Laundromats & Lounges
there’s a lounge in queens village called the pour house,
you’d be wise not to ask for a shot of prosperity.
i ordered a glass of hope,
topped off with bitter dreams
shot down by crooked cops
and sirens sang
from their stools.
put a quarter in the jukebox,
if u dare
the nine to five men
struggling to pay their bills,
the everyday house wife needing a sip of something
just to deal with her kids,
the middle class; classless,
suffering from summer’s dry, thick, humidity,
bank accounts like mouths
the bartender’s eyes are no more filled
with poverty than a newborn
her smile whispered
brightness that this merely part-time,
though day time academics couldn’t have taught her anointed head
dance beer mugs overflowing,
surely goodness and mercy
shall follow her, all the days
she communicates with consumers
of her art and craft,
she speaks eloquently
even through vodka induced, liver weakened
stress fractured ear drums.
in the air lingers the smell of fish-
net stockings chased with torn,
worn out latex mixed
in a familiar stench.
holds hands with the infantile reality of today,
with aspirations of drowning in cognac.
the bar itself,
is a bloodstained, vomit infused cherrywood
plastered all over it.
dimesacks, nickelbags, copperheads
and tales of how not to end up here
in the back,
where pre-Magellan’s flat
with sticks, balls, holes;
for uneducated balls to roll into,
moors to fall into,
into an abyss which hovers over
ground so close to home,
crowds the entrance;
the exact same people
carrying wet clothes, loads,
and pockets quarter filled with
filled with lint
half empty but fully conscious
of clean, dirty and indifferent
like the fabric
are survivors of the tsunami
pour experiences into
wash, rinse and spin cycles
to increase the resistance of letting tears or sweat fade
origin of character
cover frail feelings with rigid skin snuggled with fabric,
and this juxtapose is
just supposed to be ignored
but its Wednesday,
drying clothes or buying a metrocard is a
decision left to ponder
two days before payday;
next round on me.
Roger Smith © 2013
Friday Nights DVR
10 minutes before the sweet sound of impact, I was,
holding brain cells under brown paper bag. Water, affixiating thoughts of cancer no, thoughts of love...
Well drowning the equivocation of both.
Heart metastasizing while emotional data spreads all about anatomical structure.
Fallacy's lover, touches her hand, touches her, like only a stranger would.
She couldn't like it! But tonight, on the right side of my brain, she smiled,
meanwhile lymphocytes dodge radiations charger, and the Hemi tells me, turn the ignition.
5 minutes before the serenity of the after life, breezed pass my windshield,
eyelids Kiel over, from overdosing off optical vodka consumption.
My aorta's combustion,
pushes blood from chambers crushed, by alcohol's false testimony that she'd, rather spend time away from the poet
who writes in chemo ink; who bleeds words absent of white blood cells; who thinks that pages make him walk on water like a God-- but I limp.
From lymph nodes mutating, rather, barely
cuz beer, turns brainwaves grizzly,
morphs heartbeat polar,
and as consciousness hibernates,
my limbs shake.
For a second, cerebellum is unsubmerged from the jealous rage of Hennessy's radiation, and impact
further acts, as sobriety's alarm.
There is no snooze button on a tree in Queens,
no time like the present, to ignore her body, his wishes, or how thoughts of the two become one like PB&J in my minds cell,
or how cells within, imprison me, cutting-- the edges off my life.
The knife inside holds no fingerprints different than
paper mate which scripts lyrics of liquor,
bottle empty of toxins consumed
serving as swimming pool for all which weighs on cerebrum,
to cannonball with four wheels thru a pole, into nothing,
but a failed suicide attempt.
Roger Smith © 2013
the Inner Beast
what comes to your mind when you think of black?
do you think
and enraged slaves
battling for the rights
birthed to them,
fighting for freedom their ancestors
before yours earned for them.
does your mind ponder
notions of moses
do you think of pioneers,
a system twisting us into their visions
of monkeys running
through the wildlife of Afrika,
banshees calling us brothers,
us in rectangular cages
with arangatang faces.
is that depicted
in the unwritten diaspora of blacks...
do you witness greasy hands
beating ghetto noises
at decibals too loud for european cars,
and can you hear those
loud, cuss words
next to your neighborhood,
with tropical fruit stained lips.
is that what you feel
when you close your eyes
and think of black,
or are your eyes closed everyday.
Roger Smith © 2002