Gene Wagendorf III is a student from
Ctenocephalides Tumulosus Magnus
Bryn Mawr. Slapstick poverty.
Brittle cords of wicker baskets
Filled with crumbs.
Illiterate methadone dependence.
Icy menthol dependence.
Rotgut fermentation of old hopes
Drips across the street, dissolves
Slowly in the sunlight.
The sunlight piecing through El tracks
Adorning swimming dust particles with
The angels, they sing in torn plastic shopping bags.
They weep under broken soaking couches in dumpsters.
Self-imposed paralysis dependence.
Empty hand apology dependence.
The angels mutter to themselves and shake their heads.
They offer themselves in the stoops of closed flower shops.
Crushed ambition and idealistic bullshit do not strong fertilizers make.
Rolling stories all denouement.
Black teeth. Missing teeth.
The alleys littered with broken mirrors
That can’t reflect light no matter how high the sun.
Bryn Mawr, where wishes are in dog years
And even the fleas are starving.
Coffee swims nutty and chocolate as
Thin lace bubbles group together
To cope. Big. Desolate-brown.
Overwhelming. Celtric strong Genghis aggressive
Like a stocky wolverine, all muscles
And raw juices.
It is vast and renders perspective impossible.
One by one bubbles surrender- don’t
Pop so much as slow release
In somber moves conforming.
Coffee slings sips of tree bark
And maple but you’d never
Know from looking
The beauty diving in
The beauty drowning
The beauty swallowed.
spit outside April
puddles eeking across sidewalks
landmines from God
fuck slipping up
fuck falling down
if it looks like rain and it smells like rain it’s shit
the stained-glass windows are cracking
the bugs are humming
goofballing in my face
a sandwich board of mediocrity
April hanging saliva off lips
sweet vermouth and bourbon
r o l l i n g
down my chin
it’s too easy to fall
to fake it
to hear the church bells when you’re trying to go deaf
already walking blind
it’s too easy with knees creaking floorboards
them trying to sneak back into the bedroom
where its warm and the mirrors cobwebbed forgotten
stashed under concrete pillows
stale air nicotine sweat and grease fingerprints along the walls
that can’t wash clean
April gets wet without washing anything away
little filth rivers dead leaves candy wrappers
humidity clogs the throat
it’s too easy to choke in your sleep
to choke in your dreams
to suffocate while waking