Through the peeking hole
all the procession could see
was the burning eggshells.
Ashes kept falling on our breakfast.
My fried eggs, unsalted and stained,
and the beans! and the rice! and your lips!
it fell all over Vernont Blvd.
Ashes the size of my middle finger!
but no one saw the fire
nobody spoke about it
in Jackson Heights
the women kept dragging the screaming children
to the supermarket.
One has the given right to feel dangerous to one’s self or one’s interest
due to the simplest things.
I do not wish her any harm, the girl next door
but these damned walls are way too thin…
All I’ve been trying to do is get some rest.
A thought or two, a finger flipped,
“the raging whore down by the shore would know a spell to heal my sore…”
One has the given right to want to self-destroy the entire world
it’s not the politics, the market, the wars,
not the times nor the flesh nor the infestation of the rats
compilation of things one couldn’t care any less for.
It’s the sky above, ticking.
It’s this lack of a pair of decent wings…
to leave it all.
Through the peeking hole the voices came in bouncing
adoring god and praising timelessly, just like unsold shows to the circus
taking over the streets with such entitlement.
-Shut the fuck up – I said.
-My lover is trying to sleep.
He says he won’t come back ever again,
he’s leaving the spider and I to fend for ourselves through the nights
It’s all your fault!
(But they wouldn’t leave)…
They were preachin’
and stompin’ their feet
and honkin’ and yellin’
cuz it’s easter or passover or some other stupid holiday.
-Shut the fuck up – I repeated.
-God cannot stand all the noise.
He’s laying in bed covering his ears and scratching his belly.
His lover, to the right, crying in despair.
The next day we held hands quietly.
That’s what couples apparently do when things have gone rotten.
Winter had finally left,
oh, it feels good not to have ice on your knees,
plus, the tiny skirts don’t hurt the spirit.
We laughed quietly. no direction.
all roads always lead to the big fire.
I want us both to get flowery white dresses to welcome the spring.
Your legs would look great anyway.
I’d bend my knees,
just like the proper religious prayer-y peoples
and devour the spring
under your skirt.
You wouldn’t be so quiet then.
I care not for pigeons either.
This has all been a mistake.
I’m envious of their eyes, I want to rip ’em off,
wear them as trophies around my neck and my soul
ride the 7 train up and down Queens Plaza
so that all the other pigeons can shit themselves.
I care not for his back
the eternal line to his neck
his earlobes or his bones
I care not for the dirt under his fingernails
the scars on his chest
the taste of his tongue
or all his demons.
The spider and I can fend for ourselves just fine,
and love will just have
to shut the fuck up,
like everyone else.
Darling, I’m lying, I need you now.
my house is on fire.
I have set the whole town on fire.
tomorrow the newspapers will have high resolution images
of the believers mournin’ and cursin’ and weepin’.
Worry not, my only one,
I have spoken to god.
We’ve decided to move far away from this planet
and never have to be distorted drunks
hold my hand,
take your guitar, don’t need any clothes,
we’ll get dinner on the road.
Call your job: Tell ’em you’re feeling poisoned.
Tomorrow you won’t want to leave
the left side of my bed.
Goodness, I sound so deprived,
It’s the hormones and my mother’s years of decreeing out loud.
Poor landlord, didn’t get his money’s worth,
poor new boss, lost a slave, poor society
they thought we were just another pair of pigeons
they thought we blended well
with all the pawns.
Through the peeking hole
all the passing humans will ever see
is the empty red nest.
god will have finally left ’em.
… he said he wants to burn with us all through the skies.