Joseph Torra
A world of shitty idealism prison night falls on the Longfellow icy wind whitecaps on the Chuck no stars no sodium only shelled scallops enough to roll on the sidewalk the camera shifts to rider’s-eye-view dodging people shout obscenities at tourists any misfit with a wand of ash worn as might imagine wrote the poem after seeing his dog doused with oil set to flames so many names so many administration buildings and bars automatic things nothing ever seems real but burns into you all the same they say the machinery supports it but traffic’s shut down to one lane both directions
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At Revere Beach they leave the sand sculptures to the elements sinking to everything the ocean ever puked up a ripening extension of things sticks to the crotch of swimsuits UMASS Boston disintegrates second by second built forty years before the Big Dig Whitey’s brother Billy became president after Rich Parson’s wrote “There’s No Surfin’ On Dorchester Bay” then Billy carried off the last of the good bricks disguised as lyrics printed with chalky fingers on blackboards at night hieroglyphs float just below the surface things you know by heart never empty these Irish hate each other more than they hate the Italians who don’t hate anyone more than they hate blacks now Columbians Haitians Brazilians Mexicans Muslims who knows what else you learn to hate everyone
