D. Gilson


"This one goes out to that little kid that got fried Spam for lunch."—Lil Wayne

"Most reckless things are beautiful in some way."—John Ashbery

In a movement supporting the face, which swims,
she’s cold, over freeze, I got that girl from overseas.
That the soul is a captive, treated humanely, kept
hoppin’ out the van with bandanas and all.
That is the tune but there are no words.
I had already made my name in the click,
but you got famous and shit. The words are only speculation.
All she eat is dick, she’s on a strict diet
bigger than the head, thrust at the viewer
as it retreats slightly. There is no way
so now let me show you upstairs. Gagged up,
hot tears spurt: that the soul is not a soul.
Fuck up with all these rookie MCs (whew!) smell like
a bunch of pussy to me. No way out of the problem
of pathos vs. experience. Let Diana Ross sing it:
I’m a jalapeno boy hot as Cayenne pepper.
Gesture which is neither embrace nor warning,
she said my dick feel like morphine.
Affirmation that doesn’t affirm anything
and honestly I’m down like that economy.
The balloon pops, the attention turns dully away
and I ain’t no thief, I’m just trying to eat.
Man fuck the police and President Georgia Bush
because tomorrow is easy but today is uncharted.
All I need is a blunt and a bail bond
to get to sleep tonight, at least until late.

D. Gilson is the author of Crush (Punctum Books, 2014), with Will Stockton; Brit Lit (Sibling Rivalry, 2013); and Catch & Release (2012), winner of the Robin Becker Prize from Seven Kitchens Press. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry, The Indiana Review, and The Rumpus.
Online, Poetrymarkc