Serial Murder: Invisible Color Runs Its Race to Cops on the Job in NYC Poetry Reading Houses Above Fond Repute in 1975
In Memory of TVs Law & Order
I watched every mystery show.
Want to know who finished up
words and oaths with
I cough. The streets of New York
fill with poetry thumping cops
beautiful like Sirens and pimps in porno theaters;
they undress their words and are
murdered deadly in poetry beyond 1975.
Black and blue distain peels minds rutting at the core.
We strut on the stage.
She read her poems
I am on the job, she said, and then questioned
Did I know any
of the poets who were murdered?
Hotels and restaurants complained
that bodies turned up in rooms and
at the best tables. It was not good
for boys downtown
Law and Order, she sang.
I sucked inside her skin
fixed her silk to lips.
I would die as entrapment played
its predatory game. She loved me,
she said, even if I wasnt on the job.
My Dear Woman loved when she
put the cuffs on my wrist and I gave
birth to our babies and of course
steps back and forth up and down
Ran between error and flaws in
every crystal made wholesome.
In the lukewarm end I was found not guilty
by reason of insanity. She told me
She said she fixed it like a Chicago cop
she rubbed my ticket and displayed
my core peeling the skin to circumcised
legal jargon, clichés and dirty play.
No one is free, she said
stretching her breasts
until proven guilty by poems
and drug maps of trees
of life and philosophy
drawn stick figures
of justice for all
something like that.
She loved me and I her
as best we could consider
we were virtual and not
only a naked ritual dance
at the center of Columbus
Avenue at the Corner of God
and Universal wisdom tortured
as spies racing the Hudson.
FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 27 | Law & Order Issue | Winter 2010