American Bricks

shrouded in shadow
on a steamy day in the
midriff of July.

Cool & kept
hidden from the shock & awe of
Unsheltered youth, an
untethered wail
baw, baw! --

or the bricolage--

of jetsam cans,
old caddy boats,
and thinned black man,
in high-heeled pumps--

on a shore
of urban caries
in this hot-humored hub
of mid-July. 

& on the porch
the man-- the temperer
with dog on hand. 

The pit bull prowess
guarding & guarded by
gates and gates
and gate. 

A sort-of shield
from a hot-corned fate. 

& on the stoop,
that dog don't
whine, or whelp
with head on step,
paw beneath
its bones, whetted--

But the man sit back, long hair--
all grease and depth--
watching whitened
from a cave of unease
the world worn thin,
by Vitamin-D. 


no man knows,
each floor a filter


with butts and clothes--
fur, filth, and fumes--

but, no, man, no!

Unwelcome is written as its ROE:
Carved out of brick,
catalyst for the droves

& me.

Inside cool, tide composed.
Head full of foam
& god knows
who knows.
What waves ebbed,
what dreams flow--
And what moon swells
into un-emptied holes. 

A stone-cold stud
at the edge
of unknown.

One Response to American Bricks

  1. Joseph says:

    Waste’n syllables

    Such a tactile poem each syllable seems to be important real-estate in a poem of this short. The line that struck and stuck with me in this poem is… “on a steamy day in the/ midriff of July…” the image before it seem generic and I think that there you could say the same thing in a more interesting way without all of those little words standing around doing nothing. (in, on, the, him, and me) freeloaders propped lazily nebben at the 7/11. Try verbing a word. Shuffle some things around. Drop those dead beats.

    Now to “& me” Who the Fuck is “me” and why the hell is “me” in this poem. You have self-reliant runaways and K9 transvestites. “Me” and his dreamy tellings and misinterpretations on meaning can have his own damn poem. Get “me” out of this one.

    nice work. looking forward to a new draft.

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