lots of revision lately

At Gary’s U-Pull It

Nothing is guaranteed

at Gary’s U-Pull It.

Only erupting rust, rubber and

the sun’s metallic hum

lasts. When the snow melts

the mud of junk sinks

faster. Here the miracles are brand

new tires still attached

to smithereened wind-
shields and unlatched hoods

twisted beyond dimension,

since all succumbs to a forlorn man

with the  wrench

and socket set who stands

waist-deep in the frozen river

of wrecked metal,

while he roots for a coolant reservoir

to rig his car with.

At Gary’s U-Pull It,

No one laughs when they see

“Shit happens” on the bumper

of a caved roof car, and

your “#1 A+ Honors Student”

is a little prick

who got his shit kicked

last week at school by the one

who now pits the unclaimed tire

iron against a windshield

when nobody looks

anymore, or asks themselves

in quiet passing who this air-

bag exploded for.

E 140th Street Redemption Song

E 140^th Street Redemption Song

Micah Towery

I may write

the saddest words I heard

the old man on the corner say:

my baby, she left me

without a word, without

a mumblin’ word.

It’s like some

bullshit hallelujah

someone has been singing for years,

and we are all waiting

to be called sons again.

Tonight I find

that there is nothing left

of my prayers but the moon,

which is knotted like a rosary

in the night, hung without care

on a rearview mirror.

There are Latin women

pouring out onto the sidewalks

from gay bars

and we wonder if we still might

have a chance.

I may write the saddest words

again—the victim, the paschal lamb

in front of a joyful crowd—

but it would be

as if the

cat’s tongue were rubbing

its own sandpaper.

The crackheads look

sad in the blue-in-green

glow of my dash,

hungry on the stoop without a fix. They know

how rain falls on the wicked,

and the king is never

without a lover.

At the Spool Art Gallery

See that we have taken what you gave us as children
that we have beautified our inheritance
what we have lost and regained through processes unknown to us
that music has come from our anxious hearts

and we sleep by it

on our beds beside the thin man

who plays his wide guitar

O, Our mothers and fathers:
were you never this excited for your creations?

These are your faces to us—

always turned away.

...so, this poem is pretty old. i just found it going through some old stuff. it's not great, but hey, i haven't posted in a while, so you'll take what you can get, right?

Moth (Psalm 39)

Fearing your violent side, I tried to keep

my mouth shut when I saw how you’d

rigged this game to destroy beauty—

and not just beauty, but the chintzy,

low-brow smut that I like too—

devoured whenever the moth is hungry.

But you always hated the grudging

“Yes,” and made me broach the issue

of how you snatch away our beauty

in gloating silence, leave us bleached

like belly-up whales on the sand’s ecru.

Not even a bone to gnaw when I’m hungry?

It’s either you or vanity…

what else is there for hope? True,

this might have been your point: beauty

is the bitter sponge of lye you lift up daily

to our mouths, while you consume

us with the blows of your hand, your beauty

like a moth, always feeding, and still hungry.

fell in love with a girl