D.U.I.


4:00
No, not me
Cop pulls me over
asks me where I been
and I deliver a line so sweet, you'd think I
just got through baking one of Mrs. Smith's
apple pies

-But he ain't biting

Driver's license
formality
No need for tracers
he knows where I am
Left breast pocket
notebook
behind
no
in front
nothing

Give him the notebook
Drivers license
notebook
driver's license
-It's in my jeans

dig it out
flip through the rubber banded flats of plastic
feel the heat of the tracer
give him the license
like a bus transfer that I'll be using
here on out

-busted
He should have taken my notebook
instead of the transfer
'cause that's who I am
and where I'm going

JUDAS



Judas took his gold
went down to the store
bought a pack of smokes
and a thistle turned rope
to string another bead in the blackness

stumbling down the road
was he doing what he was told
and, after all, can a spirit be sold?
all of the questions racking his mind
Why did he pass on the bread and the wine

busted, broken, not knowing why
tore off the plastic from the cigarette package
mind fully primed he went through his jacket
how could I
How could I
HOW COULD I
"CHRIST!" he cried,
"Where the hell are my matches!"

CHANGING HORSES

He knows

He knows the beauty of lyrical pain
Impulse rejoices for his acceptance
Easy access to rib-cage vaults
Unwind the tensions of this
Maniacal doom

He tastes

Tastes the emptiness that comedians
See at the bottom of their glass
The residue of transient bravado
is made still by his whisper

He perceives

Perception of death
Enlightens his ovation
His tonation takes hold of
Surface designs and
Guides their risk to his iris
Rigid lines in shadow curve into
Stone bodies that kneed (need)
Precise lotion administered

He returns

Returning to the constellation
He gently kills our
Lame horses
They die with open generosity
They die and he rides toward
Red horizons never using a whip
They volunteer for subjective infinity

He will guide them through
Granite domes into yellow and
White meadows
He will guide them because
He knows

---Jonathan Mittleman
01/25/1988 Los Angeles
Written for Thomas Michael Angelo