Originally posted 7/12/2010.  Original title, “Gentrifying Worcester.”

Where I live
they’re opening cute bars for the cute,
sprucing up streets ahead of the cute,
renaming old squares for the cute.

This city was never built for cute.
We’re the city that either
swallowed cute whole or spit it out.
Now our throats 

are so clogged with glitter
we can’t breathe,
yet we squabble over 
how to swallow even more.  

Downtown frets 
over how to paint itself more cute
while up here on the hills 
we’re hoping cute washes off

before we can’t recognize ourselves
in what’s left of our sturdy old mirrors — 
hell, this city is my sturdy old mirror.
There I am in its empty red-brick

monuments to old machines, 
its neighborhood dives,
its warehouse squats, its 
half-eaten streets, its good dirty diners.

This was the town where we used to depend
on the knowledge that cute always fades
like a Saturday night drunk
propped in the corner of a diner booth;

it kept us from envying cute too much.
We’ve forgotten that too often, when cute sobers up
it either runs out on the check or leaves a bad tip
and anyone left has to figure out how to get by.

Underneath this city is a river
no one alive has ever seen. Downtown
they’re talking about cutting it open 
and making it cute. Cut it open,

I say. Cut it open —
see what’s collected in the dark,
but don’t count on finding cute down there.
Don’t count on finding water flowing there;

we’ve sweated, bled and cried here for years.
All of that has to have gone somewhere;
if you listen, you can hear it still bubbling
and it doesn’t sound cute to me.

Originally posted on 3/3/2010.  My 50th birthday, by the way.

Watching “The Real Old West” on
the History Channel:
blued barrels
hanging off leather belts
as always; but it seems
that the rotgut was mixed with fruit juice,
if this is to be believed
over the mythology 
of bad gin and whiskey
shot from dirty glasses,
burning neat all the way down.

I trust this.
It’s more like
who we are,

telling ourselves
we’re tough old cowboys
but too scared of pain
to dare to toss
our poisons back
straight,
no chaser.

Originally posted 11/12/2011.

St. Teflon, patron saint
of bullet dodgers; St. Tango,

source of comfort against
unwanted outcomes; St. Bullhorn,

defender against the wealthy; St. Lifter,
guardian of the doomed.

St. Angelcake strokes
the heads of the robbed.
St. Watchfob picks fruit
and cleans the poisons from the flesh. 

St. Linger, warrior with no hard weapons.
St. Rollie Of The Bones,
bringer of square deals and luck.

The old saints are retired and disinclined to help.  
“Not our world,”
says Michael. 
“Not our Gospel,” 
says Francis. 
“Not our problem,”
says St. Gabriel. 

For this you want
The Blessed Version, 
The Sherman On The Mount,
The Irascible Conception, a new Bible written
by scribes drunk on the manic milk
of modern circumstance.  
For this, you need

St. Rattler of the found quarter,
St. Lobster of the century reboot,
St. Jack (whose feast day is the Festival of Unicorn Meat).
Depend on The Long Shot Testament 
and take a number. 

There will be a saint for you
someday. Maybe
it’ll even be in time.

Originally posted 3/31/2011.

talk about walnuts dammit
speak of bananas or plywood
maybe there’s a door to consider
or typewriters so sexy and willing
to be closely observed

talk about bricks dammit
spend an hour staring at one
until you live and breathe red dust and pitting
until the brick’s soaked up into you
and you’re ready to be wrung out

there’s the pavement — kiss it
here’s the cobweb — swallow it
there’s a key — stuff it up your nose
remember that brass
smells of dirty fingers and ozone
tell the story of how you know

first time you noticed it was when your mother died
the keys were in your hand
you bunched them up to your face
you could smell and taste them mingled
with tears and dust and polish from the oak table 
where you had laid your head to weep

talk about something real
conceptual rage has no flavor
neither does slogan-born love

but bodies do
and objects do
and so does your blood
say what you know of those
if you must speak of rage and love

Originally posted 3/30/2013.

I was a kid
All I knew
was what imagination offered

A blue disk in a blue sky
a spider bridge resonating
a concert hall in sections rising
a myth as good as a country in resolve
a story about where I lived
noble rot on a hoped for harvest

So I reached for

that blue disk in a white sky
like a heartless monkey of change
Set a blank slate falling
Donned the most savvy rocktosser outfit ever
It was not me and that was the best thing ever

but not for long as I could sense
how amusing the change was becoming
so I called out again

this time for
a blue disk in a red sky
a meteor shift
a clown nose on a garbage can
a tease and a poke and a hand on my bum
the right drug on the wrong night
fell hopelessly in love with throwing up 
was glad I was no one
was no one
but that drug
swallowed a blue disk from that blue sky

What did I know
I was a kid when it all happened

a blue disk wrecked in a desert
picked over
a myth after all to most

I have had to live this
remembering

that I once belonged
was discarded
fallen
from
high

into this now unlit manhood