Woodrow Phillips


bless’d are the graffiti artists


bless’d are the street poets, the undergods of underdogs,

canary kids always tasting the atmosphere,

illegal artists caught in the gleaming glory of police spotlights,

recording history in black and purple block letters,

                                     every word a bruise  


bless’d are the bus stops, where prescriptions can be filled


bless’d are the jackhammers, the bulldozers, the traffic cones,

blocking all the sidewalks, filling streets with noise and dust, orange

hats and asphalt faces, bless’d is this artless mess


                          bless’d are the dreamers who dream upside down,

who dangle from the thinnest of threads, whispering at the world

(hello fate, my name is bait)


bless’d are the mom and pop shops locking their doors,

orphans of the industrial apocalypse,

forgotten in the aftermath of bizarre bubble-math                                                    


bless’d are the homeless men under the overpass, long necks

long shaking limbs, bones with beards, creeping out of their caves

like wolves, or werewolves, or insane haiku masters

                     (hey friend, please help – running for president – need campaign funds)


                                        bless’d are the jalopies, the wild pilots of jalopies,

philosophers of practical jalopyism, bless’d are all things that

don’t know how to die, and the junkyards where jalopies-to-be dream

of a mothership


bless’d is the hole in the dashboard where the stereo used to be,

and the professionalism of a skilled thief

who can jimmy a lock without breaking it, or smash a window,

or press a knife into a throat

bless’d are the pawnshops that pay cash, no questions asked


                            bless’d are the billboards reminding us to buy milk


bless’d are the coffin shaped coffee shops, where all things can be viewed

thru coffee stained windows, argued and debated, profound or profane,

            overdosed minds turning bitter, reaching for sugar


and even though i walk in the shadow of a seventy four story

corporate headquarters, i shall not fear,


                      my graffiti poems glow in the dark,

aerosol nightlights, words painted in the color of fire and blood

knowable only to those who speak the language of drums, fists,



bless’d are the graffiti artists,

for they shall inherit these walls


 ©2012 This work is the property of the author.

Posted on December 9, 2012, in POETRY, Woodrow Phillips and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. This is Woodrow Phillips’ second poem on MM. And I thought it a good Misfits’ style sermon for a Sunday.

    Read his other poem, GUITAR IN A PAWNSHOP, here:

  2. Really enjoyed this one, blessed be the train stations where one can no longer smoke

  3. This is why poetry and poets were invented/created/born. So many with open eyes are blind. It’s all bless’d and we need to be reminded of that. Thanks, Woodrow.

  4. Modernist Whit manic Whit maniac poem from Woodrow.

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