Mix CD, Soulful Saturday 6

1. Poetry Man by Phoebe Snow
2. Joe Hill' Ashes by Otis Gibbs
3. Lions by I Can Make a Mess
4. What Fiction is For by Dyan
5. Witness by Benjamin Booker
6. My Ding-A-Ling by Chuck Berry
7. Mr. Writer by Stereophonics
8. When the Stars Go Blue by Ryan Adams


Knives to Buy

I am a stupid idiot.
with a black eye.
on the Long Island Railroad.

I text you sometimes,
your old number,
just to remind you I exist.

Rip my bones, dont respond,
and don't let these fists
hit away my hopes.

I am eventually
made out of shipwrecks,
and soap.

Books!
But I know you read this shit.
And so I go.

502 crimes.
wrestle bears and be better.
find love and give it up.

don't be stupid.
be me. be you.
I welcome the terrible.

don't be Kentucky.
don't be me.
same arms.


Ann Street

Walking with a limp.
It's snowing.
Let me be my poetry.

I came into to this town.
Riding on a memory.
On a low drunk.

Love concussion.
Or dawned on me.
I hate when people say FiDi.

Got a hotel.
Communication traps.
The roar of an inside.

Under satellites.
Amongst eyes.
It's fucking freezing.

Too gold.
There are secrets here.
Strangers walking by.

At the moment I was.
Even worse for weird.
Of an airplane landing.



Rural Anvil Syndrome [Relieved]

fifty-five cents later
and it's 4:45 pm,
so I grab my ruck
and foot down to the river
with Daniel and the ghost of Vernon.

there, we intend to sink,
along with the sun,
which rode on our backs
from Florida up
to Manhattan
with a brief cemetery stop
in Park Slope, Brooklyn,
with wishes and hope
that I wouldn't run into her,
because that would've ruined
our way upstate. 

it's always a gamble,
am I right, fellas?
they will answer when they read this poem,
which is spaced between movie trailers
and mixed up playlists of sorts.

and so we camp,
which we hate,
but we name hummingbirds
after gals we dated in the past,
and eat beans, draw on potatoes
and stab bananas with paper clips,
the stippling eventually forming
drawings of dicks and guns;
we feed those to the ex-girlfriend birds,
the fish and the bats. 

we conduct writing exercises
and howl at the moon, waiting
for wolves or monsters to howl back,
but it only happens once, 
which makes us sublimely happy.
we pass around a jug of whiskey 
mixed with wishes,
taking slugs and reciting impromptu poems
about the state of things
and the things of state. 

tomorrow's sunshine alarm clock,
will make us appreciate hangovers at home,
but we will also feel like a burro in a Kerouac book,
minding the river and the path,
better because we tried
and succeeded 
to get away from it all,
even just for a night. 
see ya the bar, after a shower,
we whisper as we walk. 


Myles Matheny is Missing

Poem.
He used to play in a band called The Drums.
We met while I was bartending.
Some event near South Street Seaport. 
Eric was there. 
Jenna took photos.
Shirtless and forgiven.
three times. 
I left Suzanne that one night.
To go to drink for free at his DJ set.
Stupid Brooklyn. 
Without the B.
Just like another poem.
Where is Myles?
Everyday we fuss and fight.
That weekend I accidentally spit on a jogging woman. 
Greenpoint was bullshit.
Willytowne was, too.
Neither of us will make it down this hill alive.
Eric thinks Myles is on heroin. 
Guess I shouldn't have done blow with him.
Devils.
Poem.
Bullshit.
Life.
Friends.
Love.



Still: Zoom Out

avoiding work.
reading basketball news.
letting coffee go cold. 
and posture slouch.

burping breakfast, still.
staring through the world.
not focusing on anything.
even the cadence of reggae music is ignored. 

check Facebook.
give up after a split second. 
decided on a walk. 
wishing within weather. 

this is what nothing is. 
a telephone conversation to my sister.
not paying attention. 
looking at leaves with faces on them. 

pull one off the bush. 
use a Sharpie to draw eyes on it. 
an indifferent mouth. 
like mine today, now. 

no reason.
just nothing. 
this might be meditation.
or indignation. 

who knows.
who cares.
I certainly don't.
keep zoning out while zooming in. 


Sometimes You Gotta Kill

Like when driving down the highway
at 78.5 miles per hour
and a bird, a possum,
or some other small, dumb-eyed
animal won't get out of your way,
it is better to keep going
and hope that it misses your tires
instead of trying to swerve at that speed
and possibly dying yourself. 


ROOKLYN

by letting today live.
yesterland dies.
and good riddance.

there's a ghost behind me.
there's a face in that leaf.
of course you've made up your mind.
about me.
but the truth is even better.

wanna go back in time?
to 2012?
just for an hour and a half.


Poem

When the wise wind
speaks to you.

Listen.


Unbound by Time and Its Order

if you wanna go back in time,
go back to your old neighborhood,
your old haunting grounds,
and listen to the music
you used to listen to.

walk by the bar of the cafe
in which you used to work
or get good and drunk
and try not to think of girls.

it's amazing how things change.
it's amazing how things stay the same.
it's good to be back then,
but the big bad years have gone away.

you can visit them, smell them,
and for split seconds,
while crossing streets,
you can forget what year it is.


Poem

eyes closed.
eyes closed.
eyes closed.
eyes closed.
eyes closed.
eyes closed.
eyes closed.
eyes closed.
eyes closed.
eyes closed.