happy to be glad

I pour the hours
into a glass.

candles drown in afternoons.
sixteen dollars in cash
is living in my wallet,
like flowers forgotten by girls getting off of carnival rides.

I am so happy to have teeth.

such as singing to sing
when you were mute for a millenia...
why we do such things,
I will always know,
yet never tell.

you gotta figure that shit out for yourself, Jack.

stub some toes and step on some beaks,
but don't pretend...
be better.
capture attention.

life goes up
and life goes down.

explore.

some more.
let the crow call your morning.
I like mountains.
fuck the Atlantic Ocean.
I am younger than the sun.
decide what our necks are doing.
and finally.

what happens in caves?

all sorts of stuff happens in caves.

witness how that light makes you beautiful again.
nothing we've seen has been mapped.
the moons and the merigolds.
dogs are walking across the room.
somewhere.
on two legs.
west and east.
still sweating out secrets.
still looking throw the trees.
searching.
for something.
we are there and then we are not. 

Mondays Aren't That Bad

Still doing a puzzle.

And writing poetry.

We have a backyard.

It’s been a decent, comfy Monday.

I've given up my ceiling and blame.

Home has changed in a good way.

All my ways have changed.

Today is good and gone, especially after last night's machine gun.

It's not raining.

But I wish it were.

For her benefit.

Let's look for jewelry.

Bonus!

I found some beer in the basement.

My back finally cracks.

You are here, walking on it. 

later in life. 

let's skank to old ska music in the kitchen.

Mondays are mine.

I like doing the dishes and dancing.

       The amazing art of Richard Jackson.

Polite Tonight

devil kitch.
explore.

more so than before.

the only person
you should try to be better than
is the person you were yesterday.

Poor me,
I am poor and hungry,
happy under the pontiac sky.
I am practicing not being bored.
My eyes are lemons.

fuck Brooklyn.
and it's dog gone promises.
oh my god the river.

god hates my liver,
but likes my enthusiasm.

mirror my survival
(forever) (this time)
with palms of hen hands,
balloons and news.

Spook the Horses

high on regret.
loud on last night.
at least I have a flashlight.

mountain lions are out here.
out dense.
in my own.

wild edibles.
I hate the folk singer.
where does the snake poison?

don't defend us.
documentaries.
riddle my ribs with stories.

hunt for hunting.
danger and beauty.
in every nook of the eerie earth.

Poem

I should've just stayed home
and watched the Oscars.
this boat comes with a bit of history.
reactionary survival is doom.

I like ocean thunder there.

Rhodiola

Meaninglessly meaningful

or

meaningfully meaningless.

Reading weak poetry at a strong

comedy show,

after eating Taco Bell.

After it has been so long. 

I farted around with the best of the audience that eve.

Little envelopes of gunshots;

some made it.

I feel small.

With it,

I read on and on,

feeling early in age.

Tessellate,

some

call it

young.

You Won't Believe What You See On Your Way Down

I like to edit in the kitchen

with the window open,

hence the grey cardigan.

Looking forward to tonight's show.

I eat eat tuna

that expired two days ago.

afterall, I like the word Afterwards.

half your heart sits with me on my bastard barstools.

we agree that you're funny.

today, our story is something

far far inside.

I made your smiles happen once before plural.

I see sandwiches and sky.

what is all-of-a-sudden?

falling is gravity's fun vacation.

everyone has something, don't they?

keeping them beach.

I don't know the easy order, silly life life.

reach out

her mama is in the hospital.
my ears are ringing.
peacefull bravado taste like nights.
wake me up brave.

me red and tree

music makes me me.
fuck commas and common sense.
I made a cat.
I lost a shoe.

find out more.
true for driving an old limo.
in circles in the city.
I saw some sauce.

I'm waiting.
for rain, of-fucking-course.
I killed a can.
mr. wonderful.

last night makes me me.
last in hide-and-seek.
to be found.
something tells me I am into something better than the bottom of a river.

summer sees me with no pants.
parked cars, and another limo.
outside of a particular place of interest.
I am stuck in time.

it goes to show.
darling, you never know.
one day you are a tree.
one day you're red, one day you're me.

Young Kentucky

oh,
how I miss those blue hills
and those big, sad eyes of young Kentucky...

let's be November again.

I remember not knowing what to say.
photographs are friends from the past,
too bad we never made any friends.

then,
there's a knock at the door.
it's good news
of harp nonsense sky
as wonderful
as the ocean wide.

a trailer 
for a fundrasier 
for a documentary 
of my friend, Sweet Sweet Moon.

This Poem is for an Old Black Dude

it's all about rivers
and railroads,
metaphors for life.

tesselate. 
let's talk about books, too.
justice is not my middle name.

rooks will dance across chessboards.
still above the ground.
we're both too old to die young.

After Portland with a Hat

I sleep all day.
I woke with this taste.

after Portland,
after Boiceville,
the cable company
is after sun.

then it wouldn't be
opulent Valentine's Day without Brooklyn.
William S. Burroughs is with me
on the 5 train.
he's talking to Joan of Arc.

I smile to myself
in the Rumbler
left to Willytowne,
where it is green
and pointy.

I am wearing a goddamn fucking
Lumineers shirt

Morgan meets Desmond;
one is an avenue.
memories are faces being touched in places.
Lunch at Greenpoint Heights.
Tacos and too many memories.

then the East Village.
a flower, and a door.
I haven't driven a van
since both Gentry's were alive.

and hours later,
from this hill,
I can see all the way to Yonkers,
and I was swallowing panic.

water runs away from my footprints.
watch life go.

donuts and earth machines

If I lived in California.

I’d buy a one-story house.

close to the coast.

I'd plant a garden in the backyard.

and every night.

I’d sit on the roof after work.

and drink a beer.

and watch the sun disappear.

Gauge

the cornbread was everything.

the railroad was something.

the band is breaking up.

my eyes are the exact color of the sky today.

that bloody thing inside my chest is still beating.

let’s all share a yawn.

because some wars name themselves.

Rural with Wonder

I want to lay in a field
with her
and stare up at the stars.

I refuse to trim my beard,
at least until summer hits hard.

"What's it like to be inspiration," I asked.
"It's conflicting," she said.

I write behind the bar,
and quit my quarter huddle hide,
the truth is a friend of mine.

I ain't got enough words
to set everything free.
I drown in salt.
she looks good in black.

we get southern,
bugle ballad of simple ways to live,
and when it hits, it will hit big.
country is sitting on the back porch,
we carry up some jazz,
and we go.

a case of whiskey.
a case of love.
I don't want to go to work.
I just want to lay in a field
with her
and watch the stars,
and hear the deer.

Poem, Better Boots

I gotta pee.
then the italian deli on the corner.
of fuck off and forever.

then sparrows and snow.
then goddamn good-for-nothing Brooklyn.
wish I had better boots.

and a better heart.

electricity is one thing.
love is another.

let's start tomorrow.
with tonight.

endlessness didn't last.
locked in my stupid fucking hell.
I remember my hand on your neck.
you on top of me.
I won't change.
given the chance.

let's start today.
with last night.

please don't let.
what was.
get in the way of what's next.

walk in winter

night after comedies...
I make my own life.
somehow I am sweating.
scary up the river to my right.
I miss your stars.
they sit upon shoulders so gorgeous.
you could call them good hills.

arthritis at night,
where do you live?
I live on Traver Hollow Road
with humming birds and grey foxes,
verbs for falcons,
adverbs for nickels,
and mice at night.

it's carefully horrible.
this is forevermusic.
I stand on old checkered tiles,
holding my
neck.

Lurk

lurk like pizza
with want,
stomach of a star
while roses are just twenty-four.

eat a good book,
go impossible sometimes,
dance on my head,
and deal with dilemmas
like loyalty and heartburn.

a single mute mule rushing round
all things not scary,
are not worth a minute of a moment.

ever since,
innocents,
you can choose to be a ghost.

For Ago

the red rivers click.
churning and burning blood into butter.
and time is more than nights and better than days.
and time is more than life in expensive ways.
let's finish this poem!
and I will buy us food.

West 143rd Street

the jungle still.
due to moons.
or bears.
five honey, buffalo wounds.

fear the poet.
drink the whiskey.
location one.
with shovels.

With Wet Joy

with wet joy and affliction,
last night was a test.
boom boom boom.
whiskey w/ hot sauce
for breakfast.

LA guns
in the middle of NYC intersections.
brick weed
and thrills that kill;
last night was a test.

didgeridoo, we're gonna win.
there are electric people
with electric boots.
back to the world, dog,
with a last last name.

it's all about smiles and cries.
last night was a test.
let me go with ya.
open your eyes,
you'll feel a lot better.
boom.
damn, I am thirsty.
because I am a professional angler,
and you have the magic eye, crime fighter.