Tag Archives: death

Anger

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They’re shipping knock-offs to Haiti.
(They forgot to send me.)

Somewhere across the ankles of the Atlantic beneath a sign for second-floor SUVs and torn up pink-slips, un-housed and dispossessed eyes peer through the gates that protect the imposter goods.
Officials cringe
when the boys
eyeball
the sneakers
that fell from their boxes like frozen feet that had been cut off and tossed out the back of the truck, sprinkling the broken boulevard like raindrops on an ice cream cone.
A cop lobs fake Nikes at a pensive boy with a Veteran’s limp and oversized coat. He laughs as the boy hops home with two left shoes and the cluster of police cruisers split into a compass of blazing sirens
each car
thinking he was the
North Star.

A red scarf emerged from the dispersing crowd.

This crimson-caped man’s
mad-dog
hands
clutched the air around him in freak-spasm night.
He lost his shoulder and dropped his jaw foaming at the mouth:
And a sound fell like a flame that had been fanned from the deep well of an executioner’s oven.

Ship.
Me.
To.
Haiti.

And the
blisters on the balls
of his feet
cut through the thick rubbers he wore and eventually rooted him into an eternity far beyond slums or beaten down blocks or inner city apathy.

Ship.
Me.
Or.
Shoot.
Me.

His fingers crawled like worms sprouting over a dead soldier’s bayonet. His scarlet fever snapping in the breeze like a matador. He waited to rotate in the barrels of the city’s finest. He just hoped their bullets would be as bright as he was.
An old woman shook her head and said to her husband, “That boy is crazy. Too much anger. Ain’t gonna bring em nothing. Bad for the heart”, she said.
He blew a kiss as they whisked by into their steeple.
He’d never be this again: a tsunami in the drone of the limping ghetto night.

For blood
is less likely
to boil
as we
get older.

…So I ask you have we truly hit the end, the rusted sediments, the ancient depositories of whales long dead and barnacles who swamped and sucked to stay alive?
Just a school of fish trembling, tremoring, and trying maybe that’s all we are: A school of fish, doomed.

Maybe we’re all madmen in scarlet scarves
knowing that shadows don’t lurk or loom
they simply stop being,
cease to follow
when there is nothing but stagnant air and a muffled heartbeat that barely brushes against the skin.
Deep schadenfreude
high as the cotton of a Mississippi nightmare

Ever seen a house on fire in the distance?
You know what every man is thinking?

“How beautiful that fire burns.
I’m just glad it’s not my house.”

(c) 2009, 2010 – from “Lying Meat & other poems beneath the Oil” by Dennis Leroy Kangalee

 

 

 

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The Death of a Friend

The death of a friend made me realize not how fleeting life is or how precious moments are, but how little time we actually shared enjoying ourselves.

 

 

 

 

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A Rhyme Inside A Screaming Brain

…Are you waiting for the flood?
While the news goes gaga
& our brains turn to mud?
As the neighbors turn on their TVs
& cultivate their fears
I’m going to come up with a plan
and destroy museum tears
Cause humanity is aching
It’s been dying all this time
since Columbus called it Trinidad
& colonized our minds
We’ll be watching our funerals
our criminal descent
into the land of amusement
& some kind of weird gaga death

*

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And When They Cut Him Open

there was a deer found inside the snake

its bones bellowing to be set free.
in this ocean, on this side of the universe
where truth runs thin
like oxygenated blood thru the
frame of a well endowed
set of eyes that had seen it all
and even remembered when it was
not luxury to be alive,
but a simple matter of fact, and
on a good day –
a blessing
heat was all he asked for.

Heat and a good night’s sleep.

*

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A Loser Can Surely Find Time For Love

Poison 42 - A Loser Can Surely Find Time For Love (Dennis Leroy Kangalee) by Nina Fleck
Before that I thought I was just another waking asphalt animal perched on his shaky brick-limb trying to do what it is that rats do to stay alive.

The rats are the true underground.

Hamptons in Harlem.
Condos creeping.
My belly is torn asunder.

They’ve pulled apart the letters of alphabet city.
Don’t mind me–it’s just my feet are getting wet and I never realized I could swim. The Mets are Citibank pets in steel cages.
Plastic surgeons from the west coast have brought their palm trees with them, they’ll be importing the rest of the emptiness later.
They’re sending me to the outbacks, the caves in the dunes where books meet man and clean hands are an ideal to achieve.


Losers
Like Loners
Make the
Best
Lovers.
They have so much to give.

They don’t need me here. Give me my apocalypse and ship me out soon.

I am not sure how long I can carry this battery.

*
originally published in the Lower East Side BOOG City poetry journal, Summer 2012
& included in the chapbook “Lying Meat”

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If I Really Cared

if i really cared i wouldn’t write a poem, i’d fold myself up and bleed into the night,
finding a more environmentally conscious way to commit suicide
at least i’d have honor.
Honor from a pair of eyes above

if i really cared i wouldn’t toss and turn, i’d give it all up into the barrel of a gun that could
destroy us all, why not — leave something for future atoms and molecules to reconsider,
something for another race to ponder and learn from

if I really cared I’d send my heart to the government – since they already have my soul and
hope that in my death they could finally be one

if i really cared i’d go back to those 4AM moments when i was 24 and at the height of
imagination and anger and bravado and beauty and i wouldn’t try to kill myself,
i’d try to kill the time that was stopping, the past and future tenses bumping and grinding away
from a center that would surely burst
into the absence of a cell phone discussion or a truly final black midnight summer

if i really cared i’d offer myself up, not because i am important but because i am NOT important
and must face that there are others more important,
yes i’d admit that perhaps there were people or ideas or dreams worth dying for

if i really cared i wouldn’t be a romantic
i would be dead

who can breathe and stand to live among the willful ignorant and the fuzzy frightening conscientious stupidity deemed important
by our newsmen and leaders.
If i really cared they’d be the first to go

if i really cared i’d make sure there was no past so that there could be nothing to learn for a future
that was rooted in today
and wonderment
if not
a beautiful mystery
called
progress

*

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Notes of a Devolver: Part Two

 Illustrations of the Great Operations of Surgery by Charles Bell, 1815.

Illustrations of the Great Operations of Surgery by Charles Bell, 1815.

I was sitting on the cross-town bus, heading east just barely past the park.
It was sunny and the ancient sadness of the fires roared down on us cutting through the trees and grass and the tall buildings sparkled and I remember thinking how pretty – how truly pretty – life was untouched. How amazing a sun, how incredible our land actually is. How important architecture could be…if we were as human as we think we once were. And I remember my stomach griping and bursting inside as if the plastic of my soul was beginning to stretch and finally snap.

Staring out into the sun long enough I always think about the beauty of birth and the horror of slavery. I wonder what the animals have thought. I wonder what the butterflies have thought. I certainly know what the sharks have thought. Sometimes, late at night-early in the morning far deep in the pocket of the twilight, I can hear them burp. And I have no pity for them and I explain this to the Animal Rights People. Believe me, I tell them, they have eaten a great deal more than some people ever will.

It is in the shade, only in the shade, that I can reflect upon myself. As soon as the bus dove back under and the park and the sun and the painful poetry all vanished harshly – and not without cruelty like a gambler’s luck – I am able to hide and die a little in between the tall buildings and skyscrapers which cast the only eternal harmlessness that we can still rely on. They got it all wrong – she or he or it or whomever they were that proclaimed a “little death” is in between our loins and our orgasm. All great fucks are affirmative and they give us sunshine inside where we cannot seem to be touched. A little death is not between two lovers – it is stuck somewhere between our organized madness and the revolving doors of Monday-through-Friday and the urban renewal of more shadows to lurk behind and more sadness to cover your cup.

The bus ride was peculiar as all things seem to be when you’re looking for signs. It was empty and the tryptophan roared.

The old man’s name was Harvey and he had eyes the color of smog-infested snow. At first I thought he might have been blind. His hands were like overgrown claws. His face was etched in a permanent scowl and I expected a gruff, ornery voice. But is was tender and buttery and tended to trail off and get lost in the back of his throat. He had muttered something to his sisters, two well-dressed old ladies, and it wasn’t until he pushed back his cap that I noticed the small hole in the center of his forehead, as if a tiny third eye had not quite grown in.

I looked up and read an ad on the bus: Save Darfur, People Are Dying.
Outside a homeless man struggled with his cardboard box, the wind pulverizing the flaps at the edges and sending endless newspapers into the air. I looked back at Harvey.

“You lost?” he asked.

“No…”

“Oh. You look lost.” 
I didn’t tell him I was going to a job interview. I don’t think I said anything. “I feel lost,” he said. He turned to his sisters, “We’re all lost aren’t we?”

“Hmm,” the older one said.

I got off on 66th street and walked south. Before I reached the end of the block, I turned and looked, as if I knew. Harvey stood at the corner like a face from some ancient circus poster. But with the sun dazzling the way it was I could not tell if he was smiling or frowning and from where I was standing his lips appeared to be two glistening orbs circling and crying out to God knows what.

Angels, demons, we are all the same.

*

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All Trees Have Wombs

All trees have wombs

All lovers have time to choose

The death that they can put in their shirts

And iron out in the morning.

*

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A Wrestle

It started with a wrestle

a trestle,

a boom,

one man’s bang.
A lie in the air, a truth somewhere in the gutter.

It began and it will end in the same place, same moment.

Is death always the same? Or does it possess its own variety?
What about the men who can’t live their lives on the stretch?

The demons lamping in the shade of a gigantic toilet bowl
looking for that righteous flash of flesh.

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