Poetry by Luke Kuzmish

                           a.has CC



East Ave


north
pass the store
where they used to sell
my stolen toys
next to the Greek burger joint
closed on Sundays

every house is just a junk store
the numbers half gone
from old bars
packed with the things
that fell through someone’s fingers

at 8th St the light
just blinks yellow
because the streets
don’t need anything else

my heart swells and trickles
approaching
my grandparents house
where I spent my first
five years
and many afternoons after
swallowed by unpaid taxes
ruminated for the next
poor family unfamiliar with smiles

a lady crosses the street
at the corner of 5th
     where Jo used to live
     her house smelling of cats
          and anxious, paranoid delusions
she meets her boys riding their bikes
on a winter day
that is cloaked in spring’s hope

the coke plant has signs
disallowing cameras and knives
they shut down last year
but black mud will never forget

to the boat launch
watch an old man
who is hunting for something
in the rocks on the sand
his knees bent like wilting
funeral orchids

watch the water
from a felled tree
try to find
my communion with God
amongst the families
and their dogs

I lick my thumb
clean the mud
from my shoes
trying to recall
if I came here to rekindle something
or to bury it dead

​



​Sadie

Sadie's voice is broken glass
at least it was last time
I heard her pray

found her escort listing last night

where she's willing
to negotiate your tithe

where she will wash your feet
with the grease of her hair

where I almost mistook
my own mistakes
for a different
brand of light





homelessness #1


"do you want to buy this knife?"
outside McDonalds on 12th street
after 10 PM on a Sunday

you had a silly panama hat
I didn't buy your knife
I needed whatever you wanted for it
more than I needed
something sharp

"do you know anyone who wants to buy
these antibiotics?"
"do you have a phone?
my girl
might trade me"

I let you borrow my phone
smoke my hand rolled cigarette
born from butts on the ground
watching your fevered steps
your mouth muttering nonsense
under your blonde beard

few hours later
you tell me about bucket drumming
for spare change

there was futility
ringing in my ears
but the situation we were in
warranted grasping on to anyone
who might come up
when you are down

a few hours later
we're standing in
front of the gas station
smoking cheap cigars
trying to hustle
your knife
to someone with a Cadillac

I followed you back
to your encampment
10 blocks and across the tracks

you tell me
you want vengeance
I wish I had someone to blame

you offer me the bed
"i'll sit in the chair,
i'm not even tired"

I sleep for a few minutes
til you tell me about the bugs
I can feel the mattress is wet

your camp mate eats a donut
watches me as the sun comes up
he tells you
"don't bring back
trouble to the camp"

I had so much to learn
about trading away
innocence
​


Luke Kuzmish is a writer from Erie, Pennsylvania.  His fifth collection of poetry, “My Name Does Not Belong to Me” is slated for publication in 2020 by Weasel Press.