Haircut for Corvid

 

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Their shorn feathers fall

Like black snowflakes.

Short back and sides.

But Jesus, try getting the apron on them.

 

Caw caw caw!

Don’t go near them with powder

Or push the hair products

Even if they are at 50% off today.

 

Oh, and forget a tip

If all you have is lollipops,

Bazooka Joe and them

Go way, way back.

 

But what can I do

With a stone or a chestnut?

I shouldn’t complain

They help keep the lights on.

 

Anyway, I use the feathers

To soft pedal the night sky.

It helps me sleep

After a hard day’s work.

Imminent Jam

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English isn’t my first language:

It is the glossolalia of improving my mile.

Further.

Isn’t that what the man said?

 

Well, then, that always seems like always a

Hair further

Don’t it?

Man and woman alike can get tonguetwisted

 

Colloquially and in the finest farthest reaches

Of underpasses, townhomes and high-rises.

Eventually we trip over our tongues when the red light goes on.

By then, it’s time to get off anyways…

 

So knuckle under and buckle up, buttercup.

I’ll hold the steak knife to your supple chin

And by pray by dints, the glint on the blade

Blinds us all.

Excuse Me, Are You Finished With That Hegemony?

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Hey man,

Respect the dynamic.

Our empire can’t be erected

On the backs of other’s babies.

 

Again. Can it?

Oh, and speaking of erections

Ladies, maybe if you let us touch your bodies

Every once or twice or three times

 

We’d let you have a say

About your plumbing or that place

Down there wherever the stork

Deposits the twinkle in God’s eye.

 

Alls I’m saying is it’s tough being white.

Hard to be WHITE. The WHITER THE HARDER.

It’s almost, almost like trying

To not there at all.

 

Type B

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Born nameless without sin

We exit otherwise;

Meh, what can you do?

 

Live up to our names and sins

Or risk pissing off the Gods?

Better then being pissed on, eh?

 

Keep it moving Guthrie,

Your songs don’t play

On this jukebox.

 

From sea to shining sea

The gods burn upon re-entry

With nary a fizzle or kerplunk.

 

We carve ice sculptures in hell,

Fashion thimbles from granite boulders

With our bare hands.

 

Other times we nap.

Dreaming of names and sins,

Lonely as all get out.

Living on the Bus-Line

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I went down to the crossroads

To catch a cross-town bus.

There was swinging with great violence

In a benevolent cacophony.

 

But the empty pleading eyes

And the emptier pleading hands

Only seemed to say sadly

You have to sit through the whole presentation

 

In order to get a round-trip ticket.

But there’s coffee and doughnuts.

Except the coffee’s bad

And the doughnuts were gone by 9.

 

Wetting the tip of my pencil to gauge the wind

I remembered an ember can travel miles

Before being extinguished so I asked my neighbor,

Hey buddy, you got a cigarette?

If A Poet Dies Does He Make A Sound?

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Oh, did you hear?

L the poet died.

No, feigned mourning,

I hadn’t.

 

Quick,

Fire up the laptop,

Gas up the time machine,

Dog-ear the Bible.

 

Sigh, They’re all dying

To the click-clack of the keyboard,

To the swipes of approval

Or disapproval.

 

In a Democracy everyone gets to Heaven.

Once there you can rate it:

0 being worst and 5 being best.

In an Oligarchy it’s pay-to-play.

 

We still get to write our review

But only from the vestibule,

And, of course, no one reads it.

Like L’s poetry.

Distance To Empty

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Shave the day’s ass and walk it backwards

For even a blind rat finds a sewer now and again.

Hear the tapping of their tiny canes,

The scuttling of their street sharp claws,

 

My friends, this is a movement

That has blossomed from an inchoate

Bead of sweat into fully-formed salty tears

Rising like the oceans,

 

A palpable fear beyond metaphor,

Scripted and hidden away for years

Beneath a lonely boy’s pillow,

Dampened with dreams and kisses

 

Right next to a mule’s champed bit,

Divinity’s teeth marks on the carcass.

The world’s not flat. Its an infinity pool

And we just sold out of extra-small sunglasses.