I Want to Be Friends with a Panther

I live in the coffee breath of neighborhoods
and wear the wrong everything,
just ask the bandana in my skyrocket,
which today was white and tomorrow will be soft yellow.

I open my cab door
on the bad side of the subject,
always hoping to ruin
a cyclist's day.

Have you ever noticed that
New York City's white people
in the rain remind the world
that jazz music exists?

No one has
and no one will,
and I need to start working out again,
and I will start tomorrow or the day after that.

Sauce the Boy

I love weddings
for dancing
like an ass
and top shelf scotch.

But the shindigs
make me believe something
that probably isn't true:
love, forever.

Sure, there is the girl there,
laughing and drunk,
just the right kind of
dead in the eyes to bang.

And here I am,
I live in a refrigerator
and rats eat my eyes,
normally just a bloating louse.

Flashback to death,
Joanna Newsom showed up
even after on iPhone,
even still.

In terminal dreams,
it all comes down
to the last person
you think of at night.

Am I right?
Every she knows I am right.
Every crisp bishop knows, too.
even you.

can you

and eye,
slow me down,
I don't know how
to take it
and you know how
to not know how
to spell it,
but then that is when
they say shut it
and take it
like a romantic
in your parents' room
or a Brooklyn boom,
2006 to seven,
or some other tomb
where we live to die,
without the question mark needed.

hot face, dim eyes, me

no one is still 
listening to these songs,
harping on the past,
not like I am.

folks songs don't remember,
not like I do,
with detail
and weather.

guitar my heart
and help me 
figure it all out,
one tune by two.

no matter the influence,
the confluence is me,
cantor and mr. jones and He-Man,
trying to give up on brown.

sign the times
with my squinty eyes
and sign with indie bands
for all I care.

Poem About Poems About Poetry About Love and Other Shit

it is 2:17pm on a wacky Wednesday.
overcast sky, hung over head, happy heart, for now.
I just doodled half a giraffe ass.
Then gave up and threw it in the fridge.

last night was full of fun.
I am paying for it today.
too much malt liquor.
not enough kisses.
want to write but can't.

Unproductively, I wish.
for more wishes.
a smaller head at the moment.
more memories.
a bed and bottle and the tv.

it is 2:19pm on a weird Wednesday.
rain has arrived with petrichor.
I can still smell her.

Leftover Always Goddamn

you curious little thing.

good timing,
when I have met someone else,
and I am trying to embark
like a damn dinosaur.

I wonder your motives
and mission
especially when you surprise
me like that
on a rainy Monday
or any day,
when sitting in the newsroom
bored with work.

is it bad
that it made me sublimely
happy and stupid
even thought it hadn't been updated
since February?

I had a dream of hammers and axes,
but I see them not as destruction,
but as tools of building something;
think about it.

that dream morphed into
a very sexy dream of you
in stairwells,
deal with it or don't,
tell me when you touch yourself.

I only get a few days
with your werds
and I want to wake up
happy with them
for a long time,
no matter how updated.

the sly circularity of every story

We look for messages carved into our teeth 
and encoded in the lyrics of old folk songs.

crystalline scene by crystalline scene,
life sneaks up on you then leaves.

from buoyant to bottom,
days are saved from sinking only by the deliverance of death.

We all want to live in an Edith Wharton world,
but most are in a recessive Raymond Carver short story.

ghosts we will remain,
holy and unscientific in soul, spirit and Earth.

We are hopefully on repeat
in an Ouroboros circle, so see you next time. 

the majority whip

arrow to change.
forever to mute my belong.
keep my canceled youth.
in a cabinet.

fear the find.
forever for long never.
this is the best.
I can do.

might as well.
meet at midnight.
forever is the next sentence.
or the last. 

Lucky Me, Lucky Mud

as if we matter,
so we pose stories
on electric devices

we all die.

I drag my name
through the crud
of the shit
that I forget.

tired, blinky eyes.

let's lay down
and fake the chords
to a song,
belong long.

because it ends.

How & Maybe & Who

how do you not write since February?
maybe you aren't a writer.
maybe you aren't a hopeless romantic.
maybe you have tinges of testimony.
that need to get out to relieve your soul.
maybe you are just a girl in the world.

who am I to judge?
maybe you are writing your face off.
and just not posting any of it.
maybe you are keeping it to yourself.
because it hurts the world. 
maybe your boyfriend reads it.

how do we all know who we are?
experience, maybe. love, likely.
this is the moment you give in or give up.
it's the same thing, the same tool.
but how will you use it, and on who?
maybe me.

The Truth Factory

the sun is fat on my face
as I walk to play trivia
with my wayward myself,
somewhere I've never been.

gotta stop next Tuesday
from happening,
because of mainly skin,
my friends got flesh in the wind.

lost and losing,
not sure I want to live life,
but only have poems
and a knife.

love is like flossing
after you've forgotten
for a long while,
just when the guitar slits exclamation marks.

the smell of actual water

when the sun becomes
the moon
and the moon becomes
the noon,
we dance the beginning
of a song
like the specks of silver
and feel our weight
on the world
like water is shining.

the colonel cathedral says
we have nothing
to prove,
but I believe
that there
are so many things
to see
from pillows
and pastures
and we just have to
stand on the sky
and try,
all the while
asking why.

you and me
and the rain,
you and me
and the ants,
you and me
and the proof.

in the wild miles
within the river distortion
with feet forecast
for walking
in shoes,
energies see what I believe
in a million blinks,
twenty thousand thinks
just before the door
is even open
to your apartment
or mine.


I read the first few pages and graves
of Ulysses today,
because it is June 16th, Bloomsday,
and because my friends
in Montreal and Berlin
and other places
are posting about it on Instagram,
so I feel the need to get it.

the action has me savvy,
especially after work
when I dig for the big copy
that I have had forever,
started and stopped,
given in to the prose
and given up on the poetry
of the piece of perfection.

this copy has been with me,
soaked in a tidal wave
on Fire Island that summer,
ripped by chicks that I have loaned it to,
and has seen bookshelves
in Florida, NYC, Montreal, Florida
and NYC, as well as
the backs of cars and the tops of bars.

this book by James
has given me whiskey,
nights, sexual candidates lost,
and tonight that is more recognizable
than the best commercials for soap
or broken noses and broken dreams.

Burning the Bottoms of the Trees

man o man,
that song, Home, by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
comes on, 
and I am, considering the current status of love and life,
instantly transported
to that time and that feeling,
that Brooklyn summer of searching. 

I've gone crazy twice since then,
fallen in love a few times,
almost died seven ways,
but kept my head above water,
still spitting sawdust.

I see it all in my fractured sleep,
a life in horizon timelines,
broken up my music, girls, memories,
burned bridges, good meals, mascots and more.

what happens when there is or are
too many years
between there and here?
no one knows, and if they did,
they wouldn't tell you
to save your life.

sharp time travel
is like having to pee
in a hospital of dreams,
and there is more to this thought,
doldrums and all,
but I will save some for only me and death.


Captain of the Rapids

swapping a source.
swapping a song.
changing my sweater.
changing my life. 

new chairs don't count for much.
neither do new laptops.
we are never going to feed it anything.
crazy is generated through stillness.

intense and powerful yet predictable. 
a wave in a river formed by obstacles on the river bottom.
where the wave stands still relative to the bank.
we are relative to the passing.

never turning back. 
since there were rivers.
since there were men.
I try, because trying is all.

picayune and/or belabor

had a panic dream
that Bob Dylan died.
woke up alone
and there was bacon
on the doorknob,
but what the hell
do I know
about cooking
a shirt?

if there is
any space for me
in that spot
between your life
and my lake,
I will and would
look to be lucky
to both our surprise.

nothing for granted,
not anymore,
not even tiny boots
on big coffee tables,
because living is just
a series of people saying
in a little while,
and I don't want to be them bastards.

Mix CD, Blonde Bombshell 1.62

1. Drag by Day Wave
2. Cold Blood by Josiah and the Bonnevilles
3. The Distance by Iron Eyes Cody
4. Breezeblocks by alt-J
5. Red Earth & Pouring Rain by Bear's Den
6. You Were Never Here by Man Forever (featuring Yo La Tengo)

Boner Butts!

back "home"
after a fantastic evening,
stuck with boner
and pizza,

which to choose first?

Death to Thursdays!

Accused of graft,
buried in Beatles albums,
I wait, hopeful, with literary grace,
that I can, one day,
be good, not great.

Zephyrance is not a word,
but it should be,
stolen away, from time to time,
times to shine,
and songs about frailty.

I would wake up,
call 11 a bullshit number,
lick her track marks,
and put on a chocolate sweatshirt
to end this shit.

I Am Stupid Lettuce in the Morning

Never for money,
always for love,
cover up
and say good night.

My life will end
and all I want to do
is kiss you
one more time.

Bear Shoots Bear

As a poet,
I shave my pencil
and kill my friends
and ex lovers
in each stanza
with shoes
and blues.

In these pages,
on this stubborn computer screen,
I can do anything,
be anything,
live forever.

Dead be the worth
writ larger than wrists
in the mountains
of mine.

And darkness is proud to be dark.