Shaky Switzerland Storms

the end tastes funny. 
like vinegar and death.

something tells me it is real this time,
and I will never hear from her again. 

it's for the best, because
moving on is forgotten freedom. 

I regret moving to Queens,
but I will make new memories. 

the saddest I have ever been, 
my arms won't stop shaking. 

even last night's break-up
wasn't this bad. 

life goes up and life goes down,
which means I am due for an uptick. 

but love sucks my dick,
and songs tell the story. 

I will definitely die this year,
however I am okay with it, and I have your name tattooed on me. 

a real funny nug of truth

one year ago today 
I was flying to Louisville
to see about a girl,
a gig, a house, 
and a bridge to stolen brunch in Indiana. 

even Greenspur Lane
didn't matter,
but what a difference
a year makes, 
and here I am with fractured ribs. 

here's to Dale and Pat,
and Hunter S. Thompson,
the past and how it prevails,
cheers to everything that happens to our hearts,
because it makes us us. 

I am scared of my hands

they now hurt every morning,
and they hurt people every evening. 

they write about lost love
and they let me down like love itself. 

TBH, I miss her phone gulps,
especially before Tampa tantrums. 

my hands made a phonecall last evening
that I regret more than most, because of vulnerability. 

but ultimately I am just a scared boy in the body of a man,
trying to do the darndest he can. 

he is me,
and my hands are mine. 

sizzle my whole preaching, 
oh shit, I don't even care. 

my hands will ruin today
with tape and twine. 

gotta ask the sweet boy, Dr. Joseph Jose
about the pain, but still drain a three.

bury below a damn thing right,
or meet me, before I die, on an empty street. 

I'll write you a poem,
only to be forgotten. 

Doc Scurlock

I know the world is a broken Shakespeare poem,
melt your headaches and call 'em home. 

Met a gorgeous girl in the parking lot of a post office,
but she is too good and green for my old bones (and boners).

Ya can't help the good fight of life,
but you can try to make better choices than you did when you were a kid. 

I can't hold a pistol even when Charlie shows me,
and when I nap I think the world has ended. 

my hands hurt because I write too much
and punch things that aren't meant to be punched, like trees and walls. 


I definitely deserve dirt in my eyes,
especially tonight; it was rough,
but I went to the park across the way
and shot some hoops.

I needed a moment 
and now gonna shower,
jerk off and watch Schitt's Creek,
forget the bar. 

I think people are more angry than concerned,
and when tears cloud your eyes,
from Adam Ross to Keren Buynak,
no one cares and it snows. 

Squirmy Abby

She don’t stop moving’,
She don’t stop kissin’,
And when she sleeps she snores,
But it’s soops cute.

My pee hole burns
When it’s mostly booze
and semen
Coming out of going in.

Abigail got sad and drunk,
so I had to kick her out
So I could sleep and rest my bones,
but I love her more than life's rights. 

disquiet fight jet

don't tell the post office. 
media rate. 
it's disbelief will be perfect. 
like mountains.
up and down. 
I couldn't get her clothes off fast enough. 
this list was tangible. 
I got a luxury lost. 
Sam and Charlie need to swap downstairs fluid(s). 
some day I will finish my Master's Degree. 


my nights are long because of me,
but my days are long because of you,
but I live now live on a mountain
and throw cutlery off the edge,
trying to stab the rocks below
and give myself bullshit bullseyes,
but my cliff is full of sounds for my eyes. 

from salsa, the dip, to the dance,
serious love is a dirty poem,
but what the hell does that mean
in  a poet's dream? you tell me. 
pussy or victory; it's the order of things. 

I have a prediction: I will die this year. 
if I see 2022, great, but if not it is what it is. 
I am always right, and I'd like to be wrong this time.

Love let me down,
but I am open to it letting me up,
however I do not have high hopes
like a balloon or a you. 

the skin of my fingers
are like evolution, lords of war,
chewed up and traded our hard time for pain,
because love and anxiety is the same
when folding laundry 
or filling your gas tank,
because life is about balance.

what is the edge of a shadow called?

its engine.
it's limn-stroke. 
its weft. 
a penumbra. 

meanness is relative. 
and specific. 
what's mean to one person. 
might not be mean to the next. 

I am done with love. 
it never leads to anything.
just like this poem.
which is dumb and hyperbolic and ultimately pointless. 


fell asleep on the couch.
woke up to the world. 
can't wait to kill myself. 
but want to kiss Lauren first.
just to see how she tastes. 
and this is how love works. 

don't let me go

You beat me. 
You win.
I forgive you.
My heart is yours. 
And it sucks to realize that hard fact. 

KJ, I am not the awful things you want me to be. 
my knuckles barely bleed profusely. 
I sliced my pinky this week on accident. 
on the the bottom.
of a modern desk.
when I was not looking or thinking of you. 

who is dead today?

The guy next to me on my flight
From Denver to Fort Lauderdale
Sucks so hard, snoring and hogging the arm rest.

I’d rather him be a sleepy suicide bomber
Than a regular white asshole
Who doesn’t have an understanding of personal space.

If he wakes up, he can fully see my screen
And the fact that I am talking shit about him,
But I don’t care because i believe I can take him.

My anxiety is at full tilt
So I will decide to cuddle him
Per Enid’s recommendation and ride this out.

Sometimes people are stupid
And happen to be there, just “there”;
I am one of those people.

what do you wear for poetic stalking?

a t-shirt. 
a button down over it. 
I only have jeans so they will have to do. 
27th street, waiting with Pepsi. 
and now I need to call my therapist.


While I am furious for some dumb work reason
That won’t matter in a month let alone a year,
I hear the highway and a dove cooing
And I am sublimely reminded that I am here
On the earth in a life that won’t last forever
So I try to appreciate it, even the hum of trucks
On the road behind my new home where
I hate to live but I have given up on ego
To be a better father and try to remind myself
That New York ain’t going nowhere,
And just as well I am already scheduled
To travel a ton this year so my shoes can catch 
the blues like blood running down my body.

oh, the cruelty of cruelties

love is a gateway drug
that hooks you like a Puerto Rican gangster
who can't swim but will cut you on a whim
and ask "is it Tuesday today"?


I take the Amtrak and watch the Nets game on my phone,
mainly just listening because there is also a couple fighting
and I am tired, in need of good sleep and sex or both,
because the reservoir city upstate is not relaxing in the least bit. 

memory tells me that these middle times are worth working for...

just watching a stabbing beach of canopy of singers,
my art is nothing if not much more than a broken heart,
I feel useless and needless to say anything with needles
even on a Tuesday filled with good moon gravity. 

the pressure

it shapes my shoulders
and makes my posture
droop like door jambs,
wrecking my weather,
but I get no credit 
from anyone and everyone I know.

however, life isn't about me,
it's about a little her
and a little bit of art
when I have the time,
because like Charlie Darwin,
I am working really hard and evolving. 

I'd like to stop and sing
Jingle Bells but I can't,
because the nature and water of life –
if all around and usually cold,
folding in, all around,
but maybe I'll get to play the harmonica today. 

add on to that sandwich of sadness –
the love of my life doesn't love me,
and has disappeared,
for good or for ill,
regardless it hurts 
like a punch to the under ribs. 

life is down right now,
but it will go up
(if I don't die),
and things will right themselves
like a ship in the afternoon night,
and I will be alright. 

Playlist: End of the Weak

1. Charlie Darwin by The Low Anthem
2. Deep End by M.M. Crone
3. Snow by Angus & Julia Stone
4. Brooklyn by Katie Malco
5. I Never Promised You a Rose Garden by The Suicide Machines
6. As We Ran by The National Parks
7. Times Goin' by The Riverside
8. The Saint of Lost Causes by Justin Townes Earl


I have a distinct feeling I am gonna die this year.
Not from murder as I imply but from stress.
Spooning life's waters from a broken vessel. 
As far as I can see, there is no land to rescue. 

still love you lots and lots

I wish you had stayed,
but you swayed.

you'd like my undercut, 
and the fuzzy feel of the back of my neck. 

plus I look good, 
and I ain't even braggin'. 

I was weak back then,
but the Uber drove too fast. 

oh, how we danced 
in your apartment and my earring got caught in your hair.

I feel faded, 
and the land is lost. 

you said you would never leave
and now I am filled with worry. 

watching basketball,
wishing for more wishes. 

reading Moby Dick like a dickhead,
just to impress you. 

this month is painful,
but pleasant in more ways that six six six. 

encomiums to unity

I still miss talking to you
every night before scary sounds
and cops knocking on my door,
before my world went silent. 

I wish for so many redos,
but I am okay because wishes
rarely come true for me,
and I have made peace with that fact. 

I hope you are smiling bravely,
because I still believe in you
wherever you are and however
you are carrying your heart. 

I see you reading the blog,
even late last night and I would love to talk
about poet what's-her-toes at the inauguration,
because our story started near an election. 


As the narwhals
invade my dreams,
and my pants leave,
I only work out my arms
at the LA fitness
because, as the beautiful Dragon says,
I can’t write poems with weak arms.

Neuro-harness my blues
while I make my way into town
for a slight of night,
and then Down to the river,
across the plains
where I restock my munitions
for an evening of boneside attacks. 

Blood Out, Blood In

tomorrow's savior is today's DMX song,
because you never know where the inspiration
will come from on a Monday in January.

big feelings already this year,
and we have barely begun 
and Biden isn't even in office yet. 

my body is cooking at 98.6°
and falling off the bone like ribs
in life's oven of love and let-downs.

I punched a hole in the wall last night,
because I am dumb and angry,
but I spackled it already and just need to paint it. 

Gotta watch that temper o' mine,
and love her forever,
but life is harder than our guidance counselors told us. 

Devil Hammers

some nights,
I wake up
and wish for her;
other nights,
I wake up angry,
but I am just happy
to wake up at all. 

Let’s Finish the Game

Cycle the charts and move on.
Dónde está Ryan?
I don’t know where he went.
His heart was broken.
And then repaired.
But a little bit. 
like an old truck.
And he will never be the same.
Every damn day.
he checks her blog.
Only to be blocked
He is reserved to be.
Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh.
Without a pistol.
But with a still hurt heart.
and a Mexican machete.
There is many a slip. 
Between the cup and the lip. 

six hundred and sixty six exclamation marks

I see you
on 27th street
and the internet. 

you can't kill me 
even if you tried
twice as many times.

my heart has been broken
more than you will ever even
open your stupid beautiful mouth. 

now I am entering the morning
like a Sunday bandit, 
ready to steal the day away from change. 

and even though 
I am cold, 
the blade of my knife is colder.

stolen from the airport!


I don't believe in life, 
especially after death,
but if we do go somewhere,
I hope it's a funny place. 

Darn Tootin’!

The devil is in my hands,
Hurting me something good
And also making me write
These idle words which make
Witches out of women
And monsters out of men.

It’s only a matter of time
Until I have full-blown arthritis,
And my writing will turn into
Hunting and pecking,
Like a handicap hawk
Who has lost his way.

I’m certain my heart will attack me as well,
But hopefully I survive the first barrage
Like a beast from the Upper East
And continue living and lying
To myself and others
For many more days and in many more ways...

Who Shall I Sin For the Rest of My Goddamn Life?

me or the she snoring next to me? 
as the showy snowy mountains come to me.
I come to the morning with equal vengeance. 
like hand-holding holiness.
and while I miss my best heart. 
I am happy for the time being. 

Weighing the best guards on my mind and soul

On a wild Wednesday, I’d give anything
For you to randomly call me
From a 502 number, only to panic before
Picking up and trying to act cool for a fool's moment.

But then what?

Please let me know, somehow, you got the book,
Because I will keep sending you those giant copies, 
and they are huge and no one, not even me, wants to receive them, 
even when I am in Queens, living the dream with a beautiful 
red-lipped gal called Erin who gives me time and kisses on certain mornings.

Our minds are mazes.

I love when I get a 12:36am call from Jongo
On a technical Thursday while watching Netflix
Like just a little dose of evil
For distraction and I realize the time,
Again, because I do the same thing
At two in the afternoon because
Days are long but life is short.

Quiero besarte.

in terms of vistas

she is gorgeous.
like mountains.
with bangs. 
but tough. 
like sledding up. 
and I would take a wolf's fangs. 
with rusty pliers. 
to see her once again. 

the poem says no or so

a group of vultures or ballerinas
is called a kettle but only if they are flying,
and I am listening to The New York Dolls 
because the one dude died yesterday
and I may die tomorrow
while playing basketball or after while just living.

ravens talk to wolves

Ryan Buynak is a tampon. 
ish to figs. 
we were happy, mad, sad.
safe deer on the sidewalk of life. 
at least I am not Trip McNeely. 
made a splash in the Snake River. 
and the battle moves forward. 
like a slow rising flood. 


will pull a sword on you on a Thursday.
And joy ends with your sex nose.

I don’t have a dad, party peeps.
And each morning I have one less Chance.

She Will surprise me one day I’m sure.
But it will probably be 2026.

Stolen Thunder

my friends watch clouds, but...

love will never last forever.
it's something you must remember. 

you took my joy.
and I will never forget that stolen feeling. 

the radio is playing Elliott Smith...


Karma doesn't exist,
but if it did,
it would owe me,
because of the nice things 
I've done today and yesterland,
as well as the heartbeats 
I've put into love and work. 

I'll probably die this year,
and that's totally okay, 
but please know that I have tried
to be kind,
despite everything the night
has said. 

Honestly, can't believe
I am moving back to NYC
with an apartment in Queens
and a possible job on 26th street,
which means either God exists
or I am in the gavel of the Matrix. 

alien lightning

descent and shaking and new poems
when I should be writing other poems,
instead of talking to gorgeous girls 
in Canada and hoping Hashem makes rain. 

surviving the memory of you

I keep thinking there is a piano nearby,
and it is playing my favorite song;
can you remember what that is?
It's "A Change Gonna Come" by Sam Cooke. 

But I got the goodbye blue Monday blues,
on more of a Hank Williams Tuesday,
because I never heard from her,
and I am about to travel a ton,
and travel makes me existentially anxious,
especially during a pandemic,
and now that I am a father it feels like betrayal,
but I have to work and proverbially provide. 

it's a new decade,
and I need to start anew after you
destroyed me again,
when I knew and tried to not let it happen,
but I am a dumb-dumb and love is sometimes evil. 

when I cross that red bridge,
I may jump into the icy water
just to wash away 2020 like lice,
and then pray to Hashem that I forget,
even just for a little while. 

what do we do with time?
survive the memory of our pasts
is the only option. 


Caracaras are birds of prey in the family Falconidae. 
They are traditionally placed in subfamily Polyborinae 
with the forest falcons, but are sometimes considered 
to constitute their own subfamily, Caracarinae, 
or classified as members of the true falcon subfamily, Falconinae.

in the arms of a pekingese

the music from the ice skating rink
and the gals doing twirls and things,
tricks on ice skates I don't know the names of
make me think of you and I actually hate it,
because I still love you and I don't want to. 

new favorite hat; have worn every day since wyoming. 

Elk of the Day

I counted two hundred elk today
on the side of the road,
and I love it here so hard 
and good like their antlers.

maybe I will move here
maybe I will go out
and try out other peoples eyes
and get rid of your items.

we are all terrified,
even the coffee maker just screamed
at the site of me approaching it,
and that shit is a machine under curtains. 


if I die in a plane crash
on the way to any place,
or a random stabbing,
go read the letter in my desk,
which is still in the apartment
on 89th street, and please
just follow the list,
because it is vastly important,
and the people mentioned
need to be mentioned,
but everything goes to Lenny
and call Charlie to continue 
Coyote Blood like a chore,
while telling KJ I love her most.

my hands hurt

I come undone
with your slightest sound;
I hang onto every word,
to you, I succumb.

Pain and pleasure
put it together.
The result is something
infinitely better.

Blue Bastard Coyote Crimson in Da Cut

As my daughter sleeps upstairs

While I politely whig out

With a ninjas and a bunch of 

Problematic poetic weirdos,

My night is gonna be like the movies

Where people get wasted and nothing happens.

"Now" has to know if her life

Is happy or haunted but the perfect point

Is to keep drinking and spilling

Memories and musings and mistakes

Give me more than you take in the sky

Because you’ll get get 666 points for trying,

Especially borne under Scorpio skies 

Cheers to the one time I killed a coyote,

But she didn’t die immediately,

And I had to put it out of its happy misery,

Which I am not proud of in the least bit,

But the coyote bit me twice on each wrist

and I have two fang mark scars on my arm.

word is bond

Mos Def's Ms. Fat Booty comes on
while I am writing in the cut 
on my phone for work,
but my head starts bouncing
and my words start changing
to poetry, comedy and hip-hop magic,
so I get up and dance with the first 
beautiful villain woman I can find,
her hand on my neck, mine on her hip,
but just one because I don't know her soul,
and this one only deserves one,
because she ain't the one or the one
I just left loving in Wyoming with damages
and a giant unpaid hotel room tab,
so here we go and no one knows where it will go except us,
and it's probably apartment complex parking lot sex,
because I am lazy and my heart is distrax,
but life is dumb and fun and full of...
certain songs that get ya going like 1996. 

What Do You Want For Lunch?

I already have a lot on my plate;
from work to poetry to lost love, 
I am full of life and I don't want seconds,
because I can't carry it all back to the table. 

A Sudden Good Attack

hanging on the dream of you,
I will stubbornly fall for days,
and sing of sorrow first, 
for now, but please know 
my love will never go away.

some nights will haunt me,
and some remembered days
will make me smile like a dumb-dumb,
but there is a certain place in New York
where hours are forgotten. 

love exists here forever,
in restless ways, introspective days,
making for interesting hauntings,
and my misspelled werds are just junk food at best,
but what's behind them is a real (hard) heart. 

what's a synonym for unfair?

it's unfair
you get to read
my words,
and get glimpses
– from afar –
into my dumb life,
but you don't answer
my calls or letters,
or let me read your werds,
because of misplaced pride 
– and probably fear –
and especially ego,
so I say "Fuck You"
in an attempted Boston accent. 

dear hashem

Happy bday, Tom Rhodes!


did you get the books and the hammer?
USPS says ya did 6 days ago. 
but I will never know for certain.
because you won't talk to me. 


I want to blow up my little life.
make it a little bit bigger and start over. 
with an new/old lover.
just dig ditches for a paycheck.
burying worries like bodies. 
write poetry on Fridays.
walk in the rain like a crazy king. 
be happy and camouflaged from a lot of the past.