Blue Sky, Part II

They want a poem

about jazz music

as an understated triple clef, a hip

to trombones tapping that ash off

syncopated soft curves, because

that bared marrow crackling

of rap on the avenue

won’t sound right.


So speak the jangle of lawn chairs,

the rattle of revolvers locked in

broom closets, conducted by

passing car door speakers—

keeps an eye on the breath of children

over dark night. Having already

turnt the soil, the earthworms

into sour milk from that timbre

of slouch and high lark.


So when the skies feel parched

remind them of the Mayans

tossing human heads down temple steps

to the same beat that built the calendar


and a fire’s smoke

inventing zero.

mayan wayne


Blue Sky, Part I

They want a poem

about fingertips

dipped in sugar,

how they reek

of blue sky,

even while jazz

muddies up

the corner.


Where scrawls

of Tobago

in tobacco chips,

calling brown from

way back, re-encrusts

the concrete

like Oklahoma



Before we worshipped

the sun, we worshipped

dirt. All that was above us,

brought us fire.


But sometimes

just the pale drought

of blue sky.


Je Suis Pablo Escobar


With thanks to Narcos

Dodge Caravans pinch sunsets of pink gulf coasts

closer. So crawls traffic, Medellin to Pensacola—

on all fours. Drift of pickup trucks drag South Pole

equator-bound, while detectives echo-locate

cell phones atop alkaline canopies—gash

of jet fuel tugs a bow over drug-lord’s

last words to mama. Turnt


this Jungle Book to snow showers, ice

capades divot in purple light of nightclub floor. Disco balls

huffed up, cut with credit cards down to latitudes—

Javier tripping refugee glass


distending in champagne lounge door. His

brown face crawling back to me across

Miami coffee tables, Chevy tire-tracks

like lines of TV static

in the storm.

A Query for Elliot

mr. robot 3.jpg

With thanks to Mr. Robot


Pictured you peeled back from sunset, that shadow’s step

ahead of rusted tabby receding hairline, pulled taut across


square-tusks of rooftops, shivering loose all the dandruff

ain’t fit to be gold. Compose a glow holed up from daytime,


drumming notes from the underground, rapping angles at

keyboards to bring a satellite down. Thought you would’ve


tapped the telegraph, crunched bitrates of Oxycodone,

compressed clouds into conversation, until tugged at, then


dispersed by slapping paw. Instead, tail wag at the terminal,

slip under Hubble without a scratch or a claw. After all,


favor that orange crush of windowpane from empty-set

of boxes, preferring Amazon over analog directions posted


by the front door. Coiled upon asking price, what do you

whisper in when tickling blank-space of search engines?


Ordering kitty treats to rid yourself of mouse breath after

a kill?

Way of Papyrus

bible toilet

Find me by the hours, the ones

you’ve slept through, in the jokes you missed

and graffiti paid no mind, in the fungus of books,

the parchment gone the way of papyrus, and the long view

doctors might’ve mentioned that day

you were born.


Look for me by the rusted car parts, husks of steel beetles,

no sinew. I’ll be scraping the cuticles, the charcuterie

down to slivers of tungsten, while batteries

turn since there are other

ways to pay.


Catch me, toasting by the post office, emptied of letters,

stuffed to the windows with pigeons past

their carrion point, hollow bones

won’t ship ground

nor express.

K-Stew’s Dream Sequence


“To realize that all your life,

all your love, all your hate, all your memories, all your pain,

   it was all the same thing. It was all the same dream,

a dream that you had inside a locked room,

a dream about being a person.”

-Rust Cohle

True Detective


Kristen, who are you wearing tonight??

Amelia Earhardt.


And is that necklace Cartier??

Its OJ Simpson’s smashed up windshield

and a pair of gloves that don’t fit.


May I ask who your lovely companion is tonight??

A broken record I’ve made into a dinner plate.

Cold cocks me at the after-party, leaves

me for a new pair of jeans.


And any tips for the fans who might wanna do what you do someday??

It might sound a little backwards, but it’s like

when you want your cell phone to work right—

dress Amish.

My secret…

eat sheep’s brains to horde their powers.

Got my start gorging on a crash of rhinos, at least

that’s how I learned to fly.

You and the You Across from You… a self portrait

Self Portait of the Human Condition



You and the you across from you

devour the minutes like stopwatches

taming eyes at the recording apparatus,

we multiply.


With every play reanimate, however

hardly Nietzschean vampires siphoning gas tanks,

brown toothed and giddy

in the last orange hours of apocalypse.


But indeed, we the undead,

even before traffic lights

go black, before foraging WaWa

for canned beans by match light.


You and the you next to you

do not dwindle towards zero, instead

record and upload zombie self

from living room shelf before the world ends

ending the world.

Gnash back at the camera, your eyes explain

your teeth, a bear trap I didn’t know

would turn me into one of you.


But after all, nothing new,

not long ago convulsing hordes

avalanched the sidewalks with shuffle steps, window shopped,

broke nails on chopsticks

gnawing orange chicken,

grunts of approval ‘til next meal,

until we saw the sacred in cyber space.


Hallelujahs shook arcades of the fresh cathedral

with deposits digital from individuals gone underground,

upload passing notes on what it was to be separate,

absolute, existing alone.

But they echoed

And they echoed

And they echoed gnashing teeth

until you and the you across from you

devour the minutes like stopwatches taming eyes at the recording apparatus,

we multiply.