Find and share the perfect poems.
greeter
she hustles us in
eyes tired
shadows stutter
behind nervous trees
outer room
screen door grime
a porous portal
paneling drips
frantic carpet
living room
up early ricki lake
an endless loop
tv’s wide blue mouth
the only thing moving
pantry
she fast food she
buy one get one free
kitchen
parched bones
silently akimbo
peel of burn
gray of skin
he sizzles
cooks
"crack house" was originally published in mystic turf (Willow Books, 2012). Used with permission of the author.
i've heard tell of a hustle
in brooklyn where clever folks
throw themselves in front of cars
lurching down eastern parkway
not the beat-up green mini-vans
or duct tape toyotas of poets, not
impalas bleeding chrome
spinning disposable testosterone
for Adrian, J., Christopher, Matthew, Greg, Roger, Major & Randall
i want my sons to know
men who smile
i want my sons to know men
who own their imperfections
i want my sons to know
men who listen
i want my sons to know
men who hear hearts, see words
i want my sons to know men
who honor women
i want my sons to know
men who appreciate the arts
i want my sons to know
men who adore their mamas
i want my sons to know men
who aren’t afraid of tears
perhaps in a sincere gesture of protest
the managing editor decided it best
i welcome the grand imperial wizard
to channel nine, guide him back to
the senior producer’s glass cube
where he would proceed to engage
in heated words with the general
manager, whose robe hung upstairs