I have to remind myself
that the people in the audience
don't notice it,
even under the spotlight.

I continue my monologue
like it is the most important thing in the world,
ignoring the annoyance,
finishing the story about my selfish mother,
which the improv team
will use to create their entire show.

Back stage, with a beer in hand,
I ask Eric if he could see
that my right eye is twitching.
"Not at all, bro," he said too quick.

Eric and the others went on stage,
I turned to a semi-famous comedian
and asked him; he shook his head.
I go sit in the back of the audience.

My friend Tom Rhodes on Comedy Central.


don't ever put your life
in the hands of a poet
because they will scribble
it away into memories
made of sweet savagery.


Yesterday afternoon, 
as I walked along Forty-Second Street 
directly across from Bryant Park, 
I saw the back of the New York Public Library;
I stood a minute in the thin Spring sunlight and looked at it.

It represented memories,
more mine than that of streets
or persecuted love,
memories of my first days,
of Jack Kerouac and Kendra Jean. 

It has exactly the same shadows
that used to fall on my face
on the mornings I would take the rumbler there,
then leave behind on the bus to Union Square,
where I would write all afternoon,
until a browse at the dying Virgin Megastore
and an early dinner at Gray Dog Cafe. 

Recording a solitary encounter
is never solitary at all,
but a glimpse of time
on the sidewalk of the city 
where I had come to live in my twenties 
and spent the rest of my life.

Even in perpetual transit,
a displaced person, always on provisional ground,
when writing about New York City, 
I must describe it as home in present-tense,
with the glories of disaster, including love,
in every stanza, every stroke of the brush. 

I wish I were at Hand + Foot, 
discussing wine and books with Daniel.

carve your heart into my name

doesn't matter which way.
from here.
belly to beard.
just say you'll stay.

until I go to LA.
or New Orleans.
then we excuse.
with an excuse.

make mistakes great.
ready to rumble uptown.
where frowns from those.
are forgotten for a while.

dirty dishes.
sloppy, drunk kisses.
picked you up.
just to let you fall.

smiling and hiding.
inner monologues are choking.
by tomorrow.
we will both be mourning midnight.

I'm not as think as you drunk I am

a patch from a movie
that guy gave to me
whose sister I hooked up 
with in college
on 6th street yesterday
while all booked up
this SXSW weekend,
right Rick?

Mix CD, A Friday Made of Saturdays

1. Time by Richard Hell
2. Drive by R.E.M.
3. Fans by Kings of Leon
4. Hunger Strike by Temple of the Dog
5. Murder (or a Heart Attack) by Old 97's

one day make it okay

tossed back “a shot and a wash,”
when I texted a friend in New York,
saying nothing, saying everything,
wishing for rain on cheeks. 

I've done bad things,
like drowning myself in rivers.
I ran up bar tabs and killed love,
all unpaid, un redeemed aside from in dreams. 

facing forever with fire in my eyes,
a tired skull and a loose heart,
I am in the mood to make mistakes into more,
premium real estate somewhere souls go. 

a green, healthy hitherto 
has me helping old ladies across streets,
and cleaning my sheets
more than one or years in storage. 

accept this, because I got nothing else,
maybe a boat to the throat,
and the feeling of feeling small,
so sell me up the mountain so I can grow bold. 

There are no sunsets on this side of the ocean.

my dreaming
and my loving
live in two separate places.

across rain
and fear of futures,

they dance the same,
but twirl in opposite 
directions, decisively so. 

if only they could meet
in the middle
and make a cake. 

An Aubade

like shoulders and hearts,
I like my mornings cold
and colorful and open
so I can roam with free
creativity by my breakfast,
delicious for the day to come
before the burns of sin
become more than just 
afternoon petrichor,
petering out like love
left out for the garbage man 
to take to the lake. 

no seas un gata

that's how long it's been.
just stopped back in time
into Biddy's for last call.

I've only known two places.
and two loves.
hope they are all well.
I don't want to write tonight.

but I can't help it.
one more six.
and maybe a godly seven.
building a better.

there is a new dark.
chocolate Nestle Crunch.
and let me tell ya.
it goes great with malt liquor.

little things.
and new things
have helped me.
stay in the game.

I got a sunburn.
and some fireworks.
but like my mouth.
I don't know where to set them off.

let's just kiss.
the night away.
and let everything else solve itself.
because I am sick of being.

this is getting absurdly ridiculous

unblock your blog.
like what the fuck?
I literally know you read this shit.
what is wrong with you?
grow up.
stop being a dildo.
how big is your heart?
it is shrinking.
but mine is still beating.

Your Mom's Ashtray

where the men fix the lawnmower.
and where the women hold court.
the kids sing songs
and it always seems like the sun is setting.

death is a wish.
left in a cocktail glass.
forgotten by Lindas.
ignored by Davids.

shrimp cocktails.
and deleted notes.
plus vodka sodas.
for grandma billy.

let's stretch this thing out.
because this dead person loved to pout.
and smoked cigs.
before that was a thing.

my moshing knees are something different.
and your taxes are your business.
uncle Ro will be a bitch.
but meet meet me in the alley of my heart.

Three Hills

just before the first hill,
on my way north,
I gun the gas and try to fly.

fuck the popo,
for better or worse
we die or live.

drove by a McDonald's on fire
first reapkeepers relaxing about
trying to put out great grease flames.

over the next hill,
bros tell me that
grimes stand flesh without blood.

last slope
has us slipping
in text message dreams.

middle line and middle name
be me and be time
for rich shine...

Punk Girl w/ Purple Hair

I've been trying to live right.
I've been stupid.
all my life.
I sleep wrong.
I sleep when I can.

I am drunk so let's be friends
on Bowery and Bleecker
but burn the bus stop before the bishop
then when the sun decides to decide
to type my name.

dancing, yes, protest.
be sure to be me.
because I need me so bad.
so much fork music to break hearts.
and the day 3hen we never.

what is next?
nothing. nada. okay. everything.
everything. ten years from the day.
forgotten everything.
turn songs, tourniquet songs.
love is my only crime.

tornado in toronto

when we wreck. 
we dance. 
ropes in autumn. 
in the mornings.
different kind. 
hold the fire. 
folk music and bullshit.

brazier and fools. 
so slowly. 
seek shelter. 
be better. 
all my love was wasted. 
who the hell was I?

fall far behind.
where the pickles meet the dick.
and the dirt meets the new.
music and memory.
tap tap tap.
touch me in the yesterday.
because I slash.