Donna

 

Donna in her soft socks and french fry legacy
lamenting of long lost days
she was wilder wielding trinkets sapphire spirit
drinking from the creek cursing all white fathers
she was fifteen pounds lighter a dancer a jubilee
a blonde hawk for moonstone
and chicken breast

Donna does not shave anymore
she doesn't have anyone worth the allure
the thin black artist's stroke along the contours of her
ruby slipper slick for fantasy
and for her own clumsy fingers
invisible barricade in her bed
termite mounds of some other life's clothes
Donna giving her water to a sadness of her own contrivance.

TA

Martha

 

Martha drove mad hungry for late night pleasure
a bit of sloppy grease and golden parapet
blinking red lights lilting like tired cocoons across
empty intersections dodging dangerous potholes in the road
disappointment after disappointment spurned her onward
into midnight frenzy
a twisting growling savage diatribe spoke in hymns from
her guts
the sleeping denizens sheltered in dark boxes
dared not wake up
Martha would not be bothered
she plagued the quiet thoroughfares with her hot desire
racing through the city's deep oak shadows with her heavy foot
pressing the petal

until in the distance that waxing yellow light revealed itself
a beacon of hope
and under that banner
a burger.

TA

Bishop

 

To the Bishop and his lovely wife
this dance I dedicate
kissing the carpet with numb limbs
slick with my own archived jism
I can't tell a burning cross
from a hanging tree
and we got rockets that land themselves
y'all really making me wonder what's important
probably why I gave up colors too
this beleaguered high
this swaying soul

Bishop be kind and your lovey wife too
this I pray
on bended knees in hooker boots
electronic hymnal keep the beat
they say they can prove the trajectory of
our planet
that it isn't flat
they say math is the true God
and triangles never lie

Bishop hear my prayer
grant me time to bear witness to the Singularity
grant me grace in professional poverty
give me fodder
keep me hard
even Jack knew the Muse was hidden in sadness

and your lovely wife too.

TA

Cora

 

I met Cora at the Washateria
her heavy coin collection
a red wasp tapping at the ceiling
a sparrow in angry pursuit old fat crow flapping
blaming someone else

her hair in constant circulation
web servers running an exposed port
this aint no victimless crime
a cock roach hungry for the wild
her fingers like spindly branches a switch my
   mother told me to pick out
little red welps and piano notes in the margin
a flag discovered
harassed
Cora laughing in the river her wet pink gills filling
like crystalline pouches

she tells her story inside my circuitry
a photon filibuster ahem ahem to the chamber present
fumbling with her emotional expectation
dealing with her own shit
one pinky painted in pearl
lowlife praying the sinner's prayer in her full brown bush

she says stuff like, hopefully my story helps
   if I can and if I can't,
she's on her toes
her tongue like a lizard tasting the day
she chooses to do the right thing, Cora
does.

TA