poetry and photography by Mark Mulkerin
If they don’t understand what you think,because you move too slowly into the future,they call you slackerand you just change the channel –the Brady Bunch must be on somewhere. It’s our turn to step up to the plate,or so they claim.Take the bat.Kneecap the umpire.We’re both tired of the game. If they want to know…
I could accuse those potato jugglerswith their contest in Washington Square.They blocked the trolley track for hourswhile I wagered Skittles with the womansitting next to meover which spuds would fall.We finally pulled away during the last round –tossed mashed potatoes with gravy.Neatness would be judged. I suppose nothing would have becomeof our friendly Skittle exchangehad…
In the shadow beneath the glint,we scuttle among these towersjutting like punji sticksfrom dirty concreteand even God won’t step here. But just as well,he doesn’t carry loose changefor outstretched cups –grimy insides and out. God has plastic in the pocketof his well pressed Armani.Would you charge your hunger to him?
Sing your song, boy.Yeah, you’re my muse.Think you can do the work of nine?You used to believe such things.You’d sit on those stairs during lunch hour,your face maskedbehind a copy of The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress. Are you going to tell meabout red welts in the locker roomwhere the towel whips touched your backas…
Her foot flexed,only her toes touching dirty floor,she dreams of dancingas the MBTA sways its erratic rhythms.Eyes closed, it conveys her,carries her, takes herto green catacombswhere Sisyphus weekly mows his lawnand the skylark’s song falls to the engine’s roar.
I should be doing homework,but it won’t go anywhere.So why not talk?After all, procrastination was the first big word I ever learned.In sixth grade parent-teacher conferences, Ms. Jackson informed my mother,“He understands the material, but he tends to procrastinate.”“P-R-O-S-C-A … Yes Mom, I know what it means.”I like that painting over there.No, that onewith the…
No rhythm in this village dance,the shuffle-stomp-stepof a million laborers lusting for lunchwhile the old gods’ masks earn dustin museums, in objet-d’art shops –the angry god, the laughing god,the mourning goddess,and we, villagers all,wear our masks of nothing –the death god’s pleasure.
I. Ice cubes should come with instructionstelling young girls, growing boyswhen to suck or when to chomp;how to slip one down the shirt of a nemesis;which wounds to press them against;why they melt leaving sons and daughterswith empty hands, empty mouths. II. As I walked to morning class,he would always surprise me.Sweatshirt branded sorority girlssuddenly…
I envy them – the T-Rex, the brontosaurus,the chorus of little crustacean crittersthat etched their lives in stone.So when this mushy storehouseof snickers bars and blood closes down,when you, my body’s executors consider the options:burial, cremation, or other –check the last box –fill in the blank with fossilization. Fossilization – it’s hip, it’s happening, it’s…
Love is a dog,bow wow.Great Dane, Poodle, Chihuahua,Pitbull, Puppy, Mutt,man’s best friend.Slobbery, drooly, bouncy,shedding hair throughout our lives.Crapping here, Shitting there.Little surprisesWhich will paint your shoes an earthy brown.Growling, barking, whining, nipping, biting.Protecting you from a comfortable night’s slumber,But damn,They can be so friendly,Your only companion,Through those pathetic late, late moviesDuring your abandoned weekend nights.Warm,…