Days 4 and 5

God DJ’s every other weekend when he doesn’t have to manage at footlocker
Tonight, he’s having everyone over to his apartment.
Now god doesn’t charge for booze but asks
That you pick up a copy of his demo tape
And pass it on to a friend

When we get there
The living room is pitch black
Except for Christmas lights that god has scattered about the floor, walls, and ceiling
To set the mood.

god starts the night with well known classics
Hip hop that was only ever released on vinyl’s
The type that all the young kids are buying up
Cause its hip again to look poor

Sun comes in fashionably late/of course
but gets the party started.
She wears a fitted red dress but lets her bra show
Her hair is in a bird nest bun
that’s wet like she just left bed

she begins to dance and all heads turn towards her.
But her eyes are stuck on moon.
Whose slowly rotating around the room not quite sure if he’s ready yet

And in between them is earth, and he is trying to get moon to walk to her
While at the same time being an annoying third wing
And earth is one of those guys that just isn’t really cool
Except that he’s got this really sexy haircut
And wears patterned shirts with ties that wouldn’t match
On anyone else but make him look artistic, or stylish
And its clear that this isn’t really his type of party.

Atmosphere and gravity are in the kitchen
Passing “fuck me looks” but gravity’s got
Bad breath so they keep there distance.
The tension between the two of them
Makes everyone heavy.

And the hot July air drips from our arms
And gets stuck in the back of our throats
So we rotate around the room splitting time
In front of the only open window
But everyone’s pretty drunk
So the orbits become elliptical

And god steps out for a cigarette
but knows this weekend his records are fresh
And his needles are sharp
That the music will keep spinning
And the party pulses.


A poem from Lorca to Emmet Till


In the sky there is nobody asleep.
Nobody is asleep.

In a river the corpse
Moaned for three days.

In Mississippi two fisherman
Had fan belts stuck in their nets.

Nobody is asleep on earth.

Everybody was sleeping
When two men melted his face.
Pot holed his body.
Lynched his neck with a fan belt.

Left him strangled by moss.

And now nobody is asleep, landscapes of open eyes.

All who cover their eyes will landslide
To his mummified hand.

His face was clawed by thunderstorms,
Bound by lighting.

Our hands are stained with your blood
They will not shed its maroon crust
No matter how panicked we scrub.

No one is sleeping.
We huddle over sinks.
Sand paper ourselves with soap.
Whisper
To the ground
To weigh light on you.

Tonight
Nobody is sleeping in the sky.
Nobody is sleeping on the earth.
Nobody, no where
No one is sleeping.


In response to David Rivard’s



Leaves above me dry red,
Orange, yellow.

8:30 one morning, you died,

and in the hours after
I am drawn to my brothers closet.

Cramped between old Halloween costumes,
Is my brother, balancing a picture of you on his knee.

I want to believe
Leaves will crawl back onto trees.

Dirt will not freeze
Buds will push bloom

But soon it will be fall
Leaves will drip,
Flowers wilt,
Ground freeze until cracked.

And pictures keep rolling of knees.
I am unable to watch green before orange.