brooklyn laundromat

the catch-a-toy is playing biggie
this is brooklyn, i guess
i don't care

i couldn't open my heart
"give up the fight" i refused
i refused and the room went dark
she was on her moon, i thought,

you are all on the moon, but i'm
on my moon too so i presume
this may be a poor week for judgment

rolling a blanket fattie because my
joints are sore
stole three bars from charity because i
am hungry
then i won a free lunch and i ate
a salad

i refused her call to open my heart
because i am on my moon too

the catch-a-toy is playing biggie
this is brooklyn, i guess
i don't know

who will remain whole?

there are trucks that sing
wrong ways of fostering
and my open window is playing devil to
two pillars

when i look out my devil
i see barbed wire and warehouses
whorehouses
a cat on my back an
immeasurable gap and
not to worry because
i am not alone

if i fall through this hole
will it be light or heavy, hot or cold
blessed with soul
or depraved

she held my hand and
said i look like my girl and
not to worry because
we are halfway home

voice imitator imitator

I visited Austria at twelve years old. Late one night, in a Viennese
hotel lobby, I met an Irish woman whose sister was (and presumably
still is) married to a jockey. This woman's sister's husband had a
colleague who had severe burns on most of his legs and torso from
taking baths filled with boiling water for the purpose of melting body
fat to lighten himself for races. Needless to say, I wasn't interested
in where or how this stranger's sister's husband's colleague ended up,
and I attempted his method. I have consequently twice burned my right
hand severely with a total loss of three month's pay even though I
obtained both injuries at the workplace. The jockey is in a home for the mentally impaired. But I am now one of my
craft's elite.