Richard

I was born a lion,
and have never felt more like a cub than when I gained my mane.

The mane grew robust and golden, a natural reflection
of the natural selection of who gains responsibility, invincibility.

And everyone expects me to keep the pride,
strengthen the pride, make the pride together and strong.

Today I belched long and deep in the throat
and felt like a lion. But being and feeling are not fraternal.

And it's been months since I bit something
until it bled and slept in the warmth of my jaw.

And if I do so soon, will I experience the
same remorseful jolt I've craved and offered for years?

An old man once dreamt of me trotting along
the coasts of Africa, and asked himself what it means to be [a man].

Our jobs

I wish I could tell you that my job doesn't bleed into us.

But when I come home late, squint at words, words, words, and can't see you,
we know the letting has come.

You wish you could tell me that your job doesn't bleed into us.

But when You come home early, mourn over my absence by fucking someone else,
we know the letting has come.

But I can't come home early,
and You can't come home late,
so when's our thicky thick milkshake
gonna turn into an empty wine glass?

Corona, Queens, New York, New York

There are six barbershops (and gold traders and bodegas and laundromats) in a 10 minute walk. These trades and services are seemingly flourishing, at least along Junction Blvd. The recession did not affect them because everyone needs a clean cut, Downy clothes, a 1a.m. fix of coconut milk, or cash from World War II brooches.

The streets have never not smelled like la basura and pigeon piss.

Contemporary Mexicana pulses from loudspeakers outside of record shops that also sell shoes.

Under techniwarmcolor fabric umbrellas, glass-plastic boxes of fruits (from sweet sun mangos to succulent flamingo watermelon) and corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick are sold. Thick-spread butter and snowy paprika for savory flavor to grit the sweet crunch of maiz amarillo. Even in these months when we know what "wind chill" means, these umbrellas offer the reminiscence of summer temperatures atop Mayan mountains, lush and green.

Cheekless pantyhose over shameless mannequin budonkadonks and spouseless shoes shrinkwrapped in plastic.

Some random crazy dude yelling craziness in Spanish at the top of his lungs all the fucking time. The same phrase over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. Something about buying cell phones....

Dudes two feet shorter than me handing out cards with beautiful black haired women displaying their curves and the opportunity to talk to them for only $8.00 a minute.

Fifteen hours a day and night of car alarms going off with no one sprinting to be called humanitarians and an ice cream truck with a clap clap clap manifesto rhapsody.

Trash of La Dentista Handbills, Restaurant Sewage, and McDonald's bags line the tiles and curbs and pocks of this urban ground, this gum-tarred and Graffiti pretty streetside. I can't tell you how many infants' socks and shoes, without their significant others, have been been abandoned and left to dampen and spoil in the streets of Corona.

"Jaded Princess"

I should have heeded his warning and kept my

distance.

You first were expecting corruption underneath silks and beads.
But after the kindness and obedience, loyalty turned too much,

too soon.

Perturbation reigned shortly thereafter until I selfishly took
it from you, took you, tucked in you, fucked in you, fucked you,

And then returned.

Rough and tumble lust didn't host your oohish afterparties, so I'm
sorry I didn't show and didn't want to show after saying I'd come,

and then returned.

Time in scarves and streets playing sweetness, but I'm a notknown.
And you were too, so I thanked you for your honesty not a moment

too soon.

And I reserved the right after the months' deceit to call you
a cunt and instruct you to maintain what was the most civil

distance.

"She's a big bowl of crazy" sounded appetizing initially.

epilogue

You keep saying you won't
___keep me waiting,

and I kept believing you
for the sake of finding

the gentlest kiss and
the hardest fuck and

writing them into a
featherlight sonnet with

your cunt for the epigraph.