Pobrecillo Tam

Only I do not like the fashion of your garments. You will say they are Persian attire, but let them be changed. – King Lear, III.vi.

raise yr game said my friend lucky
in love since going online
to learn moves that lead from geek
to playa. go to the big
baldwin city; life’s laid out like
yr sister’s tea set that time
she spilled the milk & didn’t
cry for a real melting knife.
chamoised my head & was going,
radiant as a hermit’s cave
in cappadocia; fled Him
& my other dogs & wall-
papered my sister’s braced smile
in carious photographs.
well caramel you can cross,
pass, shoot for the stars, scrape sky
for a living but don’t hang
yr washing from the window –
the old man doesn’t like it;
& see that tree? it translates
spring will bring again bread stone
scorpion to hand; always
afternoon if once you stand
in His light. i prayed for lift-off
& became a little horse
shadowed by an always car;

Pobrecillo Tam

i prayed for inside, needed
shadow like a crown on my head,
lived off foods composed of sub-
stitutions. Lady of sit-
uations, i pray for lift-
off, tailoring my head & bust
to rise above this city
of unkadare nature,
pushkin types, fatalistic
pedestrians who’re at the start
of my game, who’re my true loves,
if only their hearts were Gabriel,
& not being borgesed to death
staying off the drive-by streets,
mummified in the seven
sealed orifices firstnamed home.