Wyoming Isn't Real
what place, too big,
tickling the sky
and inviting hell
to come through
the crack in the low low
river bed.
you belong among the wildflowers.
what past forgotten
by beauty,
stolen by gun metal
but saved under blue sky
painted with pine trees.
you belong among the wildflowers.
what witnesses the changing seasons more
than me and my footsteps,
just as impressions
wiped away by wind
and wolves.
you belong among the wildflowers.
what terribly lovely earth,
shared with noises gallore
and silent mountains,
save for the avalanches
over graves gifted to us.
tickling the sky
and inviting hell
to come through
the crack in the low low
river bed.
you belong among the wildflowers.
what past forgotten
by beauty,
stolen by gun metal
but saved under blue sky
painted with pine trees.
you belong among the wildflowers.
what witnesses the changing seasons more
than me and my footsteps,
just as impressions
wiped away by wind
and wolves.
you belong among the wildflowers.
what terribly lovely earth,
shared with noises gallore
and silent mountains,
save for the avalanches
over graves gifted to us.
Poem
watching Lost in Translation,
fighting sleep as light eats me.
waiting for tomorrow
to change my life.
wanting my life
to change me.
SOS doesn't mean distress,
it just means it's time to see.
rocking back and forth,
for no reason.
it feels good to pretend
oceans taste me swimming.
distract me please,
send the signal back.
believe that I can
catch it from the couch.
wishing for more wishes
and a time machine.
wondering why I wait,
and if you've ever seen this flick before.
fighting sleep as light eats me.
waiting for tomorrow
to change my life.
wanting my life
to change me.
SOS doesn't mean distress,
it just means it's time to see.
rocking back and forth,
for no reason.
it feels good to pretend
oceans taste me swimming.
distract me please,
send the signal back.
believe that I can
catch it from the couch.
wishing for more wishes
and a time machine.
wondering why I wait,
and if you've ever seen this flick before.
And Some of Them Write
traveling for work
is fucking awesome;
don't let anyone
tell you otherwise.
then again,
those who think it shitty,
probably don't do what they love
for a living.
some of them write
killer love letters;
some of them write
suicide notes.
none of them write poems
on walls of bathroom stalls,
in Anaheim and then leave
the number of that place in a bar in Birmingham.
is fucking awesome;
don't let anyone
tell you otherwise.
then again,
those who think it shitty,
probably don't do what they love
for a living.
some of them write
killer love letters;
some of them write
suicide notes.
none of them write poems
on walls of bathroom stalls,
in Anaheim and then leave
the number of that place in a bar in Birmingham.
Los Angeles, Right Now
dancing
across the street
in brown jeans and a white,
buttoned down shirt,
I am careless,
because I can be,
and that is a beautiful hat,
I say,
not looking both ways,
not giving a fuck
what people thin
because I crave
more star damage
in my silly soul,
and then a car
nearly kills me,
so I stop dancing,
but I keep singing.
across the street
in brown jeans and a white,
buttoned down shirt,
I am careless,
because I can be,
and that is a beautiful hat,
I say,
not looking both ways,
not giving a fuck
what people thin
because I crave
more star damage
in my silly soul,
and then a car
nearly kills me,
so I stop dancing,
but I keep singing.
Paper Sandwich
the restrained violence
we all carry within us
is considered a thematic
mark of my narratives.
just as the worst news
always comes from
the most gorgeous lips.
balancing a cigarette
on a Bic lighter,
I remember to be tall
but not imposing.
then I keep going,
with an acquired limp
from battling
a paper sandwich.
trying to hold back,
I succumbed to fire
and burnt the bricks
to my shoes.
we all carry within us
is considered a thematic
mark of my narratives.
just as the worst news
always comes from
the most gorgeous lips.
balancing a cigarette
on a Bic lighter,
I remember to be tall
but not imposing.
then I keep going,
with an acquired limp
from battling
a paper sandwich.
trying to hold back,
I succumbed to fire
and burnt the bricks
to my shoes.
Backs
her back breaks.
mine is in shambles.
we dance.
we have sex.
the next day.
we complain.
down the stairs.
slip better, puzzle piece.
we try our ways.
but it's a waste of time.
same ATM.
same train.
drunk dialing fools.
with bad behind us.
so we lurch and hurt.
waiting for music to inspire us.
mine is in shambles.
we dance.
we have sex.
the next day.
we complain.
down the stairs.
slip better, puzzle piece.
we try our ways.
but it's a waste of time.
same ATM.
same train.
drunk dialing fools.
with bad behind us.
so we lurch and hurt.
waiting for music to inspire us.
the chorus of so much bullshit before the bridge
and here I sit
on a Friday night
the future ahead
and the past behind.
so much bullshit
still to beat,
oh, from many edges
to creep.
was I born to be loved
or am I running?
hey hey hey,
they never told me.
along with donuts
and cigarettes,
tomorrow will make me
or let me loose.
either way,
today is all that matter
and I ain't doing
much of anything.
sell me this bridge,
give me all
that you have to give,
and call it salvation.
until the day we meet again,
we will shout
and try to hear each other sing
because it's the only thing...
was I born to be loved
or am I running?
hey hey hey,
they never told me.
I'd like to whisper
to young me,
that this life is hard
but easier than dreams.
because we get to live
and get to give,
learn from the past,
and the sum is more than that.
yeah, I think about
the places I have been,
but it's this moment
that makes me who I am.
on a Friday night
the future ahead
and the past behind.
so much bullshit
still to beat,
oh, from many edges
to creep.
was I born to be loved
or am I running?
hey hey hey,
they never told me.
along with donuts
and cigarettes,
tomorrow will make me
or let me loose.
either way,
today is all that matter
and I ain't doing
much of anything.
sell me this bridge,
give me all
that you have to give,
and call it salvation.
until the day we meet again,
we will shout
and try to hear each other sing
because it's the only thing...
was I born to be loved
or am I running?
hey hey hey,
they never told me.
I'd like to whisper
to young me,
that this life is hard
but easier than dreams.
because we get to live
and get to give,
learn from the past,
and the sum is more than that.
yeah, I think about
the places I have been,
but it's this moment
that makes me who I am.
Never Say Forever
get your giggle
pushed down by vinyl,
whose boat is this boat?
I am still an uptown boy,
and today is Opening Day,
so I let the excitement in.
Peanuts and baseball,
no booze,
just lonesome clues.
Daniel is going to the game,
I am hiding in Hempstead,
eating watery eggs
and drinking thick espresso.
I hear the neighbors
stomping around their living room;
I will smoke with them later.
I am recording the game,
because I have a chiropractor appointment
at 2pm, so don't text me
with spoilers or scores.
I wish I could live
in a normal day like this
forever and ever,
just normal stuff,
slight excitement
and something to do,
errands to run.
Let's add an opening day game
to my bucket list,
along with Brazil,
which is happening in June.
Do they get Yankee games
on hotel television
in Sao Paulo?
pushed down by vinyl,
whose boat is this boat?
I am still an uptown boy,
and today is Opening Day,
so I let the excitement in.
Peanuts and baseball,
no booze,
just lonesome clues.
Daniel is going to the game,
I am hiding in Hempstead,
eating watery eggs
and drinking thick espresso.
I hear the neighbors
stomping around their living room;
I will smoke with them later.
I am recording the game,
because I have a chiropractor appointment
at 2pm, so don't text me
with spoilers or scores.
I wish I could live
in a normal day like this
forever and ever,
just normal stuff,
slight excitement
and something to do,
errands to run.
Let's add an opening day game
to my bucket list,
along with Brazil,
which is happening in June.
Do they get Yankee games
on hotel television
in Sao Paulo?
Chopin & Champagne
She levitates
when I write about her,
wherever she is.
Probably reading Denise Duhamel
over a rug
with her feet up behind her.
Her newest guy
is probably in the kitchen
taking care of her.
He is oblivious
to her floating,
and aside from the smile so is she.
I am anchored to the hardwood
with a full untouched glass of Brut,
and Chopin's Nocturnes making the rounds.
and Chopin's Nocturnes making the rounds.
She hits the ground
when pencil stops
and the Typer settles.
This happens because
she doesn’t write anymore,
so the universe warns her.
Meanwhile, I am ripping off bandaids
that cover cuts
from last week's open mic
All the while, the world keeps spinning
until we find out, via social media,
that one of us is dead.
tune up
I head back to New York,
for repairs.
Dentist.
Dermatologist.
Heart surgeon.
darn mend,
not a damn thing.
new parts.
alignment.
rebuild the engine.
for repairs.
Dentist.
Dermatologist.
Heart surgeon.
darn mend,
not a damn thing.
new parts.
alignment.
rebuild the engine.
make a specific
telephone call.
telephone call.
hope.
she won't pick up.
sigh good, sigh bad.
witness another
hawk or hanging.
there's only so much.
I can do.
in this Brooklyn bar.
she won't pick up.
sigh good, sigh bad.
witness another
hawk or hanging.
there's only so much.
I can do.
in this Brooklyn bar.
Gentleman Loser
I like those old guys
who still refer to themselves
as "The Kid".
When I was arrested
I had it coming.
It was fajita day,
and I slept like a log
adrift in the purring ocean.
The old kid
looked me down,
sizing me up.
You're not supposed
to wear white after Labor Day,
he said.
I drew him a giraffe
on a napkin
and left it on his cot.
Released in the morning
to a good afternoon,
and some change.
But not much,
just enough for a soda,
which I only drank half.
And I walked home
with a dead phone,
my head held in the middle.
Am I too old
to sleep in my boots
tonight?
who still refer to themselves
as "The Kid".
When I was arrested
I had it coming.
It was fajita day,
and I slept like a log
adrift in the purring ocean.
The old kid
looked me down,
sizing me up.
You're not supposed
to wear white after Labor Day,
he said.
I drew him a giraffe
on a napkin
and left it on his cot.
Released in the morning
to a good afternoon,
and some change.
But not much,
just enough for a soda,
which I only drank half.
And I walked home
with a dead phone,
my head held in the middle.
Am I too old
to sleep in my boots
tonight?
Dragged Across Asphalt or Something
from the moment of mouths,
opening eyes under skies,
slammed a six pack
in a Target dressing room.
annette negative
barefoot on the berm
she preaches to the choir.
from cleaver to wrist to towel,
we will end for the afternoon
and see other people
until tonight when we are
out of our minds
and making out in an alley.
amethyst and gold love for women,
wow Freud would have a field day with me,
at least in the morning,
and then we would do enough coke
in the afternoon
to kill a small horse.
by nature she is a silly girl,
this is the reason I am saying this
to paper, internet and forever:
because she soaps her sleeves,
joyous and damning,
washing me away.
Fang Drawing
feeling good.
like a cobra killed.
with loose blood.
to be drank.
by tourists of my heart.
you ask.
what I mean.
I mean the world.
is made of loose seams.
even looser dreams.
I thank on that.
and her crimson cries.
from the past's petrichor.
under skies that didn't.
know why.
feeling good.
artistic in chicken dick skin.
with the bones of my soul.
left out.
to show and tell.
I wait.
in the middle.
of miracles.
for my turn.
paying with my jugular.
like a cobra killed.
with loose blood.
to be drank.
by tourists of my heart.
you ask.
what I mean.
I mean the world.
is made of loose seams.
even looser dreams.
I thank on that.
and her crimson cries.
from the past's petrichor.
under skies that didn't.
know why.
feeling good.
artistic in chicken dick skin.
with the bones of my soul.
left out.
to show and tell.
I wait.
in the middle.
of miracles.
for my turn.
paying with my jugular.
Donuts & Coffee Behind a Church in Santa Monica
I’ve seen death
And it was me,
An asshole
Now an honest sponsor.
The issueless pews
Used for round the empty fountain
Fuck off discussion.
I’ve fooled many
Into thinking I am
A thoughtful young man,
But I ain’t young.
I hate people
Yet love gatherings
And not collecting records yet.
It must be tough
To see me in the mirror.
And it was me,
An asshole
Now an honest sponsor.
The issueless pews
Used for round the empty fountain
Fuck off discussion.
I’ve fooled many
Into thinking I am
A thoughtful young man,
But I ain’t young.
I hate people
Yet love gatherings
And not collecting records yet.
It must be tough
To see me in the mirror.
Loud Mountains
sweet yet rigid,
sharp yet serenading,
such singing is praise
for the way we play.
you can scoop me up,
am I in the middle
of the question mark dark,
or the light of an exclamation point?
sure hope it is
ellipses from here on out,
because I want the mountains
to shout at me for a little longer.
Just Browsing
Somebody left a grocery list
in this cart and it reads as follows:
card for mom, vinegar, sponge, maybe wafers for later
The handwriting was nice
and I made up an entire life
for this person.
I want to know them,
as God is my witness.
in this cart and it reads as follows:
card for mom, vinegar, sponge, maybe wafers for later
The handwriting was nice
and I made up an entire life
for this person.
I want to know them,
as God is my witness.
Lack Thereof
could've been anything:
a sober night in the symphony grass,
hard work and a song,
the thought of leaving everything behind,
but that quarter-after eight morning
was filled with nothing excitement.
maybe it was inspiration,
maybe it was happiness,
but it was something
that rarely shows its beautiful riot,
a constellation revealing itself
with aftermath, and ten stars later.
even the rumbler ride was nice,
and it reminded me
of that one mighty night
in mistreated Montreal,
where it came and went,
like a desperate shark in a calm sea.
it will be in this rare moment
that I wish to live forever,
like me feet walk with rhythm
and I smile for no reason,
as if just being
was briefly enough.
and then it's gone,
leaving me in a Duane Reade parking lot,
like a hitchhiker in its wake,
settling for the deodorant aisle,
buying nothing but stinky searching
for it again.
a sober night in the symphony grass,
hard work and a song,
the thought of leaving everything behind,
but that quarter-after eight morning
was filled with nothing excitement.
maybe it was inspiration,
maybe it was happiness,
but it was something
that rarely shows its beautiful riot,
a constellation revealing itself
with aftermath, and ten stars later.
even the rumbler ride was nice,
and it reminded me
of that one mighty night
in mistreated Montreal,
where it came and went,
like a desperate shark in a calm sea.
it will be in this rare moment
that I wish to live forever,
like me feet walk with rhythm
and I smile for no reason,
as if just being
was briefly enough.
and then it's gone,
leaving me in a Duane Reade parking lot,
like a hitchhiker in its wake,
settling for the deodorant aisle,
buying nothing but stinky searching
for it again.
Poem
I brush my teeth at the beach
every morning.
then I hide the toothbrush in the sand.
for Sandra to find.
when she is volunteering.
to clean up the beach.
I carve poems.
into the plastic tooth brush.
in hopes that she finds it.
or a shark uses it.
it was free from the dentist.
don't get mad, concrete is litter, too.
Carry Away My Words
I sent a letter to West 24th street,
hope all is well in that world.
Adam Santiago got a cartoon caption in the New Yorker.
My name was in it in 2008
for just a poetry show in the basement
of Cornelia Street Cafe;
same thing appeared in the Village Voice.
No other claim to fame,
even the books I wrote
go unread by their subjects
as well as my friends and family.
history has its revenge
and hopefully mine will be hatchet-worthy,
to the heart and its casket chest.
I have a new job
teaching poetry
to cancer patients
and folks affected with PTSD;
they hate me.
even Mr. Miyagi
made the Karate Kid mad
with muscle memory
disguised as chores.
I sent a postcard
of a waterfall to West 24th street,
I miss you.
honey rock dawn
this year has been intense already,
so I took the month of March off
just writing and gardening,
digging for music and worms.
I recently remembered
how much I love the smell
of mornings, especially
rainy ones like today.
sipping coffee in silence,
has its perks (get it?)
and even though it ain't Keto,
I am eating cookies and cold pizza for breakfast.
life is decent
in the dining room,
and the flood waters
are receding.
I howled away the grey
and now I sit like a hipster Plato,
thinking about time and patience, love and death,
and each honey rock dawn.
so I took the month of March off
just writing and gardening,
digging for music and worms.
I recently remembered
how much I love the smell
of mornings, especially
rainy ones like today.
sipping coffee in silence,
has its perks (get it?)
and even though it ain't Keto,
I am eating cookies and cold pizza for breakfast.
life is decent
in the dining room,
and the flood waters
are receding.
I howled away the grey
and now I sit like a hipster Plato,
thinking about time and patience, love and death,
and each honey rock dawn.
Support Your Local Sunrise
an armchair on the beach
just before daybreak.
a leaf with holes in it,
the parts of which
were eaten by a discerning caterpillar.
and now you can see
the rays of the rising sun
through said leaf holes.
a dead deer
under telephone poles
before wolves or buzzards
begin to circle.
all the frost
that has come at a cost.
the trees are upside down
in the lake
which is parallel to the sea.
and the worst part
about being scared
is not being able to explain why.
the last time
will be forever.
just before daybreak.
a leaf with holes in it,
the parts of which
were eaten by a discerning caterpillar.
and now you can see
the rays of the rising sun
through said leaf holes.
a dead deer
under telephone poles
before wolves or buzzards
begin to circle.
all the frost
that has come at a cost.
the trees are upside down
in the lake
which is parallel to the sea.
and the worst part
about being scared
is not being able to explain why.
the last time
will be forever.
Tina Santa Fe
philosophically,
blue skies turn black
all the time,
especially for a teenager
plus 18 more years.
that's right,
I am still a kid
up there
in my noodle of emotion,
but time disagrees,
because I can count to 36.
she was a seamstress,
a waitress,
a hipster,
a slut,
a spy,
who put me in my place
and time.
it was just a weekend,
but it will last forever
in pages, poems and pondering
the one lesson learned,
maybe two,
because this was the second guess:
aim for the head,
baby,
I have no heart.
blue skies turn black
all the time,
especially for a teenager
plus 18 more years.
that's right,
I am still a kid
up there
in my noodle of emotion,
but time disagrees,
because I can count to 36.
she was a seamstress,
a waitress,
a hipster,
a slut,
a spy,
who put me in my place
and time.
it was just a weekend,
but it will last forever
in pages, poems and pondering
the one lesson learned,
maybe two,
because this was the second guess:
aim for the head,
baby,
I have no heart.
Windbone Slash Aurora
this is a 9.0 earthquake.
something people should coin.
heartbreak everywhere.
something really just happened.
scroll up.
scroll down.
scroll til your fucking fingerprints fall off.
love like this is proof.
a philosophy that most people don't have the sack to live.
just like that; plain and the opposite of simple.
hurricanes have eyes.
to see where they are going.
earthquakes do not.
so they sneak kill your dumb, distracted heart.
something people should coin.
heartbreak everywhere.
something really just happened.
scroll up.
scroll down.
scroll til your fucking fingerprints fall off.
love like this is proof.
a philosophy that most people don't have the sack to live.
just like that; plain and the opposite of simple.
hurricanes have eyes.
to see where they are going.
earthquakes do not.
so they sneak kill your dumb, distracted heart.
How to Care for a Happy Person
buy a burrito,
put it in the mail.?
take them to the mall
on a Tuesday noon and show
them what real sadness looks like.
blankets, lots of blankets?
I've eaten enough sunrises
to know the moon.
And that is when you make
happiness a mission of night
with knives.
pillows, lots of pointless throw pillows?
it's a losing battle
if you really float on it,
and I have been drowning
for a while.
drugs?
but if you look at the upside trees
in the lake,
you will catch a glimpse
of the other side
of the curtain rod.
buy a chocolate chip cookie.
and mail it to a celebrity?
I don’t know how to deal with happy people,
only sad bastards like myself;
happy people make me nervous.
"And u are my...Billy Idol."
he says to me via Facebook,
and I thank him
for liking the poems
and especially for telling me
which lines specifically
radiate with him
in his world.
while poetry makes zero money,
it is invaluable to the the one
heart it may tap,
like a keg that has been
dropped out a window,
ready to burst
and soak the crowd
of a house party
that is about to be
broken up by parents or cops.
whether it is a friend
or a stanger girl in a bar
on Bleecker street,
an Instagram hashtag
or a restaurant in Glendale, CA
that has your sticker
on its register...
connecting poetry to person
never grows old
or ceases to amaze me
or any creator for that matter.
if you are an artist,
and you become disillusioned
or unceremoniously benign
to folks fawning over
or just appreciating your work,
you should quit now,
because the spark is gone
from your lips
and it most likely will not return.
because I don't rocknroll,
and I don't paint people with brush strokes,
I thank the dumb lucky stars
for the one or two times
a person has said anything about my work,
sweet or ill.
and I thank him
for liking the poems
and especially for telling me
which lines specifically
radiate with him
in his world.
while poetry makes zero money,
it is invaluable to the the one
heart it may tap,
like a keg that has been
dropped out a window,
ready to burst
and soak the crowd
of a house party
that is about to be
broken up by parents or cops.
whether it is a friend
or a stanger girl in a bar
on Bleecker street,
an Instagram hashtag
or a restaurant in Glendale, CA
that has your sticker
on its register...
connecting poetry to person
never grows old
or ceases to amaze me
or any creator for that matter.
if you are an artist,
and you become disillusioned
or unceremoniously benign
to folks fawning over
or just appreciating your work,
you should quit now,
because the spark is gone
from your lips
and it most likely will not return.
because I don't rocknroll,
and I don't paint people with brush strokes,
I thank the dumb lucky stars
for the one or two times
a person has said anything about my work,
sweet or ill.
Thin Mints & Trefoils
I buy a box of Girl Scout Cookies
on my way out of the market.
Back at the railroad apartment,
I eat them all in one sitting.
Then I put on a record
and dance around the pseudo living room.
on my way out of the market.
Back at the railroad apartment,
I eat them all in one sitting.
Then I put on a record
and dance around the pseudo living room.
Saint-Louis Square
the sultry days of summer,
in which the afternoons
are acrid but humming
with cool crowds
and birds back for more...
or the empty white winter mornings,
with footpaths carved in the snow
from workday weirdos and squirrels,
blinding back the gray sky
for universal vendettas
from long before my time...
oh these journeys, searching,
wayward and perfect
for finding the right tea towel
to take you through the cold months
or a good quick love
to inspire you through autumn.
in which the afternoons
are acrid but humming
with cool crowds
and birds back for more...
or the empty white winter mornings,
with footpaths carved in the snow
from workday weirdos and squirrels,
blinding back the gray sky
for universal vendettas
from long before my time...
oh these journeys, searching,
wayward and perfect
for finding the right tea towel
to take you through the cold months
or a good quick love
to inspire you through autumn.
I'm in love with laughter
and then the bark
of bent trees
broke,
falling into my tea.
and the cedar took
a god to trial
only to dance
of death.
and the dirt
we made
and the rocks
we made.
and the love
we made.
and the mess
we made.
it's all funny.
it's all hilarious.
it's all laundry detergent.
Poem
My reprieve
is a preamble of
what's to come.
Sometimes, my life
is in thrall to Kali
the Hindu goddess of destruction.
Often strangling
the days away,
two at a time.
is a preamble of
what's to come.
Sometimes, my life
is in thrall to Kali
the Hindu goddess of destruction.
Often strangling
the days away,
two at a time.
The Taste of Tomorrow from Today’s Terrible Appetizer
Three blood red lines
Running down the nail
Of my middle finger.
I️ am 500 of something away
from giving up on anything.
Never will I️ Be
that savior Sonofabitch,
because I️ will always be
a Hatchet left in the woods
just outside of town.
Sweating down a dream
that shrinks with age and days,
even commas don’t have my back anymore.
where have the good question marks gone?
I’m sick and getting better at being sick,
but it is not what you think, dear compatriot.
Even lions weep.
The last poem doesn’t count
just as yesterday’s anxieties
shouldn't affect today’s dreams,
but they do and it’s all about how you deal with it all.
I️ don’t.
I️ don’t.
I️ do.
I️ dance.
I️ dig.
Days are hiccups,
and humans are hearts,
attacked.
Running down the nail
Of my middle finger.
I️ am 500 of something away
from giving up on anything.
Never will I️ Be
that savior Sonofabitch,
because I️ will always be
a Hatchet left in the woods
just outside of town.
Sweating down a dream
that shrinks with age and days,
even commas don’t have my back anymore.
where have the good question marks gone?
I’m sick and getting better at being sick,
but it is not what you think, dear compatriot.
Even lions weep.
The last poem doesn’t count
just as yesterday’s anxieties
shouldn't affect today’s dreams,
but they do and it’s all about how you deal with it all.
I️ don’t.
I️ don’t.
I️ do.
I️ dance.
I️ dig.
Days are hiccups,
and humans are hearts,
attacked.
a verite documentary of selves
It’s a truism that books help us
imagine our way
into other people’s lives.
I hope my books do that;
not necessarily me.
Of all the lives
all of us have lived,
the current one
is the most important,
most pressing,
most promising.
I hope I am shelved
somewhere names
become flames.
Don't tell anyone about this,
because I will deny it
until the day I die.
However,
the books I just mailed,presents and promotion
seem to find the right
person or that person passes
it along to the right person.
Welp, Shit...
I was going to change
up
the theme, colors, etc.
of this blog,
make it all black,
except for white words
and titles,
but it's being a pain
in the ass,
so I am going to bed,
and, like love, pretend this
never happened.
up
the theme, colors, etc.
of this blog,
make it all black,
except for white words
and titles,
but it's being a pain
in the ass,
so I am going to bed,
and, like love, pretend this
never happened.
Poem
sipping coffee
with a Sufjan Stevens soundtrack,
assessing the morning,
considering cleaning,
after smoking.
make the bed,
slowly.
with a Sufjan Stevens soundtrack,
assessing the morning,
considering cleaning,
after smoking.
make the bed,
slowly.
Where's Neil Young When You Need Him?
Along the way, we also trace the winding path
like the edited excerpts of letters
written on bar napkins and kissed.
My first was with a girl named Jessica,
and I was grateful.
Through sugar cane
and circling mountains,
we bop and hope,
like boxers
before the big fight.
But the fight never comes,
not more than a bootleg,
from some river.
Toy trains still tell us
where to go,
at least me
and my Roman shadows.
Visual field disturbances
and renewed commitments,
this is how we roam clever.
My first death scare,
happened many times.
My first life scare, once.
Give me a raincheck,
before the white snow.
like the edited excerpts of letters
written on bar napkins and kissed.
My first was with a girl named Jessica,
and I was grateful.
Through sugar cane
and circling mountains,
we bop and hope,
like boxers
before the big fight.
But the fight never comes,
not more than a bootleg,
from some river.
Toy trains still tell us
where to go,
at least me
and my Roman shadows.
Visual field disturbances
and renewed commitments,
this is how we roam clever.
My first death scare,
happened many times.
My first life scare, once.
Give me a raincheck,
before the white snow.
Staying Over in Brooklyn
used to be code
for sex.
what youth!
road sodas of
Rumbler rum,
tons of fun.
I have more energy
in art now, though,
especially with a clear pond
in which to reflect,
take it all
and mix it up
into memories, milestones,
muses or mistakes.
lots of smells
are now time machines,
but anxiety has changed,
like the way we talked
placed on my smile.
I'll dream of
the Music Hall tonight,
Manhattan mornings,
where heads seemed to burst,
balloons in hands,
the whole scene in throw pillows,
until Burger King
and unreturned textmessages.
it's all so romantic,
especially the leaving.
for sex.
what youth!
road sodas of
Rumbler rum,
tons of fun.
I have more energy
in art now, though,
especially with a clear pond
in which to reflect,
take it all
and mix it up
into memories, milestones,
muses or mistakes.
lots of smells
are now time machines,
but anxiety has changed,
like the way we talked
placed on my smile.
I'll dream of
the Music Hall tonight,
Manhattan mornings,
where heads seemed to burst,
balloons in hands,
the whole scene in throw pillows,
until Burger King
and unreturned textmessages.
it's all so romantic,
especially the leaving.
Voices from the Volcano
teaching poetry
to addicts, assholes,
a dude named Alex,
all awesome writers
and a good way
to see stories burn
right before my eyes.
it's hot and dangerous,
but I love it more
than money or most things,
because of the needles
with which it pricks
and sticks my soul,
making it bleed
like never before.
tales of lying love,
lunacy left over from other lives,
cancer, cures, and admissions,
my eyes are wide
to the world
when I am in that room
with those weirdos.
they all leap
into the lava,
without a nudge
and I feel honored
that they sacrifice
virgin words with me.
to addicts, assholes,
a dude named Alex,
all awesome writers
and a good way
to see stories burn
right before my eyes.
it's hot and dangerous,
but I love it more
than money or most things,
because of the needles
with which it pricks
and sticks my soul,
making it bleed
like never before.
tales of lying love,
lunacy left over from other lives,
cancer, cures, and admissions,
my eyes are wide
to the world
when I am in that room
with those weirdos.
they all leap
into the lava,
without a nudge
and I feel honored
that they sacrifice
virgin words with me.
How do you get two violas to play in tune? Shoot one.
There is a good chance
that I will
love you
or hate you,
no in between.
Just agree with me,
for the sake of the jokes
at the expense
of everyone
else.
I hate people,
but I love gatherings,
what a weird contradiction
to acknowledge at midnight
in the kitchen.
Curtain call,
the rope is silent,
and I just want
to eat the sky
and wait for Easter.
that I will
love you
or hate you,
no in between.
Just agree with me,
for the sake of the jokes
at the expense
of everyone
else.
I hate people,
but I love gatherings,
what a weird contradiction
to acknowledge at midnight
in the kitchen.
Curtain call,
the rope is silent,
and I just want
to eat the sky
and wait for Easter.
Hanging a Painting
I'm hip,
or I think so.
Cool is a state of mind,
right?
I'm wearing a Primus shirt,
drinking an iced latte.
I have tattoos,
and a beard.
But I also like throw pillows
and Taylor Swift.
But my back hurts
and this is a vanilla iced latte.
Cool is a state of mind,
I am tired.
Skating with the Leaf (P.O.V.O.L.)
She had a Chelsea haircut,
the kind punk chicks rocked
in London of the 80s.
She wore it well,
same with her silence
and anger.
We rode our boards
from the back of the tattoo/record shop.
to the broken bottle beach.
I want to go with her
back to Seville
and see what she sees.
At the Gaf,
we quietly drank coffee,
living in our own guilty parties.
Elvis plays over the juke,
she plays footsy with me,
and I wonder what I look like from her point of view of life.
Later, our hotel hearts
hiding naked from the rain,
never having said more than two words to each other.
But we understood
that lonely doesn't always
mean lonesomeness.
the kind punk chicks rocked
in London of the 80s.
She wore it well,
same with her silence
and anger.
We rode our boards
from the back of the tattoo/record shop.
to the broken bottle beach.
I want to go with her
back to Seville
and see what she sees.
At the Gaf,
we quietly drank coffee,
living in our own guilty parties.
Elvis plays over the juke,
she plays footsy with me,
and I wonder what I look like from her point of view of life.
Later, our hotel hearts
hiding naked from the rain,
never having said more than two words to each other.
But we understood
that lonely doesn't always
mean lonesomeness.
Song
Verse:
underneath the skin of New York,
we owned the night,
love and drugs,
those Willytowne lights.
Brooklyn beat the shit outta me,
ten summers in a row,
where I worked my ass off,
but and she will never know.
and it's weird to think
about where time goes,
where is Vernon,
nobody knows.
Chorus:
I'm on the good side of living
but the bad side of coming back,
will I be Dylan Thomas
or have a heart attack.
We all dance
in funny sunsets,
We must remember to
enjoy the regrets.
Verse:
roll me a cigarette
for old time's sake.
we'll go see an indie band
on a roof in Bushwick.
so many doors ago,
maybe we took a wrong turn,
maybe we took a right burn,
not dead yet, no sir.
Chorus:
I am on the good side of living,
but the bad side of coming back,
except the peacock,
all her tattoos were black.
We all dance
in funny sunsets,
We must remember to
enjoy the regrets.
Verse:
Not every day
is your last,
but it turns into the past
real fast.
And I don't
know what to do,
but sing these songs
and hope you hear them, too.
*the song ends with the train audio and 'Next Stop Bedford Ave'
Be Mighty or Be Still
Sober 5, Drunk 7.
Can't hear out of my left ear.
Maybe war.
Woke up at 4:05
this fucking morning.
Jerked off in hopes
to fall back to sleep.
Came, but couldn't.
Ended up editing Eric's
late show media packet
on the toilet.
Who the hell is keeping score?
Can't hear out of my left ear.
Maybe war.
Woke up at 4:05
this fucking morning.
Jerked off in hopes
to fall back to sleep.
Came, but couldn't.
Ended up editing Eric's
late show media packet
on the toilet.
Who the hell is keeping score?
Hit Somebody
little me, happy tattoos.
dreaming of Texas.
only been there once.
wrote my best friend's number.
all over Austin.
Roy Orbison's face.
Like cypress on the hillside.
a feather in my hat.
a hair in my mouth.
wannabe winter.
makes me want real winter.
this is sub-mix inspiration.
repetition of fate's first gamble.
music and counting coughs.
and trying to believe in time travel.
tattle tales and honest poetry.
like dream songs.
a cup of coffee long.
tramp stamps at the post office.
while buying stamps to send anonymous letters.
to anonymous people from the past.
me? I am fine. just confused at the making.
I mean. I guess I am fine.
times negative seven.
never been good at math.
hate the sound of loud yawns.
moving on.
wishing for another parade.
so I stand in a river.
take a photo for Instagram.
dreaming of Texas.
only been there once.
wrote my best friend's number.
all over Austin.
Roy Orbison's face.
Like cypress on the hillside.
a feather in my hat.
a hair in my mouth.
wannabe winter.
makes me want real winter.
this is sub-mix inspiration.
repetition of fate's first gamble.
music and counting coughs.
and trying to believe in time travel.
tattle tales and honest poetry.
like dream songs.
a cup of coffee long.
tramp stamps at the post office.
while buying stamps to send anonymous letters.
to anonymous people from the past.
me? I am fine. just confused at the making.
I mean. I guess I am fine.
times negative seven.
never been good at math.
hate the sound of loud yawns.
moving on.
wishing for another parade.
so I stand in a river.
take a photo for Instagram.
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