Underwear Party

He couldn’t tear himself away from swirling

curls that coaxed his chest; shedding in the hands

of Floyd, a sexy funk bass queen of a barber

who occasionally bit at hunks of hair coated

neck, pulling away with a moustache of her

own. She wants to turn me on, get me off,

he thinks, I just can’t fucking help myself

as he takes off his shirt, his pants next

and an orange bumble-bee clinging tight,

emphasizing the thighs. His male friends

often would take glances, but she took

no mind because those outside

didn’t want to become the naked echoes

of themselves, eating his food and eating

each other (eating each other with pants

on), attentions averted away from her

exposed leopard print skin and hair

and hair and hair.

For My Unborn Son

On the day he turns eight, i’ll buy my boy an easy bake

oven and a Barbie,

just to see if he allows another man’s touch to bruise,

only to return

with strong drink that raises the alcohol content of milk

coalescing in breasts

that feed his young who play with the toys i bought.

Tree-In-Bud Sign

Crack. Skin itchy. Whatever teeth I have

are going to be sold for more. For more

crack. I tell myself that I don't. I don't

need it. Just a few grams. Apartment

cockroach fiend spirals upward on the wall.

I think he's looking for some food. Or maybe

a girl. A girl he can settle down and raise

a family with. He would just fuck it

up. Men are assholes. They just leave.

He must be an asshole

sometimes. That's why his sister won't answer

his calls. Maybe it's because he usually calls

at 4 a.m. She's a mother now. Sometimes,

it doesn't work out, sometimes he loses money –

the money he’s saved for crack. How many cocks

can fit in his mouth before he coughs? Before he’s

had enough? Had enough crack.

He was too impatient for prayer and crack

is immediate, but everybody has to bow down

to something. He can't seem to believe in anything

anymore. Not even people who die and practice

law and forget about things like working

for money or blowing for money. A dick

in his mouth makes him feel brand new again

if he can just get his hands on some crack.

Just a few grams.

The cockroach fell off the ceiling and broke his

back, so I decided to hover my foot over him

until my foot got tired.

Poor guy.

Like John Wayne

Anger was not felt in my bones, did not creep

up my spine when smoke escaped dad’s gun.

The sharp caress cradled a femur; explosions

of marrow couldn’t comprehend that dad refused

therapy, forgot to lock away arms and now sister

can’t find inches of skin. The raw flesh almost

lost dad his job. Shouts from his six cylinder

chewed on mom’s nerves, making her leap

through the air as she watched metallic ducks

tumble over backwards. The fake animals

affirmed his aim. They squawked at copper

casings when dad realized his son stopped

being his cowboy the minute diapers outgrew

toy holsters. His son would never be a deputy

with palms cocked and loaded to the brim,

but he took his six year old shooting

and they bonded over the violence.

He Called Himself the KGBeast

Shifty-eyed short-

haired babe says,

"I'm Kerouac

and Cassidy

reincarnated,

occupying the

same body."

I believe that’s

what he believes.

As cackles escaped

him, I suspended

disbelief, digressed

and freaked out

over notions of friends

birthing children.

He realized

he shouldn’t

reproduce either.

There are already too many

white people in the world.

"Yeah, maybe I should

adopt," he said, seized

with laughter.