So proud of my friend Matt 
on publishing his first book 
and so honored to have helped.

Poem

I brush my teeth at the beach
every morning. 
then I hide the toothbrush in the sand.
for Sandra to find.
when she is volunteering.
to clean up the beach.

I carve poems.
into the plastic tooth brush.
in hopes that she finds it. 
or a shark uses it.
it was free from the dentist.
don't get mad, concrete is litter, too. 



Carry Away My Words

I sent a letter to West 24th street,
hope all is well in that world. 

Adam Santiago got a cartoon caption in the New Yorker. 
My name was in it in 2008
for just a poetry show in the basement 
of Cornelia Street Cafe;
same thing appeared in the Village Voice. 

No other claim to fame,
even the books I wrote
go unread by their subjects
as well as my friends and family. 

history has its revenge
and hopefully mine will be hatchet-worthy,
to the heart and its casket chest.

I have a new job
teaching poetry 
to cancer patients
and folks affected with PTSD;
they hate me.

even Mr. Miyagi
made the Karate Kid mad
with muscle memory
disguised as chores.

I sent a postcard
of a waterfall to West 24th street,
I miss you. 


honey rock dawn

this year has been intense already,
so I took the month of March off
just writing and gardening,
digging for music and worms.

I recently remembered
how much I love the smell
of mornings, especially
rainy ones like today.

sipping coffee in silence,
has its perks (get it?)
and even though it ain't Keto,
I am eating cookies and cold pizza for breakfast.

life is decent
in the dining room,
and the flood waters
are receding.

I howled away the grey
and now I sit like a hipster Plato,
thinking about time and patience, love and death,
and each honey rock dawn.


Support Your Local Sunrise

an armchair on the beach
just before daybreak.

a leaf with holes in it,
the parts of which
were eaten by a discerning caterpillar.

and now you can see
the rays of the rising sun
through said leaf holes.

a dead deer
under telephone poles
before wolves or buzzards
begin to circle.

all the frost
that has come at a cost.

the trees are upside down
in the lake
which is parallel to the sea.

and the worst part
about being scared
is not being able to explain why.

the last time
will be forever.



Tina Santa Fe

philosophically,
blue skies turn black
all the time,
especially for a teenager
plus 18 more years.

that's right,
I am still a kid
up there
in my noodle of emotion,
but time disagrees,
because I can count to 36.

she was a seamstress,
a waitress,
a hipster,
a slut,
a spy,
who put me in my place
and time.

it was just a weekend,
but it will last forever
in pages, poems and pondering
the one lesson learned,
maybe two,
because this was the second guess:

aim for the head,
baby,
I have no heart.

Windbone Slash Aurora

this is a 9.0 earthquake.
something people should coin.
heartbreak everywhere.
something really just happened.

scroll up.
scroll down.
scroll til your fucking fingerprints fall off.

love like this is proof.
a philosophy that most people don't have the sack to live.
just like that; plain and the opposite of simple.

hurricanes have eyes.
to see where they are going.
earthquakes do not.
so they sneak kill your dumb, distracted heart.


How to Care for a Happy Person


buy a burrito,
put it in the mail.?

take them to the mall
on a Tuesday noon and show 
them what real sadness looks like.

blankets, lots of blankets?

I've eaten enough sunrises
to know the moon.
And that is when you make
happiness a mission of night
with knives. 

pillows, lots of pointless throw pillows?

it's a losing battle
if you really float on it,
and I have been drowning
for a while. 

drugs?

but if you look at the upside trees
in the lake,
you will catch a glimpse
of the other side
of the curtain rod. 

buy a chocolate chip cookie.
and mail it to a celebrity?

I don’t know how to deal with happy people,
only sad bastards like myself;
happy people make me nervous.


"And u are my...Billy Idol."

he says to me via Facebook,
and I thank him
for liking the poems
and especially for telling me
which lines specifically
radiate with him
in his world.

while poetry makes zero money,
it is invaluable to the the one
heart it may tap,
like a keg that has been
dropped out a window,
ready to burst
and soak the crowd
of a house party
that is about to be
broken up by parents or cops.

whether it is a friend
or a stanger girl in a bar
on Bleecker street,
an Instagram hashtag
or a restaurant in Glendale, CA
that has your sticker
on its register...

connecting poetry to person
never grows old
or ceases to amaze me
or any creator for that matter.

if you are an artist,
and you become disillusioned
or unceremoniously benign
to folks fawning over
or just appreciating your work,
you should quit now,
because the spark is gone
from your lips
and it most likely will not return.

because I don't rocknroll,
and I don't paint people with brush strokes,
I thank the dumb lucky stars
for the one or two times
a person has said anything about my work,
sweet or ill.


Thin Mints & Trefoils

I buy a box of Girl Scout Cookies
on my way out of the market.
Back at the railroad apartment,
I eat them all in one sitting.
Then I put on a record
and dance around the pseudo living room.



Saint-Louis Square

the sultry days of summer,
in which the afternoons
are acrid but humming
with cool crowds
and birds back for more...

or the empty white winter mornings,
with footpaths carved in the snow
from workday weirdos and squirrels,
blinding back the gray sky
for universal vendettas
from long before my time...

oh these journeys, searching,
wayward and perfect
for finding the right tea towel
to take you through the cold months
or a good quick love
to inspire you through autumn.


I'm in love with laughter

and then the bark
of bent trees
broke,
falling into my tea.

and the cedar took
a god to trial
only to dance 
of death.

and the dirt
we made
and the rocks
we made.
and the love 
we made.
and the mess
we made.

it's all funny.
it's all hilarious.
it's all laundry detergent. 


Poem

My reprieve
is a preamble of
what's to come.

Sometimes, my life
is in thrall to Kali
the Hindu goddess of destruction.

Often strangling
the days away,
two at a time.


The Taste of Tomorrow from Today’s Terrible Appetizer

Three blood red lines
Running down the nail
Of my middle finger.

I️ am 500 of something away
from giving up on anything.

Never will I️ Be
that savior Sonofabitch,
because I️ will always be
a Hatchet left in the woods
just outside of town.

Sweating down a dream
that shrinks with age and days,
even commas don’t have my back anymore.
where have the good question marks gone?

I’m sick and getting better at being sick,
but it is not what you think, dear compatriot.
Even lions weep.

The last poem doesn’t count
just as yesterday’s anxieties
shouldn't affect today’s dreams,
but they do and it’s all about how you deal with it all.

I️ don’t.
I️ don’t.
I️ do.
I️ dance.
I️ dig.


Days are hiccups,
and humans are hearts,
attacked.



a verite documentary of selves

It’s a truism that books help us 
imagine our way 
into other people’s lives.

I hope my books do that;
not necessarily me.

Of all the lives
all of us have lived,
the current one
is the most important,
most pressing,
most promising.

I hope I am shelved
somewhere names
become flames. 

Don't tell anyone about this, 
because I will deny it
until the day I die. 

However,
the books I just mailed,
presents and promotion
seem to find the right
person or that person passes
it along to the right person. 


Welp, Shit...

I was going to change
up
the theme, colors, etc.
of this blog,
make it all black,
except for white words
and titles,
but it's being a pain
in the ass,
so I am going to bed,
and, like love, pretend this
never happened.