We're building a casino
on top of the soil
where i plant the tomato
fruit after the mountain snow
runs down to the lake
We're building a casino
on top of the makeshift playground
children in this building
and the one next door
and down the street
built the seesaw with planks
left over from the casino
we built last year
the same casino
where i turn my money
into chips turn my paycheck
into a drink coupon and cash
funnel my minimum wage plus tips
back into the churning casino
ballroom
behind bars watched by cameras
watched by men upstairs
in dark suits
who don't know my name but keep it on file
in case i win too many times or solicit a prostitute

We're building a casino on top of
the people who work for the casinos
down the street
across the street
by our market
then they'll rent new rooms from
the casino
who owns our home
pays our bills
and keeps us transient and
available to be picked up and moved
a whole community relocated
cause we're building a new casino where
we can work graveyard shifts
and cocktail napkin iou tips
work and wait for
another casino to be built where
we might store seeds in frozen ground
tomatoes grow underneath

And then there were the epic nights of drinking

The old english forty ounces the
plastic pitchers of cheap brew the piss
and water
and the college
boys
and then there was the fake ID the hip hop clubs
Storyville the Cafe smoking joints with the
rastafarian men at Nickies BBQ the sangria
the fruit the dancing the
purple Buick
century
and then there was San Francisco and the
Castro and a job and a bar
the whiskey the jacks the johnneys the glitter
the gays the hey baby kiss
kiss scenster scene and the first names of half
the barkeeps on the south side
There was the cool as fuck the
party people the
shut the door
open a bottle
get to know you
kind of crowd
and there was alone time
there was the wine dance - the kitchen to couch
repitition there was an empty fridge but a
full recycling bin there was
manhatten after manhatten at the Lucky 13 to
celebrate me celebrate Thursday
celebrate another birthday I don’t
remember- Sure! The blackout falldown episodes
showed up at my parties but who didn’t?
These were epic nights
honey
reasons to toast and open my throat release the
tight skin around my eyes and
even after the floor started to open up
and after my dead weight on the bathroom
floor my mother screeching into my rolled
back eyes and even then
i lean against the splintered door frame
and invite you inside
i’m the host of this motherfucking epic party
man so c’mon in
have a drink
and save some of the dark stuff
at the bottom
for me

Associate Director of Haiku

The poet places
Paperclip between pursed lips
Types haiku at work

Scotch tape dispenser
Stapler calculator
Three hole-punch binder

Check e-mail three times
Delete messages from him
Four minutes till six

this poem a map

fold this poem n
pocket it till
Hudson and Harlem
wrap
themselves round your head
the warm wind tunnel of 3rd avenue
this poem a map
a compass
will stretch each sidewalk
straight and be my walkie
talkie to you
in the underground tunnels
their hum and rush
feed a belly hungry
for livin' it right hot
damn!
new york at night
its north
south avenues bend east west streets
shear soles n scuff the
fine leather on your feet
direct you down to below bleeker n
slide your sly self in line
feel time stop for spun sugar
pick yourself up a box n head up to
the center a park
park on top a hill where the midtown towers poke
fun into the sky
find the royal I some
tree space to slip sweet cakes sweet
crumbles of cupped cakes to your lips sweet
these streets cant compete with seconds
spent stopped for the chocolate at magnolia
n hey pick uptown head up the right
way hey everybody hit broadway
up from 59th street up up up the Bway
sidewalk walk walk uptown on the street
no agenda just
warm cement in the right direction
un LES calls your name
head through hells kitchen
stop in the underbelly of the devil
for some grub spaghetti and a dry
manhattan and another
manhattan
with two cherries n head hipster self
down the avenues like tight jeans
n vintage tees to
arlene's grocery where the rockabilly
wannabes spill out on Avenue C
or just sit
on a bench
this poem on your lap
this poem a map
a compass folded
in a back pocket
waiting to breathe
the city air

the weight of water

each drop
is light
a slight dribble upon my arm
a freckle
under each damp prick
my skin sits thin n
perhaps I even absorb the first few
but even today
as the thick mist
builds up an army
against me
I imagine a lifetime of water
parting with the sky to perch
on my shoulders
the anticipation of
each moist minute n
years wet
add up in my
head
my brittle body will
surly slump
under this lifetime of
sky convinced to supply
an atmosphere of
endless oceans
atop my 5 foot frame
not even including the
tears
that build up
behind my
sunglasses
I’ll wait till I get home
and empty them directly
into the sink
aim my eyes
over the drain hole
and let go
a little bit
at a time
till
I feel
dry

hereditary

ice clinks n
whiskey shrinks
in wide
mouth glass
n the daddy’s
girl
in me
the jewish worker
bay area side of the
family
in me
raised themselves a
bourbon
girl
n
the thin
stem of
vodka shaken
pours pure
over
sugar rim
n the
mama’s girl
in me
the
southern oakey
Presbyterian
in me
aims to sip
or gulp
just like
grandma
n
just like
grandma
n just like
uncles an all my aunties
i fall down stairs
and don’t remember why
i slur n
talk shit in ways
i’d never do
sober
but even
sober
becomes a
point of
view i
take less an
less as
saturdays slip into
tuesday night
n empty
wine bottles
pile up in
the recycling
bin
i been
round the block enough to know
ain’t nothin
pretty bout
daddy’s girl
passed out
n the passenger seat of
her car
on a hill
n
8,000 mornings
i face my face
n the mirror
with one eye
squintn head ache
n hung over
n workn four hours
after my last
sip
n
life seems to slip
by quick and
in a blur

i slur the names
of the
relatives that
handed this boozy
blood down my way
same people
pushn me to
aa or push another
refill my way
n
im not sure when
the disease
wrapped its arms
round my neck
n particular
me n not my cousins
or my brother
but me
pissn my pants
an falln down stairs
n not remembering shit

n not that i’m ashamed
n not that i’m alone
n the 10,000 r so other
fucked up examples of
alcoholism manifested
in my bloodstream
r another poem
like did he rape me
if i don’t remember
ain’t nobody n
my family
want that for a daughter
even with nine months
sober
277 days without a drop
of liqueur in my system
n I stand unshaken
to say what I am
a matter o fact open
book drunk n admittedly an alcoholic
n I can’t make that sound poetic if I wanted to

the disease
manifests in me
the blood from my fingers to feet
the statistic in me
the feminist I learned to be
I am the one with my genes
the one with my name
the one who is left
after the last
intimate drops
in the family bottle
have polished off
I remain
standing

my forhead rests against
the wooden door frame
it seperates my living room from
kitchen i'm cooking
chicken stock and
you're reading recipes
over the phone
i imagine for a second
that you are
this wall that holds up my apartment
your voice holds me here
your words tumble like
butter into my stomach and
punch me hunched over
i hold my face
on the cool wood
i don't want to miss a moment
of your voice
don't want to mess up
a sentence
you say
i don't know whether to drop the
phone or hang up
or thank you for calling
this wall reminds me how i
i loathe your distance
curse the strict roads that hold us apart
i wish i could fight them like a rabid dog
hurl myself in your direction
unleashed and uncoiled
but i don't say anything i
turn around and sit on my kitchen floor
prop the phone against my
ear and listen deeply to every
sound
you make

On Donuts and Drunks (draft 1)

i.

after i eat one
i’m done
reach my max
capacity
of a daily sugar
intake
not because of
some strict regimen
it’s just
i don’t think twice
pull my hand out of the
box
and my mind moves
to other things
Sailing
for example
a hobby I’d like to
try
Oh frivolous activities
to sail
to eat pastries

ii.

this whiskey whispers
a dull hum
and held on my tongue it numbs
my lips before i allow it to slip
into my belly
its thick silk
coats me inside
makes even the sharpest
edge or eyes
nestle listless
against my skin
I don’t want to get off
this train
this warm compartment
that rocks me
to sleep
wakes me and
nudges me to refill
my glass

always.....or don't fall in love with a rockstar

i invested in
expensive cell
service
i dial and text
from the
tenderloin to
denmark
i do all that i can
to call you
love, i do
but the road always calls you first

i spend saturdays
catching up on my
correspondence
spend hours and
hours pacing
round my apartment
left messages with
the hotel staff
i do all that i can
to reach you
love, i do
but the road always reaches you first

the road
bastardly maze
stained with the tiretracks
of another’s lover
always givin’ it away for free
the road,
Paved whore
thief of my heart
as i die of thirst, it always calls you first
it always calls first

summer in the bay
always foggy damp and grey
and i itch in this skin,
drive all night to
get to LA but
the road woke you early again
i do what i can do
to get to you
love, i do
but the road
it always calls first