Autumn & Elizabeth

just down the hall,
text messages.

doldrums, days, about bugs
turn into
jokes about printers and the internet being down. 

the season is another crush
that will go nowhere.

a massage builds a bridge, 
claws a Friday afternoon.

her New Jersey voice
is somehow music with muscle,
with taste. 

and I railed,
racing to the difference of the danger.

should we go outside?
should we make some love?
is she interested?

and as I sleep in pumpkin bread,
dreaming horny dreams,
I believe, because I gotta. 

Broken Nose

fire always falls on sacrifice. 
I am not a place for cowards.

I sit in tennessee whiskey
with kentucky heart,
drinking scotch
with a nickel
and a birthday behind before me. 

I wanna tell you there
is a really good reason 
I broke your heart
but the common algebra is love. 

and I don't know what to say.

sew me soul to kites,
and send me off into the silly night
to be captured by other reasons
close to the thrown. 

Old Doansburg

as the train rumbles and slopes
towards Washington Irving's land,
I wonder to myself how
Dale Chihuly moves his artwork.

this is a peculiar thought state,
a between thing of writers and wanderers.

the Spanish gals are good and loud,
a soundtrack for my quiet, dumb soul
and I watch them put on makeup
and wonder about their commuter lives,
going to and from the city
to get their kicks in white pants,
charging their phones beside me.

then the train honks its horn loud,
adding to the soundtrack,
breaking it and reminding me I am alive,
as I once again head back to the city,
back home to all the history.

Ten Big

we are all mirrors
reflecting what we see
and what we want.

when man makes plans
God laughs.

dark apartment,
decisions on fire
in finger prints.

for one hour.


I found an old voice note
buried within my iPhone 6
just as I am about to get an 8*.

Of lust, heartbreak, to-do
and Instagram hashtags
that you ignore or block
or whatever.

And as soon as I hit "Play"
this assuming 9836k voice file
fills the airwaves,
and brings me back
to my entire life
with you.

Memories of our texts, our trains,
our late nights, our problems,
our plays and our times,
all came
all at once.

charm isn’t the right word

there’s something about New York
the lunch counters, the music, the art scene,
the gutters, the lovers.

all look comers and questioners in the eye
and tell them to go screw.

it's a living flâneuse novel,
with wicked portraits of the insecure
haunted by drink and past sins.

it's a blind man with a pistol,
and storefront religion.

it's above
and underneath.

Manhattan is an abusive lover.

it's home.

Mix CD, Your/My Last Friday 2

1. Give Me Back My Man by The B-52's
2. Tee Pees 1-12 by Father John Misty
3. Rugged Lovers by Rayland Baxter
4. Love Like Ghosts by Lord Huron
5. Summer's Gone by Sweet Apple
6. Sorry by Lydia Loveless


wading over a woman.
waiting with whiskey in hand.
laptop on lap.
other hand typing poems.
about pink blouses.
being taken off in haste.

midnight gluttony.
pizza and inspiration.
who knows when it tackles.
and even she knows.
I am still in love.
with someone else.

her breathing is rhythmic.
my eyes see in the dark.
we are both grey cats.
wanting to be somewhere else.
but settling for this timely mess.
a forgotten footnote, most likely.

Another Stupid Little Poem

I left
I'm leaving
after the weekend.

Fly across country
sip wine
while collecting dimes.

Fool other fools
read poetry
on bar stools
and then fly back.

No home
no heart
nowhere to finish
nowhere to start.


this morning.
my morning.

legs have legs.
hands have coffee.
heart...still beating.

this morning.
on the move.

haven't been able.
to sit still.
in two and a half years.

because of a girl.
and an urge.
even NYC.
can't keep me. 



push me.
into the water.
wake me up. 

shake me.
loosen me, please.
from the past.
make something last. 

Songs for Disappeared Love

peeved on the 3 train,
headache and all.

nothing was ever easy for me.
still nada.

is it Friday
or Saturday?

my heart is a square
way over there.

I find happiness

let's crack a smile
just to feel what it feels like.

boots off and shirts on,
you look to me and I look away.

What's Your Favorite Elvis Costello Song?

I work in favorites:
Favorite song, favorite show. 
Favorite human, etc.

The flip side is
I work in least favorites
and hatred.

I think we all do,
just most can't admit it,
because indifference doesn't count.

That is why
I took a murderer's advice
and release a book of Lists.

2 Days in September

Somewhere's birthday.
the 21st.
peaches and mistaken nectarines.
stoops in Brooklyn.
years ago. 

Dead gnats.
Flocking for autumnal hymns. 
where does time go?
I'm glad you are happy. 
I was happy after you.

I still tell stories.
about before and after.
and during. 
You were one.
of two.

I'm Still Your Fool

checking the mail
after sleeping in my wallet
with new tattoo,
not because of you,
this time,
this time.

I look around the corner
with my hundred dollar face,
for I am not allowed to live and be lost.

your name is a triangle
and I got a bad desire,
a decoy of light in my life.

a nice little Sunday,
a pedicure,
and a book about screenwriting,
a sand poem about life's little trigs.

didn't really think about you
until now, writing this, like religion,
and I wonder what I would say
if you called, probably nothing,
or something stupid,
like Fuck the Red Sox.

Earth Coward

Just did 125 push-ups
and now drinking a beer
with big tongue, bad breath,
sad gag, broad shoulders,
under gunmetal clouds
in a place I don't want to be.

With impending watery retinas,
weak heart, dying arms,
and thinking to myself that
I don't know what I am doing

Anymore is a fun word
especially in my world
of wishes and regrets,
lazy lungs, lazy soul,
knowing I'll probably die soon.

Ribbit, ribbit,
and happy to say that
I am okay with that declaration,
wearing wino shoes,
kicking up memories,
and I want to go to the Bronx Zoo,
but I am afraid of dying again.