A Life Of Miguel Pinero Nu-Yorican poet, 1944 - 1988

by Ian Mullins

Hey Miguel
I’ve out-lived you
here in the ashes
where fires don’t burn so well

but I heard you did cell-time
and the needle
was the only statue of liberty
you ever wanted to kiss,
you roamed the streets
of the lower east side
like a wild dog on heat
pissing on subway steps,
scratching on paper like you were
tattooing your own hands

getting high was your vice
getting high was your life
and you lived it through
the cells and the court-houses
the bars and bodegas,
all those pretty boys and girls
you snapped like pencils

drank wine like breathing fresh air
and snorted coke like sayin’ a prayer

while I’m down here in the ashes
walking storm-drained streets
with a candle cupped in my hands;

raise your glasses, please,
to the lives of Miguel Pinero.

Stars And Snowflakes

by Ian Mullins　

Sometimes they fall so fast
they're like snowflakes
you catch in your hands
and take home in your pockets
paste them to your duvet
and drop them into drinks

laughing to think
you ever stood naked in the cold
praying for snow to wipe out the world
and take your face with it

but other times
you take a shotgun into the street
shoot them down
one by one
then nail them to the wall
tell yourself it's not your fault
they don’t really shine
they’re just the glitter a little girl
washes from her hands

till you wonder why you wake up
so bitter and cold
why it’s only snowing
at the other end of the street

outside you feel a snowflake
melting rust on your face
but your eyes see nothing
the snow has burned black

your face is a bullet hole
you crawl back inside
proudly ashamed

saying yes;
I did that.

Someone's Birthday

by Ian Mullins　

A green door that'salways locked

swings wide this morning;

maybe the storm-wind waving up

from the river slapped it open

with a palm of hail,

or maybe a pregnant homeless girl

realizing her time had come

to start being real 

in a whole new way

kicked the door open

with all her baby's strength

and there amongst the barbells and the ropes

poured blood and baby

out of her body

into the middle of a twelve-round ring,

screaming aloud

she will never be alone again.

Lucky Girl

by Ian Mullins

Stay out in the cold
Elizabeth, rain running down
your bare legs
eyes angry and sad
dreaming
of a long straight road
where you never scoot
to the scrublands to let cars
barrel by; jazz-walking
mute-trumpet style,
one foot tripping the other
the way one wave tumbles the next,

keep walking Elizabeth;
I don’t want to know
you married an architect
or a lawyer, moved to sweet suburbia
had three kids one dog
and told everyone who cared
how ‘lucky’ you were:

stay here in the rain,
the bare-legged mute-trumpet
rain; walk away and dream
of never looking back.

AKA Grey Goblin

by Ian Mullins

So they sent me to computer school
to help me get a job
and all day long I tapped diligently
on the keyboard
with other losers like me
in a room that smelled of old men’s sweat

and we all played our parts;
except for one man-boy
with grey hairs in his eyebrows
who only used his fingers to pick his nose
while decorating the desk with a knife.

One day he brought toys
to play with, a little Spiderman
from a cereal box and a Green Goblin
with a skull-bomb in his hand,
daring all comers to be small boys
with blackened fingernails
and tattoos reeking of dope,

but I didn’t take up his challenge;
told myself I had too much pride.

But when they threw the man-boy out
he left the Green Goblin behind;
and on my last day,
when I crept out like a burglar
ashamed to admit there was nothing
worth stealing, I pocketed the evil-doer
and brought him home to sleep
under my pillow, dreaming
he might swing through my window
and scatter my grown-up nightmares
like bad guys in a jewellery store

while me and Spidey duke it out
on the roof-top. And this time
the old Grey Goblin
with skull-bomb in hand

will still be smiling
when I turn the last page.

Be Yourself

by Ian Mullins

Being mad doesn’t bother me;
I’ve lived with it so long
it’s as comfortable as a cold
duvet. As soon as I feel that chill
I know I’m almost home,

and to tell the truth I’m usually glad
to be there; it’s the only place
in my head where I truly feel
alone. The parts of my skull
I share with the sane world
are where I feel colonised
and abused: the mere fact
that I know how to do my job
is a source of great distress
to me. I resent the knowledge
my brain has to hoard
when it needs all the space it can earn
for dreaming and poetry,
all the imaginary lives
I secretly believe are more real
than a day-to-day life so hateful
and absurd it can only be
a symptom of a mental illness
all the world is heir to;

perhaps a virus, some shameful relic
of a dead planet that crash
-landed into this one
when the earth was hot soup
slowly cooled by celestial
breaths: imaginary lives
whose realness is guaranteed
by the fact that we dream them,
that they cannot be polluted
by the virus we spread
whenever we open our mouths.

Oh come and be mad, my friends!
Come and be mad.

My Beauty

by Ian Mullins

The most beautiful thing
about death
is that it never ends.
There is no question mark
hanging on a life sentence
like a sober friend
dragging the drunkard
down. Imagine the joy
of retiring to bed
knowing you’ll never need
to wake.

Now imagine the terror
of the God brigade,
armouring themselves
with crosses
and whips
and bodyguards of tears,
knowing that only terror
and judgement awaits;
followed by eternal torment
on a scale so gross
that forty years
of nine till five
will seem like sunburn
beside it. Where’s the glory
in living forever
when you’ll spend it
on your knees? You’ll beg
through the afterlife
the same way you begged
through this one.

I’ll cut you a deal, old man:
you don’t pray for me
and I won’t pray for you.
And if God demands
my contrition
tell Him to pray for mine
first,
and I’ll see what I can do.