Friday Night

I sat singing.

I sat singing free of torment
or joy,
bland dull and friendless.
I sang mutedly of acquaintances, relatives and neighbors.

Christ would come and sit on my windowsill,
his head cradled by Mother Mary.
And my head cradled by mine.

Void of light:
Men would whisper tone poems
and psalms-
their mouths aching from speedballs and mush;
but their jaws urged on by porcelain angels,
white ladies and smut.

Pointed tooth’d Magdalena would come (tunelessly) to fuck
in front of sisters and
sponsors.
And I would sing soundlessly,
watching myself
being watched.

City Sons and mascots
burnt as candles.
The wax of their bodies dripping into the alleyways and avenues,

like Spiritual blood running down
heathen streets.

We saw cops skipping town,
snuffing out police torches
with tongue-
moistened fingers.

And Fire!
Screamed out from every frigid window.

I sang straight not sleeping for five days before-
to get a full nights rest under jail fluorescents.
(while Hawaiian giants tempted my cousin from across the hall).

My cousin was not an apparition,
a distraction,
or a manifestation!

He was not that man just out of sight
behind my shoulder during seven day speed freaks.
It was I not he who wrote bitter essays
(disguised as love notes)
to the Pharisees.


(we) slurped stolen wines
drowning not only sorrows
but fears regrets and inhibitions.

And (we) piss streamed out the kitchen window
drizzling golden showers
on dirt lots and passersby.

And (we)
listened deaf to Children’s poems,
and (we) rambled intentionally
over (our) father’s enumeration of symptoms.

And (we)
spoke in soporific sonnets,
and all around (us)
would-be saviors
collapsed in deep sleep
on their respective
Josephs.

False fathers,
with virgin lips.