cloak and dagger
i.
at night when convention breeds isolation
there is time to tip and take, & not get
all worked up about like soft sandcastles.
i can hear earfuls of sea noises outside.
and it is not important whether i am
the castle or its grand creator. what
matters is that i knew of sands once.
 
ii.
that gives me the peace to look
inside my peculiar architecture
to see that air completes me, &
the great lancet arches stand
as the fluff that detracts from
the countless pinpoint crevices
that pencil me into existence.
 
iii.
sometimes i wish to rub out
the drafting to prove i have
the electric bravery to wait
to see how the fuzzy erasures
would prove to me how fearful
i'd be to see the cuspate tips of
her smile brazenly awaiting me
behind the flaxen cloak of her
hair on that white background.
 
iv.
when that hour comes &
the whole gestalt gets
stolen by sourish sea salt
as one draft of wind blows
the drawing of me away, away...
i'll suck back my snotty tears &
i'll ask what her face is still doing there...
 
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Concrete Jungle Safari
a stray rifle bullet exiled from
a barrel gutters a bank mogul's
mousse helmet hairdo, & brain
matter sprays onto the ground
as though the entire blundering
flock of pigeons-that scattered-
contracted a textbook case of
bloody diarrhea just before they
disappeared into the horizon like
a handful of stale popcorn tossed
to the air on a blustery, autumn day.
 
the crowd that was once a mob of unrelated passersby
hoped to genitals that the ensuing silence would last long
as a gluttonous Kodiak Bear's dreams in a cooling winter.
 
before they could lament their dropped lattes, blubbers
from a young girl of dark beauty seduced every eye to her
body where the ricochet had nosedived into her shin; while
the sniper took a sip from his glass of water after cursing
at the maple syrup oozing from the girl's leg for ruining
any plans he had of stopping for coffee somewhere.
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Southern Uprising
O, some other hypocritical, suburb cosmo & I piffled on about our whereabouts...
 
"I reside on a street of obsessive front lawns & Romantic
suburban homes that sit one financially eternal mile away
from the clogged, pale-dirt apartment complexes of Hispanic
people who live there anyway, but that is fucked up to say."
 
long before the thought took its rightful, preordained spot
i viewed an American idolizing ingenue with her howling tot.
oh suburbia, I cannot genuflect, but I can reflect.
suburbia: a sick, emotional ghetto to be cured with Costco.
suburbia: where a family might watch itself on TV.
suburbia: bad shampoo from the mail, to you.
 
the ingenue stuffs trusty funds for the tot's education.
the ingenue stuffs her face with all styles of confection.
the ingenue stuffs her stuff into stuff to open up stuffy rooms.
[we all stuff stuff into stuff like live pharaohs in prefab tombs.]
but, i won't spend another dime if it means new photos of suburban wombs.
 
because rage bathes
my body when i hear
the skirling yips
skip from the lips
of some nippy dog
when womb & groom
show in a car that
looks very swollen.
& only a giant yes
to candid old rage
yields me stomach
for the styles of
incessant kicking
needed to rupture
the whole bloated,
bulimic monstrosity.
 
i wish the immigrants fury enough to pour out cups of wrathful horchata.
i wish for floggings from rose vendors on highways: humanity as pinata.
i wish the Virgin of Guadalupe would foot stomp every last mazda miata.
i wish the laborers, the immigrants, & LA's poor formed one motley armada.
 
"yeah," piffled the other cosmo.
"it won't happen...not tomorrow
& not today. they'll always pay
for Uncle Sam's latest toupee.
most U.S. homes want our wants.
even they want what we want,
but, that is fucked up to say."
 
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© KJ
Bio: KJ likes to make poems a lot.