Deadly cruise

Deadly Cruise (April 9, 2017)

Beach-riding traffic at a standstill wake up wake
for crime isn’t cool throw yourself off a cliff
decide which foods are healthier Dick fled
officials urging motorists arrested on 2 counts
go deaf revisit Anselm Kieffer learn the bene-
fits of pickles give orders carry
the weight of the archery state deny every
request shoot cool breezes poke fun wear
good shoes reconsider your ties
with the ancient dead
download unicorn trails retell
the saga of Billy T.K. in vehicle and on foot
he downloaded child porn in Lucedale
possession with intent to
distribute forged fermented foods lie
down take aim don’t magritte me anymore
just play Pawn to King fou forever crazy king
operate yourself who else will
intercept yet traffic not nor be
wake up wake only the trafficked
catch fugitives eat them raw or else
inspire hope now he’s going to jail
or find alternative routes mainly
stop doing be on your own
need to know a woman helps
have good reflexes
venture into a mosquito jungle
drown yourself
die the wallpaper arsenic green


Marcel’s Prayer

He got deeply-held grocery eyes, him.
Pleased, he had went roughing round.
He fill him stomach, my cousin.
He BM my rightful challenge.
He chop the “Where I Pine” over and again.
Queasy now, him all and miraculously
Halfway there,
And we his A-OK stripped bare.

Me center.
He open what sack-a-dust?
“He so afraid,” said son-of-five to
He favorite shaking door.
He words of fuck cuss.
He nodding: “Where me clean, me, eh Mike?”

Him running.
He who found ornery needles
Through fingerings
Semicircular and withering.

The drunk slash asshole
Fukkin the concave-flung zoology.
Bustin jackets dear, more than
Any discovered weakness.

“Quickly climbing,
she yields,” says Mary,
traveling her, goddamnit.

Follow the free-granted,
Feral, and un-buried life:
Not of, but between
Buncha drinking cousins, them, singing:

Gone away for me cruising out on
daddy’s half-heard Road again.


mundane starry senses borrowed for paled eyes
recite wishes frozen or things circumscribed
whose supreme transparency flowers
in the reverse of
weak grace turned to intoxication forever
sentimentality sentenced to life everlasting

how can you be certain
that there must be
some hope

for the one pure ideal species indivisible
its words pushing the fallen laborers
washing blood handed down
generation after generation
words opening enigmatic repetitions
by fallen actors writing their own
instabilities connected little by little
to wise ways deposed like kings
queens princes baronesses true

some hopes
there must be
can you be certain
how many

The Coast, No. 4: White House Hotel, July 1987


Photograph by Diana Young.

The hotel was a shambles of renovation when we checked in, but we didn’t care. In fact, it was what we wanted, all that chaos and the anonymity of being the only guests in an unfinished room on the second floor front with french doors onto a balcony overlooking the swimming pool and all that southern charm, the live oaks and palms and swards of lush St. Augustine down to Highway 90 where semis groaned toward Bethlehem. Out beyond that, the dredged-up Emerald Beach. Farther out, the Sound, a stinking bouillabaisse of rotting sea life churned by endless screwing blades of freighters, barges, and shrimp trawlers working the Intercoastal from New Orleans to Mobile.
We ordered a TV for our room. We did not want to miss the Iran-Contra Hearing. We had traveled far for the chance. We waited. Promptly at one, Spider delivered a dusty pink portable Admiral on a metal stand. He also brought a floor fan, saying we were going to die in the heat iffn we didn’t use it. He plugged it in and the lights went out.

Light in the Darkness

IMG_3868(On an untitled photograph by Diana Young)

Does light in the darkness
speak to you? Do the hues,
the values, the shapes whisper
a story, choke you with a curse,
or do they permit
you to breathe
the ignited air?
No direction,
only lust?

It’s all about photons, isn’t it,
and how they jazz up the leaves?
But who can read the messages delivered
by photons screaming? What’s to be made
of what the elaborate conjuring photons
posit, set forth — dare?
Nothing’s to be made.
Photons do not conjure,
display, posit, or dare.

It’s up to you to scream, to touch
the light, caress skin
crush folds
crunch dried leaves
between your eye teeth,
chew on the message
until it comes to you
straight and singed by fire.