Dan Goldman

Dan Goldman ,		in a beat up, water 
worn old peacoat, parlie perched on rip-skin
 lip chap, asking for his meaning;
never had less than twenty but was always broke,

		[stop tosmoke with the old
shit and sodom at thewishing stone.]

no one, no thing looking.

saw him looking all drench mouthed,laughing like a
 iheld him up and he held me down,
clovescradled by the dead-skin fingernailson a run
down the decrepit banister,never looking away.

so impeccably vagrant and caught up in a 
homelessdervish,smiling through
 	the scene.

stole some stoli,butas a man of gods
	smoked the sacrament of the bible with the great Sidharrtha
choked under the willow treethatwhined about its lover,

never seen an anthill living undersireable.

Dan Goldman,
 wholicked the bowl cleanand asked for seconds always
 finding gold in acold arctic
		lockbox, dreaming in the noon.
Construction Site Columbus,lookingfora 
	late-light comrade and he found a
 way in the dark in the cornerin the back
out on frontstreet, witha
big blue ribbonand a 

wejust wanderedthrough the avenues, all 
 ambush and 
 "the world is a whirl wind sometimes,"
 jones joked with his three dollar smokes
and a jackal under his tongue.
 i,all long mouthedmashed a five in my pocket
bum-box basking in his fifteen.

Damn, rotterthat jones
rolls raising in the pockets
 andi, all leaf-turned and bowing.

"if i shouldfall from grace;"
 mock englishgentlemen, strolling stupid
 stooping stmarks ave, back fromprospect.
40 and hashish ona rooftopbeaming
 dreaming ofa better
yesterdaywhen the chains of tomorrow reach fruition.


i'm better these days;
i was a force of nature
with hands red fromglass made by
the great fire of '07.
Never leftwhen i'mgone,
justdip downthe roadway
 withthe ghosts and the gust,
Jackson Cooper to the rescue,
andi rise.

Atthe apex,the lowestdip,
th e slowest trip,
 trippingballs in the rec-room.

i always hatedthat
dumb-face angel,ha'sand ho's
 dripping off arolling,wettongue.
 shit always had a knifein his pocket;
 he described it as love.
got caught up in a sonnet
pullingcigarettes from an ashtray
 wondering where he left his smile.
we just gurgledpleadinglyand caught a whiff
 of American Pie and Big Mac,
	the American Hero

[How do you think that's cool?
Cause it's all i got.] ,
my world crumbles insometimes
 like old papyruswith too much pressure
 spilling an impossibly black
void of ink in my sky, but
 praise, reminisce repeated
 for guilt is the twin sister of laughter,
 and all roads lead tolife with a sigh and a shudder.

Dan Goldman, the epithetscrawler
 racked withritcher scalecognition
wants to write me a love note only
blood-brothers can understand.
 inthe bloody fingereddawn
gripping swollen cloudsof chicken grease 
and grossness,your worldis just a bottle of wine.

Pour lightly, myfriend.
Let this dark shade cool your tempers, or do nothing at all.