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Friday, December 16, 2011

Waiting in Oakland Intrn’l while reading Tony S. The Kid In America

Waiting in Oakland Intrn’l while reading Tony Scibella The Kid In America

 waiting for a flight in Oakland airport, looking out on baywater as it flows around runways & future prospects of flight trying to get to L A today to read a few words off the page in Venice in the place Beyond in the place Baroque in the canal town the carnale town the lil’ place in my heart the big ace up my sleeve where I learned the difference between dead & killed & killer where art meant no job blues but blue art painted bigger pictures for me like an ocean that is never quite blue, mo’ green like the money that gets chased around & around I nvr cld stop it, did not like be in poor so scratch & sniff & shoot my way thru to a freeway offramp nearer to u so I could find the glue that might keep the world 2gether long enough to be a sep rate truth thatno one could steal away in the night w/ gov’t permission like paperwork that meant doom that chased me into sleepless thoughts so far away from it all…from rooms &hopes &pens &words into torn muscled  terror of bikini fatefulness always w/ passion &more passion like last night but sometimes a long time in between like legs & promises & a brochure that sold something so long ago I forgot who I was writing to bcuz they died so many dead so many dying the last sacred death unknown to me so many already buried already burntup already ashes scattered poems all that is left standing cept fer kids & kids make the world go round so I did this fer the kids, (once they mistakenly call’d me a kid too, so take it like a grownup, you lil’ punks) don’t tell em nothing tho, let em figure it out, they all got that light inside like I did burning out all the way to brightness in the darkest moments we did not come to bury ceasar we all came on the salad tossed up greener than the waves off Venice on a winter day of stormy tides & santa ana winds blowing chapped lipped dirty blond girls from Midwest retreats onto casual boardwalk strolls under seagulls that shat out last nights foraged poems onto the heads of incendiary tourists turning beet red burned out cheek boned masters of destiny reaping the whirlwinds of falling markets all around a world mall that might as well go back to the stone age for all I care as long as you solar power battery charge the vibrators that the muse uses to get her clit just right & give the goods all night & we smile together as we hear the sounds of music everwhere (evreewear)…everywhere…everywhere a dance is underway a foot is about to tap & move & maybe even spin in a way it has never spun before…if you go go go fast enuff you might make it…you just might make it tonight…if you go now…what the hell you waitn’ for, kid? get the hell outta here quick…before the Spanish mausoleum sountrack gets you in its everlovin’ grasp like the ball’d up fists of angry angels wit’ dirty aces, all blackn’d out like bums on bitch’s, ex-ex’sfor eyes like bipolar bears turn’d to cannibals before the summer melt cums early to the polar heart that never mattered until it raised your ocean level and called you, it wants to see what you got…nobody’s bluffing in choir’s poker with cheap suit's unenjoyment check cashing boutique pride pumping out of every house speaker tht sez the same thing twice (remember, these are the same folks what tried to sell you a death ray to kill commie missles, but now those missles are coming froma different place and deathrays don’t sell like they used to)…not when there are perfectly good returnees returning on their knees to knit a conundrum of perplexities that never meant shit to a Sodom and Gomorrah historian like yourself as the rabid atheists spit in the god eye of doom and dare death to cross the line fantastic…death winces at the unmiracle of it all and waxes back to when vinyl was where hits were kept and brink’s were trucks full of money, not the place we left the world accidentally on purpose, and tony, o tony can’t you come back to the five and dime dope spot where the broken dealer an' hustled prankster gave the last dime that ever made a phone call before poems became cellular fertilizer that killed the next crop before the muse could be reawakened cuz she just rolled over and said “I heard enuff bitchin’ to last an eternity, which is all the time I have left”…I quit my complainin’ a while ago as the plane begins to board like a big bus ride into the sky and I am hoping that the security technician groped me on purpose, at least…just need one last injustice to keep it all blind…there is not a hand I been dealt I haven’t had to bluff on…even when I pocket flush the royal canard right out the old whoosecow…

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