His Majesty of Bleecker Street by John Dorsey

Cover Photo by S. Mutt

24 pages, 2005


i was born dead

to a mother 6 months pregnant
bracelet around my wrist
like a noose
with a baby ghost heart

beating a fading truth
the kind you have never spoken
or known
and i can't remember

the last time
you smiled
waiting to be

faintly pounding
on the door of my apartment
another birthday gone by

a mute whisper
on some forgotten god's
billowing tongue

whether i take a nap

or turn up
a different
street or
blink it's
a mini
miracle these
things are
history love-letters
painted on
the inside
of skulls
that make
you think
of caves
the emotional
development of
butterflies that
never flew
but were
always of the
clouds and
in their dreams of

trouble in paradise

maybe she'd been    the apple of your eye
eaten out    lightly purring rhyme
rain tapping    against the window
eve picking    the grapes
of wrath    up at some used bookstore

but some apples are filled with worms
and paradise isn't paradise
for long    eternity smiles
on imperfection    as if
it were    the red headed step child
of a disco icon

and the only tapping    going down lately
is that weathered    vein
used to pay    the rent

and love is hiding    under
the covers    waiting for the sun
to make    a false move

and at 5:38 am    these things
seem like
bitter fruit

when paradise    seems
too troubled    to say i
love you    or even
         her teeth