Previous Feature: James Diaz

James Diaz resides in upstate NY. He spends his time writing poetry as if his life depends on it, because it does. His forms of survival can be read online at Cheap Pop, Collective Exile, Ditch, My Favorite Bullet, and Pismire.

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No Sir, I Have Not Been Drinking Tonight

Blissed out fucking vagabonds,
have you had to live like this?
Then don’t give me advice
on what I should or shouldn’t be doing.

Where do I come from?
I come from nowhere,
have you been to nowhere?
I didn’t think so.

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Ode To No One In Particular

Plastic cups
bathrooms in greyhound stations
fallen coins
the sound of homelessness
we’re really feeling it now
access tunnel
memory
mystic creatures jangling their eternity keys in our face.

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Untitled #17

Cops
and then more cops
it is barely raining
subway singers
who are rich
the L and G trains are not running
I am an animal, look out window
where is my voice?

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On A Pay Phone In The Pouring Rain

Messages to give
lucky bounding blocks of stone
as if my body had a silence within
the shaky legs of seizures through the pipes
soaked flesh from below the deposit
then gone
wet murmuring outside the great year

welcome to paradise, my life today.

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Candice, I Ain’t Mad At You

I spit on the floor
I blink my eyes
my whole life is pulled out of my pockets
identity in a wallet
rinse out your mouth
but every word tastes like a repeat
an alarming muscle clock
a house with no light, a light with no love.

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Slow Sugar

Good for me, television bruises and bandaged fingertips
loose lips sugar stars
Don’t say a word I’m only breathing mist for heartache, heartache for avalanche.

All of the tight burn in my atmospheres sizzle
first kiss I’m lost and don’t need the cure
tiny cities where your body reminds me of nothing
but cold mornings jerked from the start, you’re on the jukebox you’re in my drink
a hundred versions of you, what am I to do with a single one?

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Chain Smoking, On The Outs

The banister’s reflection looked like this
worked too hard warily away
my fuckin’ copperhead nightmare
shaky legs in the sky I thought
breathing herbal chains on the cut of the wallop
wanting to cry
don’t know why I battle
I’ve got my arms commander, save my thumbs, I’m still holding tight.

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In Memoriam

Midnight Lane Boutique is dedicated to the memory of Joe Dunn, actor, impresario, poet, publisher, and friend.

Click here to learn about Joe, and White Rabbit Press.

         

          We will meet again   

          one day, we will

          gather at the river

          (Paterson perchance)

             Robert Creeley   

                                                                                                                                                                                  

 

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