Market Street at 3AM

Market Street at 3AM

Two quarts and a five,

splashes of

of

yellow & red,

glass shatters,

a speed freak
on crutches,

and the barefoot
drag queen

shouts

KA-POW!

“EEZEEE STORAGE”

“immediate move in”

You can Fail but you can’t Flop

as the last drunk

staggers onto the bus.

(c) Rob Goldstein 1984-2018

revised June 13, 2018

“Speak In Tongues”

from James Writes

James Writes

I ain’t ever speak in tongues, but I know the Holy Spirit’s out there.

I ain’t ever seen the light, but I’m sure there’s a place up there I’m not allowed into.

I ain’t ever see eye-to-eye with God, but I’m pretty sure He’s laughing at my naivety.

I ain’t ever seen the Devil, but I’m sure he’s constantly seeing me.

I ain’t ever seen fire and brimstone, but I’m sure it’ll be the first thing I see when my eyes finally don’t open.

I ain’t ever really gotten along with my family, but I know they’re here for me.

I ain’t ever been loved, but I’m sure people will claim they love me.

I ain’t ever really feel comfortable around friends, but I’ll keep pretending like I do.

I ain’t ever really give a fuck about myself, but I’m sure I’ll learn how to.

I ain’t ever miss that…

View original post 63 more words

He Said, He Said

He called as he usually did, his voice sexy and deep, not hysterical, which
he can sometimes get when something’s on his mind, something I have to
ferret out, burying my muzzle in the shit of his psyche.

He said we couldn’t have dinner, that he was broke and, ‘some people have
to work,’ implying something about my life.

He said that I was fine, but, ‘a little too much’ and wondered if I wouldn’t
be happier with someone ‘more complex, more my ‘speed.’

And I said no! No! Simplicity is my goal, what can I be?  What would you
like me to be?

“Nothing.” he said, and hung up.

(c) Rob Goldstein 1986-2017 All Rights Reserved

He Said, He Said

Excerpt from a poetry reading with Harold Norse, 1986.

 

Ebbing with lessening

from the Feathered Sleep

TheFeatheredSleep

There are rumors

Spiked by moonshine

Privilege or disgrace

Oppression spells her full name

For the Zweig suicide guest book

A librato place

No-one can follow

Without revealing their intention

Take comfort

From people who do not care

They lacquer their unteathering

In pretty boxes with false bases

As Houdini shone the key beneath the deep

So they perfect stillness in powdered sugar

Salvaging nothing of the wreck

As salt stained and barnacled

Driftwood is recovered by shore

Ebbing with lessening

View original post