rough Lunts like us
I walk the mystery city,
its dark angles and golden slices.
I make my way up
glasstic, gargoyle’d, rubble-shine
to the only way in
where dirt poets dance
in a field behind chainlink,
a stubbled field of forgotten geometry,
where drunk mower makes cloddy Bijou,
trampled Panteges, botched Belasco
for rough Lunts like us. There are
no seats, no safe places for audiences.
Fives and loose-leaf clutches, tickets
and vital papers, all lost to the wind.
No best poems. No impressive sets.
Just us, dancing, grinning poets,
mad in lost geometry,
who scrape the dirt and ink a true skyline.
Capering men and women who howl
gnarl-songs to the thieving wind,
to the blast-furnace city.
Blue-black ore-veined peal-out
last-chance pure-d fuck-all songs,
the invincible songs of scrawn.
Words by muscle-mad throat.
Music by smashed, hickory heart.
We beat beat beat
and hieroglyph the dying day,
as the last orange light oils the GW
and syrups into goddamn Fort Lee.
—from “CAPS Poetry Anthology 2015”, CAPS Press