Every Saturday Night Open Mic of the Seventh Future

This place smells like piss and beer,
But she can’t get outta here
And she can’t stop Drunkenly dripping 
On her guitar while singing…

All these things have to happen
For the next things to happen,
Because if they don’t happen
Then the following things don’t happen. 

She keeps singing
From under sweater and on stage
Into your ears
And beyond...

Basically, you must trade
First choice for second meaning,
Even if catastrophe keeps
Knocking on your nights. 

Her pain has lead her here,
To this place in time,
Where she shines
A light back on the dumb, defiant audience...

every pain and joy 
and thought and sigh 
must come again to you, 
all in the same sequence.

She knows what’s coming next,
Because she has seen it
Many times before,
And many times before that...

The birth of tragedy
Out of the spirit of music,
Because of what hasn’t
Happened yet to yesterday. 

She is not a god,
She has just been around
For a very long time,
And has witnessed many lives, many masters...

The prospect of having to live one’s life
Over and over, every detail repeated,
Every pain alongside every joy,
Giving a glimpse of what’s to come.

She can’t be who she is,
Without who she was,
And she can only see what’s coming,
Because of what she’s singing…

Owning up
To recollect, to regret,
To be responsible, 
Ultimately to forgive and love. 

She drops the guitar,
Smokes her cigarette,
Walks off with a warning,
That she has seen this all before...

We keep living the same life
Over and over again,
And we will keep living the same life,
Until we get it right. 

A tray of drinks drops
In the background,
And everyone flinches
But her...


Bowing Out

apologies, my compatriots,
but I am already two Advil PM deep
and fighting to keep my eyes open
in order to finish watching this episode
of The New Adventures of Old Christine,
but can't wait to read what you write. 


How to Dispose Of A Dead Bird So Your Daughter Doesn't See It

scoop it up with a shovel
(don't look at it in the eye that's hanging out)
and trebuchet that shit
over the fence in the backyard,
let the highway handle it. 


Do you care? Am I loved? Are you listening?

I’m bored.
I don’t know what to do most days.
So I search for a borrowed muse
To jumpstart my heart.

Never finding anything.

Now, hours later,
I feel like I am having a cold panic attack.
I’m just going to eat some blue icing
And go to bed.

Devils!

I don’t want to dream of her anymore.
I want to move on.
But the days are boring
And Wyoming is far.


Oh Miss Danger


I miss you everyday,
but I am so happy
to see the daffodils
we planted on your grave
are blooming.


a coyote among wolves

I'm a morning idiot.
Please.
Make me worry less.
Either way.
I'll survive. 

I feel like I will know you.
For the rest of my life.
At least I did something right.


Sleep Comedy, Dylan Drink

The best story ever told,
was overheard in a restaurant.

It was an American man
mansplaining the Looney Tunes 
to a lady.

Bob Dylan's "To Ramona"
plays on the junk juke. 

I slip on a banana peel
for real
on the way to the bathroom.

Unconscious for a spell
of seamless dreams.

My head hurts 
because it brings back memories
and memories bring back you.

Can't escape,
even on a bad date.


To an unread poet.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.

You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all dreams
you're a poet of the heart,
you mustn't fall apart at the seams.

Don't be such a turd,
say what you can in words;
they speak the message true
the poems will see it all through.

A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've thought
and been taught.

I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend).


Poem of the Day: Freedom

Listening to Langston Hughes
on the stoop, 91st street blues,
going back in time 
with memories in my mind.

my heart won't allow love
to linger, so it better
pack its bags 
and head for the Canadian border. 

through compromise
I have learned to die,
through forever,
I have learned to live. 

I tire so of hearing people say,
Let things take their course.
Tomorrow is another day.
My freedom from you is my own blue print. 


I Wish I Were Like Black Belly

the male fox I named Black Belly
is such a good hunter/provider
for his mate and her brand new
litter of kits.

This early morning he came up
from the wetlands to deliver
a wild duck;
what a feast for the fam.


Everything is Under...Sticky Things

I sing through the store,
Sign language to passers by
That stuff in life
Is looking up
And that they need not worry
About me and my cart
Full of bologna.

In the parking lot
I step in gum but
Shrug it off and
Keep dancing
Behind Buicks
And pick-ups
Picking up Dimes with my gumshoe.

Speaking of dimes,
I meet a dame
By the name
Of Lindsey,
I tell her I am a detective
And she takes me
Home with her.

We have sex
In the kitchen
While putting away
Her groceries –
Rice Krispies, cheese,
Romaine, White Claws –
Until her husband comes home.

Sneaking out
The back door,
I step on a dead dog
That comes alive
And eats my ankle
But I keep smiling
Because it’s May and I’ll be ok.

I am back in business,
Moving and shaking,
Shucking and jiving,
Living loud on the horse
For all the world
To endure,
Because life is gooey.


Congrats on the New Job

some days I miss her so much
and other days I don't think of her at all.

I hope she is brave today.


100 Years

the light flickers
and I help myself up
from floor poetry.

my claws are clenched,
my knuckles not bloody
any longer.

I watched blue
turn to ice
on the window.

it's always tomorrow
and never today
in our hearts.

my evolution
will never be complete,
I thought.

a hundred years
from now
will someone read this poem?


NOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooo!

Who is going to laugh at my stupid jokes?!?!?! 
Devil bastards! 
Now you must go to the doctor 
and tell them your humor is broken!


Golden Saint Something

speaking from the heart
of a true hot mess,
please don't insult me, Abigail.

it is in these moments,
where heels hurt hard,
that I see my brother,
but I don't have a brother.

I am not old,
I am just gross,
talking through burbs.

Unable to imagine
getting any older,
but refusing to give up,
I guess I'll keep going.

I almost miss the heartbreak,
the youthful quandaries
that seemed to affect me more.

These days, either I don't
gamble or invest,
instead I court the days
to be forgettable.

I don't want to be
a desired, golden saint
like you, Abigail.

I am bad news bears,
a stabbing man,
so push me away,
it's okay.

Have fun,
don't want to die;
this is what work is. 

I am a prick.
I am God's lonely man.
I am a bad writer
who can't stop. 


SACRAMENTO

I've been sleeping with the tv on,
because when I wake to pee,
I also need a good laugh. 

My knees are asleep,
along with my needs,
and my heart 
has no idea where it is. 

This railroad apartment
is just a layover,
not love.

Sacramento is good,
but she deserves better
than my bullshit
and boogers. 

Tomorrow I will go
south to the zoo,
and live there with the giraffes. 


later's aforementioned

I sit awkwardly close
to a musician as she plays
and I begrudgingly fall in love with her.

but I don't want to fall in love with her,
not because she isn't great,
because I don't want to fall in love with anyone these days. 

I know what yesterday will bring,
as tomorrow amused us already,
and I was a tender object living in her house. 

writing forever only Sylvia,
she sings the song of myself,
it's almost always never. 


accidentally forgot to stay young forever

all day at the bookstore,
road my skateboard,
there was something else
I was supposed to do though. 


Raccoons in Her Chimney

in the near distant future
there will be 
cookies and pickled red onions,
hand-holding and river feet!

now that the raccoons
are gone from her chimney
we will sleep
like baby bears without an evolutionary care.

in the steeple
mornings will be practical miracles,
and being normal
will be a tangible possibility. 

now that the raccoons 
are gone from her chimney
we can watch Can't Hardly Wait
and Ridiculousness.

the world 
will witness us,
just as we witness 
the world. 


obnubilate

my fingers from the side
look like crooks' claws,
and I can't help but notice them
while I am reading a book in bed. 

I must read more, I tell myself,
and workout, but I hate working out,
and I love television,
for it is my meditation,
but I feel good and productive
when I read. 

I scratch my greasy temple
with the crook pinky
on my left hand
and continue to the next chapter. 

It is weird to think
that I have never seen my father
write a letter;
sure, I've never seen the man
who is my father,
but it's the little things
that make me think.

My fingers might be his,
because my face is my mother's,
greasy and gross,
lines from laughing. 


Oh Well, Hanging On

I am mostly sad,
kinda funny,
and I still listen 
to your voicemails
from last October. 


Careful with that axe, Eugene

Seriously,
hear me out,
he says.

The Scholastic Book Fair
for adults
at a bar.


Drinking Indian Chai, Listening to Music, and Thinking About You

had a darn good day this week,
wish I could share it with one.

worked hard,
disposed of a dead driveway bird.

ate a taco salad for dinner,
and interviewed an icon for the podcast. 

now I am writing poetry,
listening to music and drinking tea.

I'll lay down later,
watch a movie and masturbate. 

this weekend,
I have to go to Walmart.

must book the plane to Wyoming,
call my sister and clean the fish tank. 

my back hurts,
so I stretch.

I am distracted
by doodling a picture of bones. 

maybe I will dance in the kitchen
and eat Keto ice cream. 


shuriken

cayenne in my coffee,
a button-down shirt with shorts,
who am I but as sharp
as I've ever been before. 

a folk song without reference to a train,
a poem without love or death,
who am I but a different man
with a better plan for tomorrow. 

weapons without war,
lightning without the thunder,
who am I but capitol and sterling,
a lost loser ready to win.


Just As The Eagle

we walk through the world
with wings as arms,
hoping our feathers never molt
and that we don't fly into a powerline,
but we never suspect we'd be damaged
by another bird altogether.