Skins

Gallery of grotesqueries
whence names are staked
as pilgrims blameless
to manifest that destiny,
hands out hand me downs.

Accompanied, individuality affronts.
Individually: unencumbered;
loving, hating, living, killing,
not wiping the pee off the seat
until some one glimpses those drops.

Then what promulgates is proof
of one man’s barbarity, one woman’s
nosiness and gossiping, everyone
else’s tongues bitten out of decorum,
grotesqueries same or worse.

It is all a matter of disgust anyway.
We come into our flesh not our own.
Blood is red, feces is mostly brown.
Missing the bowl might as well be a sin.
Sunsets are more promising with cholera.

The eternal doorman of chance’s studio
isn’t as busy as we might think he is,
all he has to do is sit with his doorstop
watching skins subsumed by his master,
whether coming or going.

Here

Kilroy, whose nose is trodden
and fingers must be broken now,
is wrong. He was not there.

To see him is proof of this.
He is faded just like iron ink
patinized on yellow letters.

And once letters get that look,
especially that must, they and their ink
become far too wistful to be waste.

Kilroy, whose nose is trodden
and fingers must be broken now,
was wrong. He is always there.

Redemption

Life, the iredeemer.
No wonder there’s a God, not unlike there’s hate
and always a dollar in St. Anthony’s change for a cigarette
from the Pakistani or Indian bodega kept up by a family
who kneels just the same to different names, and praises
the canonized coin in their jars writ with wishes
that God won’t stop depositing dimes or spare quarters
for some beatific order: smoke, family, like love.
What cans to be had.