Watching a musical about cannibalism.
They eat and drink
until unborn.
Rolling on back and belly.
Speaking in terms the world will never know.
In a red-neck bar the sawdust would soak it up.
In the sub-basement of the most secret society
The marble floor would be stained.
Head to foot on the grass.
Under 14 tons of old school steel.
You asked if I was happy with the struggle?
The Red Badge of Courage.
The Scarlet Letter.
Passion and sand in some one else’s car.
-jesse bercowetz
The bed.
I woke from the pills.
Fists thrusting into the thick
negative space above me.
Oxygen depleted
air like a slab-
floral foam.
The rampage of drowning.
I had not learned to breath.
Did not know:
we all here have insomnia-
and they where dancing
sleepless in the cafeteria
I danced differently.
It put me on the street at 3am.
Swimming like a bastard.
-jesse bercowetz
They walked against cancer,
big and black, wearing pink cotton.
The font was circus.
Misty eyes.
And if they were zombies.
And if they were revolution.
And if they were pre-anger,
post-knowledge.
They would split our skulls-
feast on our brains.
And we would have only mowed
30 of them down
in our Ford 150.
Wipers on.
Coffee splashes, spills. Warm puddle.
Cold mark.
And they would stand up.
And they would feast.
And they would walk
with out stretched arms.
- jesse bercowetz
The alarm rang
near my head like a miracle.
Waking as every day
untreated.
Wanting to touch sleepy lips
and peak for skanky panties.
(later)
A converse of distraction
played out in separate languages.
Those lines deep get covered over
in wanton neglect and fading recall.
Trance images out the window, running
with putrid crustacean in tow.
(even later)
None barrier of dignity and bullshit
travel pass in hand. Saved,
bound, free of mind- soaked in a bicoastal cocktail.
The fruit of a scarcely fabricated perspective-
the racing tension as if a word
the world would never know.
A taste triggered familiar. The craving,
optimism inhaled like glue from a bag
Until desire unborn.
Did we learn this at the movies,
in the books,
from the anxiety of those before us.
-jesse bercowetz
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A queen type she entered
sleepy eyed, lip crust,
matted hair with a swagger.
Ignored hierarchical the several rows.
A captive audience.
Wrapped in a yellow plastic robe.
Institutional stick to your skin-
shoulder pads and stethoscope. More
guarded accoutrements in a clear plastic bag.
Urine stench and attitude. Hating
the pedophile, the father, confused for the son.
The women, the man –
she threatened with a late night drunken bomb scenario.
And then to the guard:
I don’t even mind kickin your ass or any ones ass.
Fuck you Mr. no ass.
You gotta have ass to kick ass.
You keep it over there I’m not tryin to catch nuthin in the air.
Have a seat she said-
On her way out and to the store.
- jesse bercowetz
