Cobra Gay

autocorrect my today
into tomorrow,
and let me dance 
on the graves
of my ex-girlfriends,
while sipping whiskey
with my enemies,
casually installing a ceiling fan
to keep all of us cool
in hellacious home
of sent sonnets 
and new days to brave.

Purple Gal

purple girl with a purple cup
walking down a purple street
with purple toes
under a purple sky
with purple eyes
and asking purple why
before the purple night
swallows her up with a purple tongue
down into a purple bellied beast
where she will sleep in purple sheets
and have purple dreams. 

Working from "Home" During a Pandemic

I check three emails addresses.
Responded to ten emails.
Review labels for a client. 
Sip coffee.
Social media time. 

I edit some copy.
Hear thunder. 
Read an article about basketball.
Fight a headache.
Take a Xanax. 

I am bored.
So I go to the fridge.
Stand there.
Eat salami.
Close the fridge.

Moments later.
I go back.
open the fridge. 
Eat some gouda.
Close the fridge.

A phone call with the boss. 
Buy a record on Amazon.
Text a girl I like.  
Answer the door. 
It's the exterminator. 

some silly poems.
Add socks to feet.
Slide down the hallway.
Distracted by TV.


we made love
while lightning danced 
just outside the window panes,
illuminating thrusts and moans
for brief seconds in sexy history,
hers and mine.

while the bed shook,
the sheets left for the floor,
and the rain gave a symphony
to go along with our screams,
finishing together
in a crash of thunder. 

cleaning up,
the good stuff
they don't show in movies,
we agreed on ice cream
and a Netflix documentary,
while spooning with spoons. 

Playlist, 22 Where

2. Life in the City by The Lumineers
3. That Night You Wrote That Song by Gretchen Peters
4. Fountain and Fairfax by The Afghan Whigs
5. St. James Infirmary by Hugh Laurie
6. Hollywood Park by The Airborne Toxic Event


all my poems are the same:
love, life and death.
but isn't that most poems?
I don't give a shit.
can't really stop.
especially not now.

watercolor and peanut butter and jelly

poetry workshops help me reconcile
with the fact that I never owned
an Alien Workshop skateboard
or a Stussy shirt or Fila shoes.

pizza in the air, punk rock right now,
throw your old ideas in the dumper,
spit on your grandparents
for ruining the world.

pretty much always with a knife in my teeth,
in a dance with two eagles within a token year,
the mechanics of legend, I shout
from a balcony but somewhere better.

put this with your grief,
add some marigolds,
and a broken wheel for healing,
because everything is someday gone.

probably gonna get fun
and buy those things I never could,
just to prove a point to myself,
then forget about it all by tomorrow's tomorrow.

painting and eating,
in that order, like horses or dead goats,
because what corners me
is not the definition of chewing, choking on chance.

Reservation for the Flamingo King

he was a jazz dickhead
who called Key West home.
went to Harlem to horn with the greats
and died alone. 

Broncho Station

Love is in the air,
but I am not breathing;
I am sneezing.

The human tongue
and the awful truth;
we are all dead ghosts.

My conspiracies
are casual,
like a bike ride.

Art is the only escape,
so hooray for our side;
even fresh hell can't fate this.

Don't Be Scared to Sing Songs

the kitchen is for dancing,
just as the stage is for sharing stories
over plates of meat and cheese,
cooled to close, knives and curtains.

the garage is for art,
just as the studio is for drilling
holes into life, letting in light
for the eclipses of our hearts.

beware of fear for it is fake,
as is tomorrow seen from yesterland,
a continuation of crying,
so better belt out a tune before it is too late.

Ignore Me

bad days 
make me 
think of 
my childhood. 

a home covered in seeds from an everything bagel

I am not hungry; I am bored.
and apparently the floor is lava.
so I must stay on the couch or rug. 
or lift my legs while working at the typer. 

don't get eaten by spiders, she says.
I won't, don't worry, I say. 
the doorbell rings.
and it is Marty McFly.

September's firewood is soaked. 
my favorite (only) shorts have a hole. 
the whole world is weird.
the stimulus package is spent. 

a big ol' coffee.
a bunch of burps from the living room. 
some scares.
who really cares out there?

I wonder if that gal in NYC.
ever got my goddamn postcards.
Hmmm, oh well. 
time to go swimming. 

Entertained on Avenue A

my spirit's timeline
is done 
feeling like a twisted

even machines
can't match
a soundtrack
or a smell
to these bad dreams
from before. 

in a bodega,
by a cat
and returned
to a burger joint
behind a mic. 

Six Hundred Seconds

"I find my breath,"
she says.
"And focus on it
to combat the existential dread
I feel upon opening my eyes."

there is a pause.

"Every morning."

another pause.

"Then I check the socials."

cough and stretch.

"Then I go pee
and read your poetry
through broken glass."

a pensive pause.

"Then I brush my teeth."

some peacocks are poisonous

lost earrings so
look around.
do you see

take some kratom
with me
and drive
up the street.

watching Tremors
later on cable
just to forget
about everything the world.

whose existence inspires

the path of the sun.
the vast emptiness of forest.
armed with rough humor.
from humanity's origins to its possible end.
Haunting, spare, yet stubbornly hopeful.
I trespass on my own life each time. 
round awareness.

Drawing Hour

I hold my breath
and doodle on my work notebook
just as I would've on my school notebook
back in the day.

my heart races
around those lines
of cartoon teeth,
matches burning feet,
an eyeball, 
Abe Lincoln with the Devil.

labeling castles 
and V-shaped birds,
conquering the horizon
of butt cheeks...

I interrupt myself
with procrastination
which I have cultivated
over the years
since my youth.

I draw a heart,
and write 
love backwards:

Faux Ghost

I watch a person pet a dog.
I watch cars zoom by.
I watch birds dip and dive.

When I die I will return
to seek moments
I did not do my best.


when all this is over,
I am heading west
to do my best
and do some shows
with some bands
and some comedians.

from a hostel on the beach,
to a boat in the marina,
to a theater in Venice,
to a bookstore in Silverlake,
I will do whatever it takes.

it wouldn't be forever,
but just until it's a success
on a different level,
I just need to get away
and make it.

maybe I will meet a girl,
maybe I will meet the world
and the fun future,
so who knows what will happen,
but change is the recipe
for the energy needed.

the pest with words

Rufus runs towards me,
wearing a mask,
but excited, 
stopping short
of a hug. 

he is obviously inebriated,
and that's okay;
we air high-five
and point towards the sky.

we launch into The Last Dance,
the Michael Jordan/Chicago Bulls
documentary on ESPN,
agreeing that is is amazing.

I ask if he has written lately,
and he shrugs me off,
to which I push him to write more,
because he is a darn good writer.

I am this pest with people I love,
mainly for therapy, especially
during these wacky, unsafe times,
firmly believing art and words can save the world. 

stupidly, throw the frisbee,
ride our bikes to the gas station,
where he gets beer and I get
beef jerky and sugar-free soda. 

we head to the river,
feed the fish our spit,
talk about love and death,
interrupted by rain. 

Rufus rides away
a different way than he came,
low shoulders and dread,
and I hope he writes before passing out. 

Relax, I'm Dead

I love the smell
of leftover basil
on my hands
after I have tended
the garden 
on a Monday noon,
just before the week
eats me.

I will put
the pruned basil
into tea 
with chamomile
also from my garden
in the backyard
of my silly heart. 

I will drink slow
the visions
of future Heaven,
from where I stand
in past Hell,
only smiling
warm yet weary.

I am a proud coward,
hiding behind
poems and puns,
invisible pistols
and a penchant 
for cunnilingus. 

I am hopeless,
romantic in 
and of itself,
long may I roam
towards the mirage
horizon, trying
to find youth
of youth
with my sadness
as tool,
like hammer,
in my way.


young Kentucky got old,
it is a wonder when
I still know how to breathe.

basketball in the backyard,
canoodling under the coffeetree,
I never lived it,
but I want to,
with her.

forever Autumn days
with clean laundry.

reach for five minutes more,
running but not moving,
just like the river
and its creatures.

I am old, too.

looking at the clock
on the microwave,
wishing it just blinked
noons or midnights,

Confession, #43.8

Brief Power Surges

up we go. 
down below. 

electric boots,
new and goofin'
from Target to tomorrow,
through the parking lot of life.

I caught a shock
when she saw me,
and couldn't believe
before all was gone. 

carnage here.
body and bones.

the current currently
feeds the waves,
as I wave goodbye,
and get to saving the world.

dancing in between,
just to not be seen,
lightning licks me.