Rose Golden Toast

The art of beauty,
beyond loves gaze,
blooms inside a rose colored spittoon.

Not to be confused with lust,
this hornets nest hides secret stashes of honey,
as the bee's work themselves to death.

Try all you might,
but desire won't repel the unwanted charms,
of the creamy peanut butter scraped across burnt toast. 

Beyond the Valley of the Stars

As I lie on the rooftop of my detached garage,
I stare softly at the stars and shapes in the sky.

I wonder, what's beyond the moon.

That, which hasn't been explored, defined, or theorized.

Bewildered,
brash,
beauty,
in all its might.

Good Evening Miss Monroe

She's throwing daggers in my general direction, so I cough up the rest of my dignity, and call it a night.

The air is heavy and dry, begging for a good rain.

I can't seem to walk quite right.

A grown up Weeble, hoping for a midnight mugging.


A dirty vomit soaked hand reaches out from the dark alley, pleading for a puff of the cigarette I just lit.

I stop for a second and ask him "why?"

He seems taken aback and starts to stammer.

I take a long drag, blow the smoke in his face and stomp it out in front of him.

He spits in my direction, but I manage to side step it.

A group of millennial's scowl at my behavior and curse me as they pass, but I can't get myself to give a fuck.

I'd be more compassionate if that lifeless bag of shit was selling greasy hamburgers in that alley. Hell, I'd even take a rat burger, if he was pushing them, just to occupy the time during this walk of no shame.

A tall, wispy, butter face, attempts to cross the street up ahead while texting.

I close my eyes and pray for a police chase to round the corner, but no such luck.

She makes it, without even a honk from oncoming traffic.

Privileged fuck. 

I hear the train below as hot garbage is blown through the grates.

I take pleasure in the thought of some poor white trash visiting the city, with the hope to relive that classic scene from The Seven Year Itch. 

Betty beer can, dolled up, and taking position on the vents, only to be blasted by piss and shit.

The music at Johnnie's is ad nauseam.

Even the bum three blocks away can probably hear it.

The patio is filled with scene-sters, nursing their hand rolled cigarettes and vape pens. There's a tinge of skunk weed in the air, as a couple laughs hysterically and attempt to sign along to Blondie's One Way Or Another.

A group of fags profile me, as I pass jukebox hell.

At least one of them wants to fuck me.

Blondie finishes and Journey provides the exit music.

The entire bar howls "just a small town girl!" just in time for me to step into oncoming traffic.

I try my best to block it out, but sure enough, three blocks away, I can still hear the screaming.

"Don't stop! Be-liev-in'! Hold on to that feel-eh-ye-yah-an."

Home.

I collapse onto the front steps of my overpriced brown stone and light another cigarette.

Three puffs in, I hear a tap at the window from the super. She points to the cigarette and shakes her finger. 

I singe the end with my fingers and slide it into my shirt pocket.

I politely flip her off.

She mouths "asshole" and pulls her curtains shut.

A block away I hear a group of party pigs approaching. They hoot and holler, while carrying on raspy conversation at full volume.

It's not long until I see their plastic tiara's, and booze soaked sashes, that I realize I've entered the ninth circle of hell.

Their toilet papered leader walks barefoot and sips neon green poison from a brandy glass. She flaunts her glass to the demon pack who praises her for stealing it from the bar.

Bride of Frankenstein decides to do her best Girls Gone Wild and streaks across the street, drink in hand.

Just when I've given up hope, she face plants in the street and the glass shatters.

I stand in shock as the sisterhood rushes to her aid.

They look to me for help, but all I can do is rise and start a slow clap.

"What the fuck!"

"You fucking prick!"

Just some of the insults hurdled my way.

As they peel their bloody bride off the street, I manage to regurgitate the only thought in my head.

"Don't Stop Believin" I tell them and retire for the night.
     

The Stoop

Sweat, beads, as the ruby red of your push pop makes it mark.

It's hot.

The kinds that seeps into every cranny and every nook.

A droplet rolls from my neck to the small of my back.

You swing those braids as you cuss with your girls.

I'm smoking with my boy CJ on the stoop.

The juices from last nights garbage stench the streets, but you don't pay no mind.

You just scream at those little girls flipping their jump rope, and push them off the block.

I can tell the heats getting to you too, but can't keep my eyes off those white cut offs you're pushing.

A clap of thunder instantly clears the streets, but I stay still, almost frozen, until you see me.

You give me the finger and rush inside with your girls, stealing one last look.

A smile.

Damn.

I'll take it.

 

Rib Cutting

Last night I found a pamphlet for my loved one's funeral service.I stared at it for quite a long time trying to understand the hard cutting feeling between my ribs.

It's been nearly six years, but the picture on the front, the one of her in good health, cut like a knife. Her careless smile and absurdness as she posed with a gourmet lobster. The one we dreamt of having when we were two starving kids, living in the slums outside New York proper. Before kids, and the bitter cold of those northern lake winds.

Water downed Gin martini's in paper cups and passionate fights with one another because we truly loved each other. We were in our prime, yet all we did was worry about the future. Wasted youth.

I thought time helped heal my broken heart, yet here I am again. A useless rag, damp with salt water and fear.

Love come away with me. I'm so very tired and feel my soul weakening each day. I'm done making memories. It's time to retire.