A Hit Disguise Because
for Marianna Savasta
If it pleases take
a traipse hands
fully passed the radio
tower the record books
tune to the fre
quency of your
choice a fireplace find
your heart a pomegranate
the replies of
ten aspirin your ember
sequences in or
der small shoulders bookmarked
a bugle of sensation
euphoric perpetual woman in flux
and us for instance a girl begging a leprechaun
for a pot of platinum bread cosmos
a road map of Nebraska grazes
the elbow arm navel
the loaves sensational
envelopes of loose curls
fix a stamp
to a corner a right side
while thinking of pumice stone & craft
into church bell
an empirical trip via airplane & homing bird
to a cradle of arms vibrating captions
they say apron strings, I say love
mother’s voice dances on that yours formatted tongue,
& my visits are as often as possible so
as to know I’m still ensconcedor housed
as the neighbors often like to shout
from implanted gutters plots of sewers
a la mode, a la jackie gleason, a la hades
Their neat long hats do, indeed, match.
At the edge of the table that rests in the very corner of the room sits a man
with the biggest shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen; I shit you not.
Chuck knows only basketball, chivalry, and crack.
I suppose on my way to Ray’s Candy Shop to fetch myself an egg cream, I’ll
stop and get myself a neon ego as well.
Rubbing elbows with my very tall neighbor, swathed in a very pinkish robe, he tells me of the days when he used to smoke “cheap fucking cigars” during his tenure as a Marine officer.
Not only are you beautiful, but you are beautiful.
G. has lived in Palermo, or as he likes to pronounce it: Pa-lermo.
Dining Hall duty begins promptly at 12:48PM, so I had better get myself some comfort in a bed of lilacs.
Darth Vader’s cape is so sexy that when it touches me it tickles, and off to the races I go.
If Susan had only visited while she was in Brooklyn, my den would have been that much happier.
Sartre was well known not for his philosophy, but his robust sneezes.
Mailboxes lined with sprays of wild flowers, dandelions and cushioned with red lace are often graced with returned letters.
Ray DeJesús was born, raised, and still resides in Brooklyn, NY. A first generation Nuyorican, Ray is a graduate of The New School (MFA, Poetry, May 2010), and he currently teaches writing at St. Francis College. He has had the privilege of reading at the following: 169 Bar, Rose Live Music for the Earshot Reading Series, The New School Faculty/Student reading (May 2010), Cornelia Street Café, and Flying Object in Hadley, Massachusetts with the fine folk at Maggy Poetry Magazine. His poetry has been published in The Best American Poetry’s Blog, Maggy Poetry Magazine (Issue 2), and Literary Chaos. Poems in Gondola, Peaches and Bats Journal, Augury Books, Pax Americana, and an essay on Hüsker Dü in Jackie Clark’s Song of the Week are forthcoming. Ray was also guest blogger for Best American Poetry, June 22-28. He can usually be found shielding his ears from the awful, shrill sound of church bells on a daily basis in his neighborhood of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Ray is currently working on a collaboration: A chapbook long project with poet Christine Kanownik. In addition, he, along with Jeff T. Johnson and Claire Donato, produce Vampiros Documentos Presents, a video online journal. His current mantra: Sometimes things is just things.