The Poison

They slaughtered the beast
that was trying to lead us
out of the valley
up to the high plains.
They roasted its corpse
and tore it to pieces,
convinced of their own
moral correctness.

And they burned down the kitchen
and turned loose the dogs.
Their fingers were greasy.
they burned down the kitchen.
they burned down the kitchen.
Greasy dogs running
away from the flames.
They turned all the starving dogs loose

And wine was all catered
with money they conjured.
With money they conjured.
By a waiter they hired
from a land to the east, where no one speaks English.
And the wine was the poison –
from their poisoned ideals.
From vanity, priv’lige and hate

And they burned down the kitchen
and they passed out the poison .
And they let the dogs loose.
And they drove drunk and fast.
And they stole all the money or conjured some more
and they drenched their Lord
in purple and amber.
and their smirking Lord sharpened his knife.

And the men from the east
counted the money, ‘while
the sick they got sicker
and the witless got fat.
And the blind they got blinder
and the lamer they got lamer.
And the poison it flowed
from the table, like gold.



All the lines
run down me
like metal stripes
or alien implants –
every nerve connected
one to one.

It’s not the touch
that does it,
its when the
eyes attach.
The sight becomes

There is something ancient in your scent.

Fire becomes
to fire and
like repels
the like.
The current running
through me like a bolt.

Every sense
is heightened.
I will have you.
They will know.
You are outside me now
but not for long.


I don’t mean to be your buzzkill
but can’t you see your latest boyfriend
the one with the $3000 dollar suit

is fucking crazy?

All coked up he’s at the bar, there
telling us how he’ll kill his rival
laughing with his psycho eyes

throwing glances at you

So much rage and so much hubris
so much urge to bury his daddy
teeth bard, throwing back jack

like he just don’t care

don’t laugh if he can’t stay hard
say whatever validates him
tell him all his jokes are funny, too

because he’s a fucking psycho.

Earthquake Summer

I got used to Hurricanes
blowing off the Jersey banks
whipping through the grimy streets
and the bourgeoise backlots
of leafy Glen Haven.
We get a lot of Hurricanes
here, in upstate Jersey

So. imagine my shock
my thrill and
my delighted horror
as the ground started shaking
my legs started trembling
and the molten fluids
began to flow –
earthquake summer!

Oh, the lawn chairs overtoppled
the pool rippled and
oversplashed, water, oh, so wet!
certain walls, old
and dusty standing
crumbled to the ground
I felt the earth move,for me
earthquake summer!

We get the odd brush fire
even though I cleared my brush
mudslides are uncommon
unless tequila is involved
earthquakes, they are
a once off
but who knows, I might get lucky
earthquake summer!

White Girls from Elizabeth

White girls from Elizabeth
are totally lame.
The live for promises that
they will never collect.

No guy is going to come
to take them to the city
no college going to write them back
no dream jobs in the offing.

Daddy won’t get sober
and take you home for summer
will never lose the five pounds
and slip into the red dress.

The rubber broke but you’ll get lucky
this time.

White girls from Elizabeth
are totally lame.


She’s a flurry of feet
on the corner of South Broad St
looking for a Courthouse abortion.

Eyes flitting the room
in the Boom Boom
drinking a Chinese doctor

hitches up her skirt
in the motor court
eyes on her watch as he goes down her.

I’d hate her more
if she was me
ten years or so from now


You can look
but you can’t touch
no matter how bad
no matter how much
your desperation
seeps through your pores
this kind of fine
it will never be yours
you talk about worship
and you know how to please
you know that worships what
you do on your knees
you talk about innocence
and sanctity
you seem to think you want to
protect me
but – I make my choices
and live my my code
and what I am
you can never erode
you say that trouble’s
going to rain down on me
I’m better safe
than I am being free
each time you say it
you’re wrong, just like before
now hold you tongue in while I
slutwalk out of your door.

The Whack Attack (El Ataque de Golpe)

You slap me on
my ghetto booty
as if you are
slumming tonight
they call it
crossing the tracks
in this part of town
guys like you
with a greasy roll of
5s, but mostly singles
looking for something
to take a ride with you

That’s what you like,
isn’t it?
Nasty little
girls with a grudge
against themselves
and an eye for an
uptown daddy,
who you can get your
hook into.
Stupid. Vapid.
easy and
Greedy for ease.

Hell, I’m as
ghetto as an Irish-Italian girl
from the second least ghetto
township in the Federal 50
can be. And
I’m as “urban” as the
daughter of the President
of the local chapter
of the GOP can be. Really.

I am.

Bitches ain’t shit
and you’re tripping, daddy.
Now fuck off back to Plainfield.