Poetry By Tas Tobey

       Steven Pisano CC




PLEA FROM THE DELINQUENT IN MY DREAMS
​after Basie Allen

I want wheat-gold sun-washed mornings of magnolia
blooming above avenues paved with elemental alchemy

& packed with pushcarts selling sandalwood 
scents of papa's face post-shave & sugary remnants 

of perfumed Uptown church ladies rolling smooth 
off a light breeze like a benediction, 

a radiant whisper, gentle hush moving holy.

I want a majestic mask of dazzling Evergreens 
& emeralds the shade of late-summer lake water.

I want a bed built from the quietest clefts of ocean floor
& sheets sewn from starlight more sacred than scripture &

I want kindhearted pillows filled with mama’s laughter &
quilts patch-worked with bedtime stories & kept promises from papa.

I want virtuous spliffs packed fat with summer dusk & varsity 
nostalgia that I, all bravado, will spark 

with a solid 89 karat gold Zippo 
engraved with a cool-headed line from O'Hara

& I'll watch as its flame burns bigger than a bonfire.

I want a brilliant bucket hat woven from healed heartbreak 
& tie-dyed the colors of the sky the night of all our first kisses combined

& I want childish Chuck Taylor's crafted from kindness
with laces of language so soft screams hit like lullabies. 

I want a gleaming necklace of sterling silver ocean,
a fat, grinning chain with a glow so cold I look fire

& bracelets so icy everyone walking by almost slips
& endless rings of renegade elegance 

dripping heavy with a grace so pungent & total 
even the saddest heads on the street have to smile.

I want blackberry jam of preserved joy spread 
across slices of dark Rye marbled with untouched rivers, 

white water black water green water sweet water.

I want a culture of second chances & crucified cops 
nailed high above clean July concrete that smells like BBQ

& I want a secret back-alley garden of gardenias 
that shine like salt-worn pearls caught on Kodachrome

& smell like soil & clean sheets & 
the calm peace of quiet apartment hallways,

& just before I let part my juvenile 
lips, before I reach into this pocket of deep blue 

denim for a jade-handled straight razor & raise 
the blade to my face & in a single, swift motion 

split my smile at the seam like a two-bit bible tale 
half-remembered & rushed in the retelling,

just before the lights fade for the curtain call & chorus 
of teeth, slow tear of grins spreading,

ink-spill of blood crimsoning cotton, 
a slow-motion soak thick & cruel & pooling

wider & wider & darker––I brace myself, & pull 
the pilled wool of a coat uncool but cozy closer 

against the December wind dancing frigid-pretty 
& stoop low enough so as not to hit my head on the sky 

& leaning from tonight's sunset in Brooklyn
all the way across the river to Manhattan’s only empty hour,

I kneel, & let my neck fall, into the splintered shoulder 
of every soul of every survivor on every street corner 

& I wander, spitting blood & laughing to myself aloud 
wondering whether mama knew what she was talking about  

all those years when, any time we asked for something 
too pricey, she’d just smile sad-soft & laugh & say baby

if wishes were horses 
beggars would ride. 

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Tas Tobey is a poet and writer pursuing an MFA at the City College of the City University of New York. His poetry has appeared in The Carson Review (Marymount Manhattan College), Crush, and The Whaam! Gazette. His nonfiction writing has appeared in The New York Times Book Review, The New York Times Style Magazine, and Complex. He lives in Brooklyn. 
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