not clear whether or not he is blind, only that he rarely removes sunglasses. It is not clear whether or not he is crippled, onlt that he never stands up. He gropes on tabletop, finds nothing, grinds the roach out on the tabletop, brushes the ash away, puts the butt in his pocket. In a raspy whisper (ghetto accent, but not trash
Pyramid City, Arid Zone A,
Waldo was sitting in his bedroom, listening to heavymetal Mozart and Bach, vaping crystal salvinorin and tetrohydrocannabinol, playing with his witchy new autosuggestion program app, producing some weird W.S. Burroughs style cut up poetry: "Coral reef tank taco seasoning cash goatee hipster of vodka, be almost every hotdog to get a chance of 2nd street bridge grey cement dish devil Kirkland senile citizens... Ghosts to crash massive awakening reconstruction almost unbreakable..."
His big glasses might’ve been seen as ultra hip in the ghetto last decade, but now the cheap knockoffs were availab
Yet the pine trees were tall, and
glowing in the streetlights, at
night, and on both sides of the
road the porchlights were gleaming
through the thick oak trunks, and
the highway was somewhere there on the left, and he
walked, not knowing quite why he was even going to
Karl's house—he only knew it was better than
listening to his grandfather
vomit, and scream.
Podiatry of the Potus Glandus
stapled to my brain;
neon computers highlighting the
stale phony immolations, pogroms and
fascistic conflagrations of the whole Westward
Judeo-Christian diaspora (infection).
Blind to the cat's eye glories of
Hans Christian Andersen—
I'm looking for Bukowski
in used bookstores
half because I can't stand
the thought of old men
collecting books of poetry
and half because I can't read
but forty year old inscriptions
in yellowed tomes.
And men cough behind the counters,
by 100,000 books, hoping
filthy fingers stay out of Melville
and maybe Stevenson,
greedy to read them again
before bed, the covers messy,
full of bookmarks
and bourbon stains,
they, coughing into mildew
pillowcases and their hands.
And my hands looking for
Bukowski, but finding nothing
instead only Melville
or maybe Stevenson
and the book sellers'