The Camel Saloon Gallery

Amy Soricelli: New York City Three Views

Birds of a Feather


Sharp 



Rainy Morning in NYC




David J. Thompson: Two Images

Seville Bar


Suit of Lights 



Michael Cooper: That Tight

                   above me shiver lilies I reach I reach]   I know what every person on the street
                                                                         corner knows—that to sell
                                                                         oneself
           what is this last whispered place between us
                          deep in her plaited tresses locked
                                          the aerials hum blue   in oranges, alms or as the Other
                                       on their wood pograms
                                      coppered mimes thrown
                                                memories across
                       headlights who educate the unwary   exacts the pound of flesh
          spent uncollected shopping carts loiter under    cupped carrion in the hands
                                the misplaced pine bending     cadaverous but we must alive lip wind sprint
                               the sidewalk cleats with its
                                                       roots rose     lithe-blooded we see
              until it speaks in clover between the sap
                    scoured sheets the follicles that leap
                                between us lurid lear taste
                                                         yes like
                             cold mac and cheese—again    I want to tear
                                                                       you out
                                                                       of that white
                                                                       collar splendor Hy Rise—drag you
                                                                       to the curb naked—pumped
                                                                       up on bath salts to be beaten
                                                                       by four Peace Officer’s
                                                                       and a malfunctioning taser—said not one dish
                                                                       washer ever—in fact
                              easy clingy and cold we feel     he’s more interested in keeping
                                                                       the skin
                                            the empty spaces
                         with our ribbed fingers fill up
                                                 paper lungs      on his hands   and   his   wedding   band   
from leaping into the sink, though she left him  some time ago.  But I will, Puritan.   
I want to see you face down in her crotch the moment the John leaves.  85% of you don’t know what I’m talking about— 
                                       have you ever sat on    noses in a job unhindered by foodless
                                                                      Detriot?  I want your family to shatter—sit you
                                                                      alone on a park bench at winter time singing     
                                                                      those carols
                                                                      you love
                                                                      so much
                                                                      hug those tears Presentless
                     a fire hydrant?  What does blood
       taste like licked from corrugated aluminum? 
                                                 At first dew  nothing for your children or visit friends
                                                                    with pity rimmed eyes but I
                          in the chimney—what was it
                              seeking? Rainbird controls   would give you a present: a memory
                  sequestered in their cement bunkers
      as empty as congress, with the traffic control   of the first lesbian kiss I ever witnessed, wet and
          so easily breached by drunken bumpers? 
                                               Paycheckless    groping at Starbucks. I would give anything to be
                                                                    that tongue, or to be held like
                                                                    that, just once.  That tightly.
 [your dark face lowers in the ice cube filled tub

The Camel Saloon Gallery

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