Vice In Expression: Poems

Impressions

Cloth stretched.

Beige.

Blank.

Purple, yellow, and

Rose, goo-gobbed

To canvas.

SPLAT!

Angry assailant hovers

Above,

"You're a gooey mess

What are you going to do?"

Speaks her attitude

With contempt.

She then attacks it

Wretchedly using

brush- flips,

patting and

Smacking; like

wielding a flailing fish

in aqua blue.

Looks fishy to me.

A side eye,

Then a rush of aggression.

Small pails of whites,

ochres,

Violets, pinks,

reds soar.

Colors drop, and droop,

and drip,

And swirl, and curve.

The madness ensues with feigned purpose,

False passion, rage, and many scrapes

Of ferocity.

Another one.

Shallow breaths.

They'd buy it.

She'd make them.

Her round bum thuds against the floor

With exhaustion.

Another night of trading her tears for sweat.

No one need ever know.

She embraces herself, she's cold and

Lonely on the linoleum,

Amongst a massacre of color

displaying her

filthy life.

N.Y. DRAIN I.

Down the drain,

down the city sewage.

Amelia's black mascara and tears,

chicken gristle and wantons and

rice from Chang's.

Rust color from the

performance artist on

34th street,

determined to literally

paint the town red.

On this rainy, rainy, eve,

let there be reprieve.

Let there be purging and burgeoning

to a city that never sleeps,

unto another eventful tomorrow.

N.Y. DRAIN II.

Down the drain,

down the city sewage.

Every penny and every dream.

Every American pyramid scheme.

The tale of a million Wall Street woes,

needeth not hyperbole- filled pathos.

Money down the drain,

liquor- filled blood, passions.

All dissipating in the murky puddles

of anguish and fear

and sorrow and regret.

N.Y. DRAIN III.

Rain. Rain.

Down the drain.

Take the crime and filth away.

Down the gutter

blood and rats.

Appear clean to me---

pitter- a- pat.

N.Y. DRAIN IV.

A pet. A skunk.

A reminder when

mornings are sunny

and rain- filled days are few.

A reminder of the

stench of the gutter,

and why we leave things there.

Salt I.

Wandering waters,

waves of the sea;

wisdom of man's mortality.

Teach me your tales

of celebration, love,

of woe,

hither and thither,

to and fro.

Salt II.

The water breaks waves to shore,

needing no introduction

to their arrival.

I want to live like this:

strong and free.

I want to wash like a wave to

the world's shores petulantly,

saying, " Here I am."

Untitled II.

Clang, break, clash!

Twisted street metal

Collapses against

the yellow awning of

a cheaply designed

lemonade stand, in

the lesser bustles

of brave New York.

An ambulance siren

Howls, and the two

Pert whistles of a

Policewoman signaling

And walking backwards

Can be heard.

A catch of cash in a hat

For a vagrant.

A hiss spits from a

raccoon scuffling

Trash nearby.

Two catcalls from the scaffold

Can be heard, one for Carmencita

And one for Ramon.

These are the scenes of a

City life, of death, of danger,

Of charm, opportunity, and action.

Here lies a city of rights and wrongs,

Hopes and dreams, and

Just as strong as it is weak.

Here lies a city of lights and shine,

Entertainment, and charisma.

So come with me to Studio 3,

And make of this city a fantasy.

Forget your doubts and leave your reasons.

Jump high, jump far:

Make grave decisions.

Vortex

Flirting with disaster,

With every reckless word.

Flirting with disaster,

Each verb, article, and noun:

Weapons in pursuit of sovereignty.

Flirting with disaster,

My words will do the deed.

Bent upon destruction,

Worlds spinning like plates atop

An incised, irrational, temper.

Bent upon destruction.

Bent upon destruction,

Lighting the rams of relationship and opportunity.

One more word. Coup de grace.

Bent all upon destruction.

Clouded by illusion,

My apology is all it takes.

Clouded by illusion,

My words will light the way.

Clouded by illusion,

My words will light the way.

An engineered illusion.

A hypnotized illusion.