Three Poems by Damian Rucci

Padgett’s Pool Hall at Noon

all the best joints let you smoke
while you’re drinking

each pitcher is a milestone to nirvana
two in and the afternoon is bright
four and the dogs come out of the men

the truth hangs on loose lips
love is a commodity that hangs on a moment

and where are you now?
the noon drink has become a marathon
the boys have dropped their hats
character fades in the beer foam

the missouri sky waves goodnight
and we’ve killed a keg in conversation
the night calls us elsewhere
and you aren’t here
and you aren’t here

____________

 

Missouri Time

It’s 5pm Missouri time
a can of Milwaukee’s Best
empty on my desk
two bowls smoked
six poems I’ve second guessed

living across from the art gallery
dodging a deadline, fighting a habit
looking for some cigarettes to smoke
the sky is damned outstanding

I keep to myself out here
except when there’s weed to smoke
or someone bought beer
or something to do, besides chase ideas

I just got to this desk and it’s 5pm
a can of Milqaukees’s Best
empty on my desk
two bowls smoked
six poems I’ve second guessed

but it’s Missouri time
which means I barely check the clocks
I blow kisses East to New Jersey
and count the holes in my only socks

money isn’t no thing
and I’m a stranger in this place

____________

 

Suburban Meditation

They say man domesticated
the wolf, tamed the beast
just like we claimed the plains
by carving interstate highways
right through the heart of them.

The unnamed creatures hide
in the shadows of brush
but you old wolf, who lay
his head along a master’s thigh
who abandoned the call/ the moon

don’t you ever miss
the mosses along the rocks
up the mountain sides?
The way fear clings to the air
how a heart’s percussion
is the only music, a beast needs

but now gray whiskered
you wait for leftovers
slime and scrap from dinner

old wolf, can you
remember the wind?
Can you remember
the way it was before?

 

“To Chicago, or Heaven?” by Damian Rucci

On the corner of West 39th and Bell,
below the amber street light by the bookstore
I see you, Victor Smith,
reading beneath the moon.
We walk down Roanoke road
as you read me your poems—
I’ve never heard your voice but tonight
it is made of silk and bourbon.
Victor Smith, why have you come back here?
Why are you a vision in this late night stupor?
Where does the Midwest wind blow?
To Chicago
or to heaven?
How many street poets
know the devil by name?
I know, you’ve never claimed to be a teacher,
but tonight your words are gospel.
Victor, can dog-faced saints know serenity?
How many junkies have sold their last stanza
for a glimpse at the sun?
How many vagabonds have hopped trains
through cowtowns and became preachers
under their bridges?
How many cold lonely nights make a prophet?
Why do they always die alone?

____________

Damian Rucci is a friendly neighborhood degenerate who sells books on street corners