shadows & ground

I'm nervous about declaring
the act of giving up on you...

I'm gonna stop posting
to this goddamn blog for a while
until you acknowledge me
or unblock me from you own blog.

you are a weirdo
but it is okay though
I am an asshole,
but I still have a heart beat
and I am honest.

don't let this go on forever;
meet me in the middle...

this doesn't feel right,
but I have other things to write
and I am hanging on
by threads and beers.

and I am tired here.

Hello, It Doesn't Matter

If I were a fish
without the ability to blink,
just breathing ocean or stream,
none of this would matter.

Not love or life
or inevitable death,
not traffic or spilling
soup on my shirt.

Not missed phone calls
or unanswered emailed,
not the Jesus Freaks on the 6 train
or the blog that is blocked.

I would be swimming,
gills and all,
until eaten by barracuda or gar,
or caught on a line by a rich white guy in Wyoming.

My Velouria

She is looking for a room to rent. 
Preferably smoke/pet friendly.
Preferably in Brooklyn.
Which means we have a time limit.

Met her at the comedy show.
We've had good times.
She's staying with a friend in the city.
But we want different things.

I can deal with the dumb little dog.
and the sneaky cigarettes.
but I can't deal with Brooklyn.
And I need to be alone for a while.

A Patsy Cline Kind of Morning?

I'm in a bad mood because of you.
with nothing much to say,
but I bet you know, admit it.
And I can't keep this up.

Love her so good,
listen loud.
to Crazy or She's Got You.
haha pictures and this prove it.

Yawning your way always,
I really don't know
what to do anymore.
But I gotta go.

I have to try to wake up
without you in my dreams.
I don't know how to end this poem,
but the ball is in your court.

You can do your thing
or make a move,
but I doubt you try anything,
because nature is noticeable.

Alligator Wave

I feel you still.
I feel that sweet sin.
I taste history on my tongue.
I know the future is elastic.

I am standing on edge.
I am skin and place.
I am okay with being invisible.
I am not okay with being forgotten.

I like writing about you.
I like learning from the past.
I like love and its lessons.
I wish I could play an instrument.


I keep collecting scars and tattoos,
poems, love lost, blues and old shoes,
but my favorite thing to gather
are days done right or wrong,
moments made sharp or dull,
rivers made floating or drowning,
and the smell of rain while kissing a good one.

The Crazy Poem Paisley Prefers

I don't feel like working today.
I'd much rather be running around,
eating and drinking, writing freely,
gathering inspiration in my cheeks
like a dumb hipster hamster, 
hellbent on hidden hubris
as far as poetics are preferred.

she called me, as if she knew,
saying get up, go get lost,
be stupid and silly, be wise on a Friday
but call it any day you want,
and so I sailed to where the earth is worth
more than surface standing love.

It can only get better or worse
and that realization allows
one to skip with a sly step,
up and down hills and islands,
like this one where I find myself
manically whispering to caves called stubborn streets.

I was careless with my love,
but now I refuse to be careful with my days,
because life is made for dying,
but days are made for living,
and that is exactly why Paisley
prefers this poem to the others
which talk only of lost love
and not the next love that might change the summit. 

Already Left

riskier bets.
than love.
worst cases.
then heartbreak.

more content.
dumb thumbs.
goodnight, Sal.
I would leave.
but I already left.

there are things.
movies and nothing.
I won't be one.
who's forgotten.

amber orange in autumn.
the first one is when we.
post your head.
ache in the wine river.

haha, we yell yes!
he laughs.
he is me.
sorry for crying.
those times, cheesy as they seem.

sorry for calling.
for not calling.
options are better.
so say could.

Dream Tweets

She dances in Pumas
with no socks,
just as the rain starts
to take the night.

Carmine Street is our
little long recital space,
and our books get wet
but still she dances.

I envy her
the flow of not caring
that she carries,
as regular people watch us.

They run,
seeking shelter
from the skywater,
and we seek dance and danger.

Compulsory Poems

you can find me sleeping on the beach.
as my tattoos remind the sun of what has happened.
you can find me on the Rumbler, under Manhattan.
listening to songs that remind me I'm alive.
you can find me writing these silly yet compulsory poems.
that are little lies holding truth and reason. 

What Do We Call This Playlist?

1. How It Gets In by Frightened Rabbit (featuring Julien Baker)
2. Days Spent Floating (In The Halfbetween) by Okkervil River
3. No Wrong by Bahamas
4. Scarlet and Grey by Peter and the Wolf
5. Believe by Benjamin Booker
6. Oslo by The Little Hands of Asphalt
7. Rain by Bishop Allen

Little Moth

the wind blows up the stairs
and heartburn consumes my chest.
someone is behind me,
so many people are the past.

strawberries and earthquakes
shock the present with red,
but never need anyone or anything
to tell them they are shaking.

golden carpet of leaves,
left face of love leaving,
my beard and your hands
with more memories than us.

Zebra Wine Dirty

itchy knees at good listening.
new compter at old headache.
I want to talk to you;
I want to know you still.

like do you watch Stranger Things?
what new music do you dig?
aside from blocking your blog,
what are you into?

listening to Conway Twitty
and losing hope as a hobby,
you know more about me
than I will ever understand about you.

a bandana is still in my back pocket
and my mission is clear.
scratch the surface, drag my knuckles
and try to get through.

all my exes are dating asian dudes

the book is directly
hidden for you in the bookstore,
it is even sitting
signed for you.

go find it
and take a photo of it
and send that shit
to me on a monday.

it will make me
feel good,
it will make us

Time Travel Tongue

went to The House
had a whiskey
took a pee
went back in time.

I asked the bartender about Josh
I asked the hostess about JP
I asked all the busboys
about you and me.

all of them said
they have never heard
those names
and I finished my drink.

party of me
all of me
want to slip a Gruner
toast to a good gal.

in the dark
we are all meteorites
forgotten and burned out
in atmospheres and limousines.