Part of Me Has Gone Rotten

Right now I’m trying to find out which part.
Somewhere lies a cankered sore,
as on the foot of a bum,
who’s been walking for days with no respite;
offered no help from my brain, my heart, my knees, or my eyes.
My stomach’s a landfill,
through which he rummages parts of last night’s meal,
worn down to bone by the thick, rich stink of unrequited bile.
Upon his surfeited burp, my white cells collapse inward with paranoia,
my lymph nodes hum ever so slightly.
I’m flesh-sick.
My eyes are last night’s cloud-covered moon;
memory beset by dusty moths hungry for old clothes;
heart bubbling up through my neck like a fountain of molten coins;
knees speak only to the weather, ignoring both nerve and vein.
Part of me has gone rotten.
I’m trying to carve out what’s dead without spilling the rest.

Stayin dark longer


jopo wrote a poem said
so i make bologna
said staying dark longer
said (what was that
eye-talian phrase you used?)

oh god...i've fried
myself on yet another night,
stayin out longer,
flush with small bills and
reducing my
legal costs by
going to law school?

dance, mon frer, stop
biting your nails. let other
countries make the dollar bills
let us make the art. search for
these terms in google:
miami car dealer suicide and fire.

random is beautiful, e.g.
impatientist painters
burning down buildings
paranoid and planting
their faces in concrete? ...

Continue with this poem...