John Vieira


Like a girl in a red dress she wants you to yell like she does.
An assault of heavy weapons and rolls of thunder,
she'll get you to come prematurely. What tense is her verb in
(or, like in Chinese, she has no future),
so who will care that she holes up with strangers, she figures.
It doesn't matter that I say I haven't had enough, no.
For, once satisfied, life's not anything much—
the fried rice seems good only in the hunger.
In the parking lot by the boardwalk on platform heels,
by the pull of the sea—Not by me.—she is swayed, aside automobiles.

Rainless White Lightning Busted the Night in Half

Twice I spat, and not blithely, on the moonlit pavement,
coming home into a harder world that is never above
slapping us around: No, sir, I didn't say anything,
must have been the shadow behind me.

If Joe don't have a go with his mama all night long
then Joe don't have a go at this mama at all.

The harpist stationed at the doorway I fell through
into this snug nightmare didn't know the changes
any more than I

(any less than the spew from my loud whispering
of yes): Yes, ma'am, you win.
I'm hard here and anxious to measure up.

Dividing his time between the Washington, DC area and New York City, John Vieira's writing and visual art has appeared in print and in galleries and museums in over a dozen countries.
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