Devin Murphy–Featured Poet

IMG_0933Devin Murphy is a performance poet, writer, and director who moved to LA from New York about two years ago.
Check out his original comedic webseries, Here Comes Godot, about artists behaving badly in the downtown NYC theatre scene, at HereComesGodot.com, or under the “Here Comes Godot” channel on YouTube. 
You can also find some of Devin’s writing on the beta version of his website “Gone With It Productions,” soon to be updated and relaunched at GoneWithIt.weebly.com.
 Here are three of his poems. Enjoy!

the cage

fatty arbuckle

redd foxx and a can of hot soup

shooting hoops on west third street

before a crowd at sixth avenue

it’s all outside

it’s beautiful, it’s what

new yorkers do

caged plays with summer days

wasting lazy afternoons

soon

changed to shade

soon

draped in gray

spent the whole of the day

crazily

a few moves too soon

school clothes in piles

on blacktop

outside of the lock-up

outside of every afternoon

of our youth

kids got uniforms too

kids know forms of abuse

kids learn torture in schools

and, now

trading all for courtside

pay-per-view

fatty arbuckle with

the alley-oop

redd foxx in the white socks

drops back down

nba jam dunks in front of

alvin, the chipmunks,

the sad clown

crowd grunts

as the cops move in, too

gotta see what’s the scoop

gotta make sure

it ain’t them

who lose

this hoop dream

dream sequence

monday afternoon

montage review of the

mean streets and soft schools

treaty of versailles part 2

of two

or three

it’s addressing history

it’s riskier to believe

that people can have a motive

besides making money

and still be free

in today’s society

you know,

it’s beyond reprieve

to be invested in

time-draining activity

without a grounding in necessity

with commodification as

a goal to reach

so, we’ve got corporate free speech

and a national mandate to achieve

ATM jizm release and overdraft fees

there ain’t much room for poetry

you know, but

we’ve got people making millions

and you expect me to believe

we can’t find

the money to educate properly?

so, speculate on hope

and we go

back to the street

to see the

mickey dee’s across the way

caddy corner to the cage

you’ve seen it on the news

it’s famous on youtube

for a mugging viewed more

across the web

than lover ronald’s pink goo

but it survives on draining our youth,

and bloating them, too

and we let their lobbyists decide

how we label our food

so true,

there’s money out there

it just isn’t for me or you

you’ve got to find it, but

people tend to sit on wealth

i say ignite it

don’t let them hide it

don’t let them decide that

they want to keep 91% of

what we do

yeah, maybe they own it now

but

once you kill the king

you own the noose

 

return to sender

she died with the door open

next to a vase of uncut flowers

and a bottle of wine

she died in the hallway

with the faces of her loved ones

standing watch within picture frames

and knick-knacks, faces floating in

brass boxes

her godchildren had given her

she died with a letter in her left hand

sealed, stamped,

and seventeen steps from her mailbox

she died with the door open

and four days later

Jim came by to say sorry

sorry that he was gone for so long

and he brought her a candle,

that smelled like almonds

for them to burn

she died in the hallway,

between two places, two rooms she lived in

she died facing up,

eyes on the sky

and the mailman said,

to the cameras

when he found her,

that she was wearing a new, blue dress

and she died with the tags still attached

that it fit her

beautifully,

and

the letter, he said, addressed to

Jim Driggs in Rancocas

would be delivered by hand that day

for the heavens would await its arrival.

 

nickeled and dimed

she had that fever, you know

where you feel really weak but

you look really bloated

and she kept dropping her coins on the subway car floor

quarters and nickels, mostly, spinning and rolling

with the motion of the train

she needed a cup because

she was dropping them like it was a comedy routine

one, two, threes

and picking them back up

but there was no punchline

and her hands were like those of a stuffed animal,

exaggerated

swollen

and every time someone got on the train

she would say

“change brings change”

and hold out her hand and the nickels would

slip through her fingers and dance on the floor

and the men would look away,

into their phones,

brushing off their briefcases and

forced by the limitations of the train car

in rush hour

to hold the same pole

and stand next to her like equals.

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