the six of them…

shooting dice on the dining room floor,
monies passed back and forth / hand
to hand / kept in tight wads clutched
in closed fists or kept loosely under foot.

they spoke, nearly as one / the six
of them, but their braggadocious words
could barely penetrate the atmosphere
of loud music and weed smoke
struggling for superiority between them
in this limited living space. many phrases
were repeated often, not that a newsfeed
mattered / more than mantras, minds
were on tight money and loose women
on mattresses overworn from daydreaming.

someone drops a glass
and the glass glass shatters and scatters
a dozen shards (dangerously sharp) and
orange juiced gin and an ice cube or two,
across their playing field of monopoly
game board atop thread-bare carpet.

the five of them call the one of him
a drunken jackass until the six of them
they all laugh…

#3 says: hey, it’s almost 11:30…
we going to the club or what? all
the bitches gonna be scooped up
if we dont get a move on!

#5 replies: inebriated, but needing
to seperate himself from the herd
for reasons momentarily mystical:
why they gotta be “bitches”?
why caint you ever say “ladies”?

and the music stalls / every note.
even the weed smoke hesitates
how it permeates and punctuates time.
every breath stops / dead still; army ants
trapped in amber / mastodons at
a tea party / then the six of them
all laugh… and they laugh. their minds
returning to the more important things
in their world… money and masochism.

six of them:

in large degrees, grown / mostly
all testosterone; a collective gland-hood…
a titular masculinity. maybe even manly.
not one a man… all followers / following.
no peer pressure, just learned behavior.
and the six of them prepare their stumble
out into the night / looking for something
of darker densities than they and needing
to measure how “real” they are
against solid earth… 

hunter-gatherers all, the six of them…
jabbing ego into the night-time
until it bleeds for them and cries uncle.

then comes the turn and
they ask if i will join them.

i decline (as always).

they wonder what my problem is / like
i dropped a glass glass… but i am not
drunk… they dont think me a jackass…
they shrug it off / whatever it is
they worry me to be… or whatever it is
they worry might be within them.

the six / they laugh… 

#2 says: you jus gonna be
up in them books, right? writing and shit,
right? that’s cool. my cousin writes.
you a cool motherfucker.

after a minute, they gather their gear
and steer themselves out into the streets…
their loudmusic and weed smoke
becoming bored without an audience, so it
dissipates into a past / a dormant thunder
of little-to-no endearing philosophy,
a vibratory static. a dimming, damning hum.

dj is the selector and i need a vinyl
that is off-beat vociferous, deliberately
daunting / saxophones haunting;
with 2 shots of bourbon in a glass glass,
i sit out on the porch and measure myself
against the stars / my abstract
nothingness disintergrating
into something strongly surreal:
albert ayler, ishmael reed, and pedro bell
fist fighting in the square ring of poetry…
and then it’s only me…

this one of me / more dromedary
than pachyderm / laughing
at pre-history / at post-apocalypse;
laughing at a self-imposed zero sum,
a special kind of gravitational singularity
that aborts terrain / abhors orbit.
a cosmic storm that passes
through a planet / that only
seismographs, dust mites, and
the elementally-possessed can feel;
(a prized peace / this compulsory home
burrowed deeply within my head).