the east side

detroit's east side where I live, is the most violent, most complex, most lovely place on earth.

 

 

 

NO. Not that nosocomial, Eichmanesque,

near the rail line bullshit of 39.

More rhythmic, this time.

More echo and apple-bottom-booty.

More shoulders bumped in sweet heliosphere

than jack boot illegal.

 

The sun rose,

like the wet hems of those

two s****y paredrae

who hung with Neptune.

Those Salacia, who let water

and light ravish their desirable

thighs

 

it is, no less, conjoined in blood and piss.

How can I not find God beautiful

warped by pocket preachers driving

large auto's from the car wash.

The dreams of growing older;

 

the way in which that smile of yours

is more Ann Sexton today than ever.

Sometimes I've noticed, you swallow hard

as we, together, did to digest

Ethridge Knight,

 

to know that poetry leads you from, not into

dark places. That though locked up,

it can be bright. It can be the thing

you fess to

 

the burning brightness in the dark

of flame you throw yourself on. So

if we love here, we've loved. Last

evening

 

when your hair was high, wet with sweat,

the neighbors water's shut off for the

second time this year. We waved

and smiled

 

our usual "I could give a f**k"

smile.