i bet malcolm would be mad, watching me
watch all those vacant white girls, their hands cupped like teepees. so i caught a subway's glance uptown, traced the blues
to an overdose of the news. my head sang of muted symphonies,
the clodding patter of a busker's drum filled the smoky void.
where would we be without subways, is what the future would say,
as i prance across bones of dead corkmen,
digging though hemispheres of dirt.
the shiny impact of a track makes a one-eyed rat orgasmic,
dining on the flesh of dead corkmen, whose souls are embedded
into each farting whisper and burping hum
of modern mass. her class:
“i would play in the grass, if i could eat it,” was all
she said, playing artist with the canvas of my head.
my head is filled with the scent of blueberry breezes.
the hudson decides to tantrum, but cannot spook
the certain navigation of gulls. a gramercy lament
is a prayer for snow, the novelty of forgettable nights,
windbroken mornings of bargain coffee
and stale bagels, the punkish melodrama
revealed as farce. the bones of dead corkmen trace my blues
all the way from riverdale to wall street.
i bet malcolm would curse
my bag of pork rinds, but a pig is only as dirty
as the minds that eat him.
