Playlist, 163.2

1. December Song by Birdtalker
2. Mansion Door by Shakey Graves
3. In a Blackout by Hamilton Leithauser
4. Hurts to Know by Condor & Jaybird
5. Lost in the Light by Bahamas
6. Hex by Catherine Irwin
7. Montreal by Ben Claveau
8. Skip a Beat by Old Baby
9. Wax and Digital by Basement Revolver
10. Louisville by Amos Lee

searching for absolutely nothing

Taco Bell opens at 8am.
Listening to Camper Van Beethoven.
Archery lessons.
Lost in the light.
A way without words.
No more Decembers.
Bathroom stall.
My heart is up to you.
Happy MLK Day, ya'll.
And the amazing dreams.
I had last night. 

at this juncture...

one song without
thinking of you,
that's all I wish.

saw for the first time
the punch, the rake,
and the work
that must be done
to return, but I am
not there yet.

I roar crazy loud
like the ocean
is eating a lion,
and I better myself
each breakfast
to begin again.

even with the foggiest
ideas, soon, the day will come
where I redeem myself
in home and heart
and start over by
complaining about
and describing sadness.

off the chest,
and into a river
or a shrink's office plant.

Love Me, Bartender

from the 4-line craft tap,
she sees me,
but I knew the brunette
was there.

when I walked in
and began.

a mystery
to a writer
is just crossing
off things I got right
after writing her
in my head.

slide me a lime,
a number I will never use,
because of let downs,
and let's just live
in eye contact flirting.

I'll bus the tables
while Devendra plays
on old playlists.

mozz sandwich.

been here before,
but curious how
it will play out,
for it is late
and cabs hate us.


the last two days
I have felt young again,
excited and lawfully lazy.

waking up,
jerking off,
smoking weed.

from O.A.R. songs
to sleeping in,
skateboarding to IHOP.

this freeing feeling
won't last long,
so I enjoy it like 22.

Clout Clown, Always Nervous

You make me sad
like a fence
on its side.

I can only hope and write.

I hear a train
in the distance,
and I long to be on it.

Aren't we all just volunteering our time?

A happy catalyst
for creativity,
still bleeding.

Man or a bull.

Asking questions
in the middle
of us, all.


shake well.
goes well with wine.
red or white or whiskey.
you gotta find it/me.

add a dash.
of diced jalapeƱo.
to the day.
for heat.

get to the table.
turn on the distraction.

salt to taste.

on am empty heart.
2-3 times a menstrual cycle.
consult your doctor.

will make you burp,
but you might cum in first.

new neighborhood

a tiger chased me
on my motorcycle last night.

I road fast,
and tried to kick it,
but it kept up,
snapping at my jeans,
sinking it's fangs
into my right ankle
twice or calf muscle.

it was persistent
and followed me all the way
to my door
where I barely made it.

it's still growling out there,
I can feel it.

Tame & Lame: A Great Night

worked late, edited,
ate some food,
watched part of a Tom Cruise flick.

gonna hit the sack soon;
that's a weird expression,
but it may have something
to do with sleeping bags.

I am always wallowing
in sheets and blankets,
but artfully.

I done ran and plum forgot it

like 6 rodeos,
whispered gossip
around town,
from donkey lips
to ladies' hips.

picture the night time
and that will help,
no soundtrack,
just mosquitoes.

my back hurts from
carrying boxes
and broads
and a bunch of books.

the library is late,
and I got a bucket
to sit on
when I whittle
while watching
the world.

practice me,
t-shirt ripped,
and I think I'll be
one of those corner
of their eyes types.

I forget what I was talking about,
goddamn it.

Soft Before People Fires

from Fort Lauderdale to Chicago.
from Chicago to Louisville.
from Louisville to Miami.

I know when you're weak.
So, I never changed direction.

it's not about the future.
it's not about the electric miles.
it's not about spirits.
it's about running, not walking.

might have no choice.
but New York.

the seduction of a non-reader
is how I plan to tie up
this journey.


I am authentic to fear
the heartbreak behind me,
and repaired to wait.


under the cynicism,
there is a a human being.

sensing the zeitgeist
is a merchant talent.

is at a standstill.

live in paintings,
a collection of texts and tweets.

and the productivity of chaos,
fictive as the shop closes to lifters.

She wishes her boyfriend
were more like me.

we're all custodians
of an idea traveling through time.

we must choose the change,
nut suffer it.

as a suspect,
wallowing in pathos,
I must be beyond reproach.


Early New York,
As a young man,
I had to bite my tongue,
Because I was so excited
At everything I saw.

Everything was 
Oh my god.

New York knocked me off my feet
And I needed to be there.

There is nothing like
Being in your early 20s
Living in New York City,
Even if your shower 
Is in the kitchen.

Should I Call This Poem "One Smart Cookie" or "Fortune Cookie"?

I was walking down the street
the other day, minding my own business,
and wind whipped on by,
blowing my maroon hat,
the one with the gold 'B' on it -

Christopher calls it more of a mustard,
and I guess he is right;
it's just a yellow 'B' for Brooklyn College,
but I claim the 'B' is for Buynak -

Well, when I caught up with my hat,
just before the traffic, I smelled
the loveliest, most delicious, succulent,
semi-sweet like the devil, still-warm and cooling
on a countertop in front of a fan
loaded and slightly salted, perfect, plump
chocolate chip cookies.

I ignored the bathing suit gals,
wearing those new bathing suits,
with the butt cleavage;
where the hell was that shape
when I was a young man 
without cookies on the heart.

I jumped over baby strollers,
swung on rafters, stepped on umbrellas,
hit the crosswalk button at just the right time,
floated on the scent like a cartoon coyote,
slid into the bakery, paid the cashier, 
stuffed the cookies into my cardigan,
and carried on as my hat flipped off
into the wind again but I didn't care.

When I got home, to my shock and disgust, 
upon opening the bag of a baker's dozen,
I could have cried and died, because
it was full of the reason I have trust issues,
oatmeal raisin. 

Submitted Some Poetry to The New Yorker Today to be Burned

As this part of poetry is not fun, 
it becomes also something of an amusing exercise 
in the right to be a free writer 
by submitting to The New Yorker. 

While I would kill 
a movie theater full of people 
just to have my shitty work included 
with the amazing writers within, 
I understand why you do what you do. 

I understand why you move past my specific poems 
and go for the trees and knees of our contemporaries 
who pander to your bullshit bravado of topical nonsense. 

That said, the curse is to deal with my stupid submissions 
for as long as I live,
so if Kevin Young is exhausted by me, 
which he shouldn't be, he has to resolve that he has another thing coming. 

I realize my poetry isn't for every turd on 3rd avenue, 
but I will not stop sending it, because I firmly want/believe 
that I will one day perish with that tagline next to my nothing,
therefore I applaud and envy the spirit of the next submission,
but hope they dig this one.


everyone used to comment
on my eyelashes when I was a kid,
how long they were,
and it embarrassed me.

for what reason,
I have no idea,
because now I know
it is a unique compliment.

now, at 37 foul years old,
I just have crazy eyes,
that caught up to the lashes,
and bad ideas.