His Majesty of Bleecker Street by John Dorsey
Cover Photo by S. Mutt
24 pages, 2005
i was born dead
to a mother 6 months pregnant
bracelet around my wrist
like a noose
with a baby ghost heart
beating a fading truth
the kind you have never spoken
or known
and i can't remember
the last time
you smiled
waiting to be
reborn
faintly pounding
on the door of my apartment
another birthday gone by
a mute whisper
on some forgotten god's
billowing tongue
whether i take a nap
or turn up
a different
street or
blink it's
a mini
miracle these
things are
history love-letters
painted on
the inside
of skulls
that make
you think
of caves
the emotional
development of
butterflies that
never flew
but were
always of the
clouds and
in their dreams of
flight
trouble in paradise
maybe she'd been the apple of your eye
eaten out lightly purring rhyme
rain tapping against the window
eve picking
the grapes
of wrath up at some used bookstore
but some apples are filled with worms
and paradise isn't paradise
for long eternity smiles
on imperfection as if
it were the red headed step child
of a disco icon
and the only tapping going down lately
is that weathered vein
used to pay the rent
and love is hiding under
the covers waiting for the sun
to make a false move
and at 5:38 am these things
seem like
bitter fruit
when paradise seems
too troubled to say i
love you or even
brush
her teeth