Multum in Parvo

By Niko Nelson


at the top of the Sierras
heroin don’t reach
free markets
forgotten on tongues
of bare-breasted natives
big-boned ladies talking
‘40s ‘20s ‘30s
no coffee for their coffee
of unfiltered blacks
on streets like waves
highways of animals lost
drenched in bypass
of common blood slipping
sipping sipping
their empty coffee
drinking their own skin
for the bond they want


the sun shiners’ll rush the gates
until morning catches
on unburst clouds
lightly soothing
the whitest ring of hertz
giving up unmarshaled
at the lighthouse
farmers keeping seeds
without water and snowflakes
unwithered straight all night
because no one hears me
Peru is soaked in the arco
iris wonder o wonder cold collecting
clean dust fields steady as definitions
burning the deepest bone
tossing panting choking
inviting the dead to bed with me
settling with sun vigor
and ministers of night
playing folk songs
pursuing veins
each day seeing for the first time
Chinatown as sunny chilly
Sunday morning
dead fish
cold ice
hard men
almost women
finding reasons wondering
if living is the Presidio
and the Tenderloin
the blood system finds a way
to lose face in a world-class bed
this concrete here
smells like sweet
sugar roses


go into darkness without questions
away from light
from lozenge red
clouded by 6 A.M. blue
from boarding-time blue
stay within that coziness
of Kalamazoo book lounges
in the shade of altitudes
gridlocked on cities’ frozen lakes
unseen from the driver’s seat
pilot doesn’t know when to stop
must trust brain plane plateaus
or pilot levels
at 30,000
or 3,000
comfortable cloud tops ripple
like dog or octopus head
exploding in mouth
though dog is metaphor
like painted mountain tops
or Bukowski at a Mexican bar
explaining himself


feeding Cold Wars
on cold nights
code for
aging cold
water to drink
and drown in


black body suit cries night
straight as arrow
takes a turn to take
more than talent to get dealt
sneaky like fax
confined to satisfactions in tree lines
depleted of spoons and exits
burnt with bumps
peaking like shine
slides in park come up black
others come dirty
with pity’s dark burns
of the laved coming
clean jumping third rails
freeze dried in refuse
in rules kept
in pockets touched
silently in 2-off actions
reflected in pull-outs
left of the pins
deceived for three pence
burned of letters and sight


if the body remains electric where’s the plugs from Brooklyn not 1855 delusions of grandeur love will never be because the hurricane came 10 years past no break breathes in what ear was this now no one counted in self- discovery and simple words to say this was not a problem and heroes come swinging in prophecies in the year that forgot who could remember realities were falling like flies trapped between a window and a
a woman screamed and another fell
no one came for the body and the neighborhood dogs have taken reality for

nothing in the Bible speaks against Los Angeles being reduced to an acronym nor spelling to be important after 18 years and a world-inclusive effort to minimalize crying limiting maybes to one. there are only infinite ways to construct and city and this is at best a continual advertisement running water on white paper with lines. what fills them is forced out lest they ensue in tears (or tears)

the numbers game is breaking
the stench breathing
behind metal casing
balls thrown back
practicing for the sake of astounding
not for ever but for now
this and I a product
of place West
of infinite rest
born knowing
of dreams
we all spare a gallon
while the undertaker
the moneymaker
conquers as heavy
weight like sink’s singing
from shaky brain from
firm blows swollen in the sun
names and numbers floating
sinking down stairwell cement
into my cornea and I know
I may’ve thinkin the wrong thing


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Niko Nelson

Niko Nelson / About Author

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