Summer Punch Line

she was a standup comic
and we both fell hard and fast,
but with most things like that,
it didn't last.

she was too strong,
and I was too weak.
she was on the road,
and I was still...lost.

she licked me for a few nights,
and called it a love story.
I always want to be cooler than I am,
but the morning makes up its mind.

Fuck Oh

not tonight.
laser wound.
beer beer.
Lauren can't pun.

moving on feels good.
until two seconds at 2 in the morning.

can't keep me.
post office.
sidewalk chocolate.
me without my pockets.

songs belong to the listeners.
barking lyrics.

making out.
sentences in lock.
don't, just don't.

8 Snakes

Neptune Avenue and
New York by St. Vincent
and I lost an earring in the ocean
between sushi and ice cream sandwiches,
the swamp, the ghetto,
and two gals called Rebecca.

duck the magic hour

dealing with the damage
that Ronald Reagan did,
I am a broadcaster
with a big boner.

feeling the clouds
leaving like scissors,
I want to be involved 
in some departure. 

singing like an idiot
in the stairwell of 4th ave memory,
I want to duck the magic hour
and find bullets over Broadway. 


another tired night
of Chicago dreams,
waking up here and there,
disappointed at the reminder
of what bedroom this bed sits in.

I am floating
in a fleeting nowhere,
trying to get from here to health
and from there to nestled,
only I don't where there is,
but I wish I was a sweater
or apple cider vinegar.

and when the sun comes back,
sometimes I just wish I were talented.
sure, I write poetry on beverage napkins,
but that isn't talent by damn sight.

I am at a loss
for what to do,
and I am still drawn to you.

Cow Skull

I pull at my hair,
frustrated at the day
for no reason other than the regular:
I can't win,
I am not good,
and lately, love seems
blocked like a blog.

I sweat through the afternoon,
steady the anxiety,
write poems about the blues,
kinda like this one here,
meta for eating.

Sometimes I am captured
by my sadness
with no warning
and especially no reason,
just as sometimes
my pee smells like coffee and asparagus,
even thought I have had no asparagus.

And so the clock continues to click and tick
and I continue to walk and work and whatnot,
thinking what do we have here;
just days and question marks
and a few poems about nothing, like this one,
and maybe a can of soup.

This is Probably Good Music & Goodbye

Uncapitol Want

yesterday was better than Michigan.
especially standing there;
moody fuckers, us,
waiting in a rain.

only two summers
in one night
I could've ruined your life
but I decided not to anything
but disappear.

Useless in Hell

all I do is reference movies,
write poetry,
fall in love,
use most unfriendly misspelled werds,
in the pages among pages,
before bothering my friends
and getting drunk.

I will be useless in hell
just as Virginia.

I envy the dancing mirror because it gets to see you,
sometimes in dreams;
I am paralyzed by voices and fierce commanding claws.

Ugly Hipster

they say Tampa is the sluttiest city
but I think it's Scottsdale.

I still have the voicemail you left me
on my birthday in 2015,
and if you don't believe me,
just call me.

Undone Wolves

my feet hurt,
but I want to capture things,
like the love of the blog,
and the stupidity of
everything else.

I can't call you tomorrow,
because I am blocked,
but I swear to carry on your memory,
for good or ill,
loud music or sweets.


Sum This

after cutting a rug,
and making love
to four girls
in four nights,
I need to take a lake rest.

Shhhh, Crow

poets and ghosts appear on the scene,
all bleeding to be seen now matter how
haunted the kitchen tends to be.

I am all amazement.
Oh, lust, magnificent,
going on to whisper want.

What was I in the last century?
A stupid kid, and the one before that,
prior to the resurrection, who knows?

Back over brandywine roads,
being here, when forever
figures out how to stay.

Feeling liverish for not
finding spring, for not standing strong,
after zipping up her fresh dress, now.

The only thing for me now
is a very very drunken sleep on the beach
or forgiveness.

Mix CD, Pitch Perfect Pussy Per This Friday

1. Velvet Noose by Thunderpussy
2. Different Now by Chastity Belt
3. Rockin' is Ma Business by Alabama Thunderpussy
4. Yolanda's Dream by Auntie Pus
5. Cooky Puss by Beastie Boys
6. Freedom by Richie Havens

Billy in Time

I've been drinking on the city train
as it rumbles under the rain.

Stone Temple Pilots and Soundgarden
come on the old iPhone,
making me sad. 

unless you have a time travel thingy,
there is no going back.

Even still, I tap my feet,
annoying the people around me,
but one guy finds it funny.

his face finds mine,
he looks like a Billy in time.

Even the slightest human connection,
however silent and silly,
is vastly important during these fleeting days.

Deep Sea River

pull the shower curtain open
because, baby, I am swimming.

cut my head off,
put on a record and let it play.

hurt my heart,
and jump right in with me. 

give me the good kind of headache,
the kind that sticks with your eyes.

make me believe
that I am strong even though I am not. 

rescue my way
before I drown with this town.

Thanks for the ice cream suggestion, Ari.

Wheat Thin

LA Law made the electronic intro,
saying she is a new poet on the bill,
saying she is gangster with the verse,
but that she needed guidance.

I am full of guidance these days.
Five years ago, not so much.
I would've spit, shit, and tried to fuck her.
But I am a different dildo these days.

She calls a month later,
we talk,
and I can tell the kid has confidence.
In poetry, this is rare, for many reasons.

More often than not,
if you are confident,
it means you are nuts
and write poetry about topical bullshit.

Her only fault was when she mentioned
that she has a damn R.M. Drake tattoo,
but I let it slide because she is 21,
and at least it is poetry, right?

This is like the yankee swap,
and I am worse at being good,
just ask Lauren my partner in publishing,
but with this she may vouch other ways.

I give the kid two assignments
and tell her to go surprise the world,
but not to tell anyone about it.
We shall see. Maybe I can be a mentor.


My lower back is a cesspool of sweat 
and the regret that drips down 
from my heart when I am sleeping. 

I am fat and gross
and gross and fat
but at least I am alive and happy, sometimes.

my ears hear music
and I have a few things going
for me in the short run of riches.

that's all one can guess at or ask or risk,
to be alive, to find pleasure in a few things called moments
and to keep trying, tirelessly, despite.

Let's Light the Horse on Fire

hit the fork
and we are going to remorselessly
laugh and cry.

then probably die,
she sings with a neckbrace.

and so we find ways
to fill the empty:
this damn dance floor,
both of us telling lies,
like it is the first time.

no matter,
the wind will blow tomorrow
in spite of us,
and our tangled arms,
silent alarms.

we leave.

hotel home.


we both wish
we were somewhere
but we are here,


I can't wait to
listen to your music
and then unfollow
you on Instagram.

Yesterday's New York Times

I am a writer of fiction.
Killing the dense days with something called living.
Forever in love with the lives of others.
So guess to not bother me. 

Fun Hill Limit

I used to be young and dumb,
but now I am dumber,
and my heart burns
wednesday to february.

I was once all astonishment,
but now I am an astro suitcase,
violent and shy,
caring and loud.

I was once deep drowning
into the romance of the century
and myself
and now I fly with dog barks.

I am still
music in the dark,
rain in the day,
poetry heredity.

Lightning for Lunch

sunglasses for breakfast
after a torrential whiskey night.
I haven't slept until 11am since 2007.
I hit the gym out of guilt,
trying to sweat it all out.

I just want to see what else I can see,
a New York dude, by way of Florida,
and now I got broken phone boredom
and I dodge the girl from the night before.

in the real muirs,
with confidence in hand,
I hope my days aren't done,
and so I eat lightning for lunch.


I will break my body
just to crack you up.

never look back.
I love that photograph.
It looks like something
I want to lick.

and the hat
on my head,
always with a tip of respect.

give me the damn ukulele
and shut up
as I sing for sight of sound.

we are unbound
by what love leaves us with
after it has looked
like death for so long.

The Wonderful Mayhem of Hats & Mops

I lean over the counter,
pull my hat down low,
the restaurant is empty,
so I put Ari Shaffir's
new Netflix special on,
because it has been awhile
since I've been behind the bar,
and I needed a distraction.

I clean up, assuming responsibility,
laugh when I look up at my friend
making jokes about jews and abortions,
then I crack a beer and text Daniel
that everything is fine
and I will be "home" on time.

there is something romantic
about mopping and closing down
a restaurant by yourself,
with only music and/or comedy,
especially with the time machine in my heart,
because I spent my former life
doing this exact same thing,
pining for a gal or writing poetry on drink tickets.

tomorrow doesn't matter,
all that matters is getting all this water
out of this mop, and so I lean and squeeze,
after cleaning the bathroom,
of which I did the wallpaper,
a shellacked collage of ripped out pages of books
and knuckle blood somewhere near the corners.

this is earned nostalgia,
far better than a CNN series about the 90s
or some such shit with clips of The Simpsons and Nirvana,
and so tonight's sleep is either going to be
good or terrible, with dreams of seemingly floating
maybe memories and mistakes,
or exact memories that actually make you miss real things.