Big Hell and the Temptation of Dreams or the Rejection of Love

I must turn you into a perfect morning
as stand in a field in a nowhere,
smoking a hint of the past
and waiting on the beautiful storm,
that will never be my eagle.

Everything disappears eventually,
so you at least have to be okay with that,
and then let the light know
that darkness doesn't always deserve
to be left alone.

I had a few dreams
about Kendra Jean
and I didn't want to wake up
even when the mattress caught fire
and kissed my wrists.

There are those
who don't matter
much for salt or tears
and then there are great lays
but not many worth words or want or forever.

I don't have answers
and even roses ask me questions
about these silly poems,
but they are just pockets full of sugar
to sweeten the space between.

Hearts look like bridges
or Kentucky castles on Greenspur Lane,
and nothing will be the same,
but only time knows why
old loves visit us in the night.

But I Digress

I wish I were quiet.
I wish I grew up in a small New England town.
putting jam inside jam jars.
reading books under blankets with flashlight eyes.

I wish I were patient.
I wish I didn't know violence.
just soft summer nights where hands are held.
and puzzles are started on kitchen tables.

I wish I were subtle.
I wish I had an age-old trade.
something to live in like a knife slide.
just a sharp and simple character doing his best.

I wish I were an artist.
I wish I had paint on my overalls all the time.
tied up with one thing or another.
with a midnight barn where I toil with acrylics.

I wish I were clever.
I wish I had the devil's tongue.
quick to sell or say go to hell.
singing like the choir below.

I wish I were a time traveler.
I wish I could control it all.
snap my finger and visit dead days.
smell those sheets that didn't cover my finger once again.

found this old gem in my storage, 
that a good girl gave me,
gonna give it another go.

Blast Time

met up with Arik
at some hipster place...

(we are both aging hipsters,
but he pulls it off with his crazy curly Serbian hair,
and his Norwegian accent)

my shoulder hurts and he is already drunk,
so I can barely understand him.
but it is great to see him,
especially when we zero in on the fact that
it has been four years
to the month since we last hung out.

the bartender is a punk ass,
so we go to another bar
and smoke cigarettes
and send Kayle and Hiten photos
of us on someone else's motorcycle.

...it's times like these,
I understand why happiness
is all the rage.

Arik and I do Jager Bombs
(I can't even tell you how long it's been
since I shot one of these gross fuckers),
talk Trump bullshit and graphic design jobs,
before the bartender gives us free hamburgers
and calls us a cab.

this morning, I woke up in Arik's hotel room,
and he was gone, and the made was shaking my toe
and I showered in the ocean, letting the waves
remind me of what it's like to make memories
instead of regrets in size 11s.


who the hell do I know in Paris?

for the last few weeks
my dumb blog 
has been getting a lot
of hits in Paris. 

this very blog
that you are reading,
which is weird, because
I am always surprised 
that people read this shit. 

but then I check the Google Analytics
and I see all sorts of hits,
from all sorts of places,
most of which I know. 

like, I know who, 
in Boca reads this,
and I know who the people in LA
who read it sparingly,
plus I know the girl in NYC
who reads it like twice a month.

I have no clue who has
visited chose to read these poems
in Paris 78 times
in the last 13 days. 

oh well,
I just hope they know 
I am beyond grateful.



Poem

is beauty vanity?
what's to say it's not?

I go to the store
to buy (almond) milk, bread and eggs.

gimme autumn
and I will take concession.

still waiting for the R train six months later,
guess I'll take the L.

let's meet once a month
and consider stained napkins as art.


fly thy filthy flamingos

for every kid that kept going,
there were a million who died out,
pissing heroin in invisible alleys.

I am lucky I made it out alive.

when I was young,
I was ashamed of being poor,
now I wear as a beatific badge of beauty.

I have a hammer for a heart.

while not rich,
I am doing better than my mother
at this age in the good fight of life.

my blood is still flowing.

help me see the pink sky,
so I don't forget why
I sit down to stand up.


Meet Joan

with her long middle finger
as she flicks me off from afar,
maybe across the street,
maybe across a life. 

she has seen the worst in me 
in the last two days, cocaine doldrums
and loving other gala
more than her while fucking. 

the coffee in the doctor's office
tastes like ashtrays,
as I grill bored peaches about anxiety,
bothering Annika with texts.

to keep my options open
like legs,
Joan knows this
and she has her side dudes, too.

they are all better than Elissa,
who just uses me for boners and beer,
but none of us matter to all of us, really,
because we are just stops on the Rumbler. 

Joan gets in a cab, 
saying she never wants to see me again,
but she will text me late Saturday night
after rejections and rum-and-Diet-Cokes.

I miss California.

Construction Beach.

Father John Misty comes on
giving my headache a little break,
because the coffee and whiskey aren't helping. 

my feet sink in the sand
as Coney Island is behind my mind
and Lawrence Ferlinghetti is still alive. 

I litter because nothing matters
and the concrete eats the sea,
so who cares about a receipt. 

this isn't even a hangover
just a morning mourning,
a life of vice and verse.

the skateboard in my hand
is more friendly than the phone in my pocket,
so I sing as the ocean roars. 

my back is the only thing
to see what I've built,
because I walk away from everything.


poets are just searchers

I don't have the words I need
to say the things I feel,
but I find clues sometimes
between commas
which keeps me exploring,
hoping to find the way
to say all the right things,
the right way, the way I feel them,
and describe the length of my search
for the right words.



let the other signatories argue

notice the black line
separating love and death.
when you see that black line, 
chances are you
are nearing a change in your world. 

so, kid, grab a beer or a coffee 
or both or a bath or all of the above,
and get ready for a flume ride
to a new wet place of deliverance. 

life goes up and life goes down,
round and round,
always and forever, until death delivers us
to a new amusement park
where we are either resurrected, reincarnated,
or the ouroboros eats us. 

don't sign on the dotted line
until you have to choose
between keeping your fingers
or gambling on fortune. 


Brooklyn, Brooklyn, Bummer, Escape

I'll see you in September.
when the mouth of my mother 
makes me curse across
McCarren Park in the twilight of summer. 

It's actually cool to be me,
but I forget to remind myself about it,
while cyphering the sweet bitter sky
and how all we are is how glad we feel in the moment. 

behold, everything you touch turns old,
but some dogs die
and semblance of time can't go on without us,
more then I can afford so give me your support. 

give me my socks
so I can slip them on my cheesy feet and run away
to the nearest perfume
and do what I have to do. 


open mic night

I enjoy joining these dumb-dumbs
in a basement bar
where once communists gathered
and now we read poems
or tell jokes about flight. 

thank god for the whiskey
which I sneeze through my nose holes,
clearing out a year's worth of cocaine snot,
right before my name is called
to go on stage.

I read my shitty poems about lost love
and stolen music, minutes and muses borrowed,
holes burrowed in Manhattan,
then out of turn I am replaced and heaven knows
their Aunt Linda in jail sends emails from her iPhone 5.

what I say doesn't matter
to anyone but me and the universe,
but I kinda like doing it and saying
these words with vigor. 


November in New Orleans

Tennessee Williams once said, 
"America has only three cities: New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans. 
Everywhere else is Cleveland."  

In a city teeming with vivacious PERSONALITY,
it is morally wrong to stay in a soulless hotel, 
eating a COLD continental breakfast in the morning.

I agree with all this and continue continuing,
and I will make the right decisions when I am there
in November, working for the man of the midnight. 

the same humility, but I wish Sam still lived there
so she could show me around and we could have unprotected sex,
and then never talk about it while moving on.

devils, winter isn't winter in the Big Easy,
and I don't know where to layman head in three months
when I get there with my dumb hope. 

I can be anyone, doesn't matter anymore,
no more changes, just more changes,
unless I fall in love. 


the importance of benches

about a year ago,
I was walking around the campus
of McGill, which is beautiful,
hidden in hills of downtown Montreal,
whilst humming songs of the past
that got stuck in my head that morning,
just like every morning.

minding my own imagination, 
wishing I spoke French,
when a bench called my presence,
and so I sat, drank my coffee, 
reminded of the importance
of benches to a city, to a poet;
we all have favorite benches,
and I wondered if this one belonged
to specific lovers or lonesome singers.

I personally have a favorite bench
in New York City where I used to go write
before eating at Gray Dog
or performing at Cornelia Street. 
I shared that bench with maybe two people
and now I have it tattooed on my right bicep.

next time you sit on a random bench,
consider that many people have sat there before you,
having experienced love and loss and indifference;
who has sipped wine or carved their name in this place?
maybe said goodbye or hello, might have taken a break
from a bad day or sat to sit in a good day.
all of this has happened or will happen. 



Sweet Pee-lease

Steeped in talk of William Burroughs, Charles Bukowski,
Kenda Jean, Gerty Stein and Tom Fucolaro, 
other girlfriends and boyfriends and those who loiter in hearts,
we feature a long Saturday in the sun
like Charles Baudelaire's 'Les Fleurs du Mal,'
our poetic story implicitly wonders whether the heritage
of own life and current culture can recover
from the dark taint of fascism, the internet, and more mores than we can handle.