The published are professors scouring tomes of linguistic graves inferring wisdom through echelons of riposte; the sullied are dreamers ripping through zines, desecrating reason consuming anything, one-hundred-and-forty characters at a time. the professor's words linger and sweep, dangling through truth and sublime lyric. the dreamer is absorbed by the raw demanding rainy days and the learn'd serve banquets with battered feet and tattered robes going down long sapphire roads. On my way I come to realize both ignore the tolls.
The shark lives in a boorish place,
perfect for something so visceral.
Finning about its medium with tedious attention and wanton thoughts
It is ever fretful in the bloodied spume
Unsure if the cohort will take the wrong idea, or worse.
Yet it endures, a machine of dire and vagabond tendencies.
It is in the unfathomable wandering that it finds meaning,
hidden in vibrant colors of the coral,
Of which, the beast displays stunning ignorance.
Feet danglin’ off the bellicose roof
where two dogs glisten with blood and saliva.
In the back, the man with a checklist looks down the line.
He appraises, does not solicit, he’s involved yet not illicit.
The bodyguard shows me his musket and says
“This here’s an old thing. Sturdy. See the smoothbore?”
He fired it straight into those dogs.
The boom was more disturbing
but they kept on snarling at each other,
unsure where the blood came from,
as it trickled into the rain pipe.
Can you remember, on our filmy sun days how the forty-second street motor squirmed, and you laughed about how we could never be saviors on such grand railways? When Mario Moreno died, a giant bright flag echoed his essence on me. With such a fury that cannon blew, and we understood where he was headed. A cigarette yawned where we left that ill-faithed rag, the sullied organ rattling a sore throat through that long, long opus. and that sweet heaven of sin and lustful valor, where a tiny soul pounded in a Christmas card you sent, that reminisced and told a vivid howl about a steelyard.