dusty Dafremen R. Dafremen Dusty roads A bit too dusty I suppose Against the brightly colored houses That form a canyon of the boulevard Against the muffled sound of shiny steeds All crimson, purple, gold and green Chromed and oiled the wheels converge The warriors have arrived Masking the children in their eyes They wear their pride like crowns These ebony princes These stoic riders Huddled in that mass of rubber Steel and open toes Their plans to lead the open road Are formed in haste Mustn't waste time For the sunset calls too soon And dusty biker kings have mother queens Drawing their baths at home With dinner too And so they plan their ride. Faint at first The sound of creaky desperation, loneliness One-footed push along the lane Headed toward their throng Acting like there's nothing wrong They turn their heads Behold, a princess comes Upon her flat-black scooted mount An ivory paradox To lovely to be ugly I suppose Yet too different to be one of them With that freckled pointed nose And steel blue eyes Perched upon her slow and muddied ride So weak inside Approaching they look upon her As cats might view the fall Seems as though they've none at all But there's a casual interest in her movements A quickly fading freakshow fascination. They turn to go Not even waiting there to know If she would ride There isn't time enough for them To even chide her muddiness To deride her scooter's sillyness No time to point to rosy drink stains On her dress And laugh the mighty laugh They know will strike her down There is no time to see her frown Or watch her cry No time to watch the tears wash dirt Out of the corners of her eyes No urge again to watch her die Curl up and blow away inside There is no time to taunt this girl Just time to ride. And so they ride The humming coming From the tires along the lane Announces warrior princes on a quest She almost hears the laughter Underneath their breath As they turn to go Still so far away that she can't catch them So she knows All alone to greet another sunset come Another shunned and sickly self-esteem To match her dusty clothes She turns and heads Tears on her cheeks One-footed down the road Clenching dust between her toes And I suppose It's somehow just that in this world A white and lonely little girl Somehow some way Should come to feel a black man's pain. 021111 ... lulie Dusty was my nickname when I was in my early 20s. It suited me. 021111 ... birdmad since repeated dry cleanings never quite managed to do it, i took a little detergent and carefully washed my long black coat in the sink. the impromptu bath washed away most of the remains of the evening which saw me fall victim to Poe's greatest fear. the water rinsed black through the coat as it ran down the drain, the little reminders of my night in a shallow grave. i washed away that night, i washed away the last particles of the scent of the trailer park sorceress, the last infinitesimal traces of Sam, who wore the coat when a few evenings that started out warm enough turned chilly and cauhgt her off guard i washed away, at least figuratively, the sum of a lot of the places i've been and shit i have done my own blood the blood of people i've fought perfume smoke dirt opiates and incense the hidden clorophyll from the crass in the cemetery where i threw myself down and stretched iin the late afternoon over the place where my parents sleep i should like to say that i am a clean slate, but just like the next sheet of paper on the notepad, the impressions of what have already been written leave their traces 021112 ... tender_square my tenant writes "dust me" with the tip of a nicotine-stained finger. tableaux on table with two fake ferns in the common hall. i catch my reflection in the mirror above, shake my head. i will not wipe away these words. inside, i stretch my aching hips for the first time in months. my socks turn swiffer as i leave gashes against golden floorboards, indictments on the state of my life up to and including this point. this particulate, the remnants of aspiration and exasperation. the residue of grief and grieving. i hold a painful pose. there is a knowledge that is only possible through the course of suffering. i will not wipe away these words. 230623 what's it to you? who go blather from