the lonely
in brooklyn
ride single speed
bicycles
through early summer night
full of bridges
flirting hard
with fat red moons

to dinner parties
where everyone
helps
cook

saw a photo
saw myself
next to a giant
plastic
cactus
at south of the boarder
thought of yr sad smile
thought of every
girl and boy
i drove far away with
thought of america
in the rain

there was a feeling
on a highway
in the freedom
of the wind
between points on a map

northern brooklyn
sad rain balcony
afternoon
bleeds into evening

hipsters and mexican mechanics
drink beer inside
from glass bottles

they meticulously
disect
kafka as if he
had changed
into the roach
analyzing
lines and names and
word order
assembling
critical essays
or end notes

performing
a romance-ectomy
of academics
as they say everything
left
un
said

and reaffirm
the line between writer and critic

under a
fat enough
moon
the world's calm
is unifying

we are all specs
drifting
in the hopeless
currents of sky

moving with
the worldly weight
of an artist
on her
uniformed
shoulders

she reminds
that destiny
is a sarcasm

One star, bright lights
below all but drowned out,
fixed watchfully in place

The Vacation

I was in Ft. Lauderdale
drinking in a cheap motel bar
the fans had misters
spraying damp air at the clientele
trying to beat the humidity
the bartender was a gorgeous blond
older than she looked
and as the night was ending she eyed me
so I lit her a smoke
and asked her name
'Grenadine'

so fake names and bullshit stories
brought her to my suite
ten beers and some pot she smoked
got us on the floor
at the bed side
I laid down a quilted blanket
and we got to it
she was scratchy/rough and pleading
for bite marks
I facilitated all requests
she dug her heels into my back upon climax
and we smoked
hours with wine on the floor
and as she smiled and took my hand
I had a fisherman's blade
and I put it in her neck

her pupils went wide and she got serious
her hands spelled words and thoughts
I was sparking up my last menthol
as she clutched at the spewing wound
I looked and smiled
told her she was beautiful
and killed a corona bottle quickly
she was burping blood
it matched her lipstick magically
and as the wound's gush lessend
she was clutching at the sheets on the bed
graffitto-tagging them with bloody hand prints
and I pressed my smoke into the pillow

the morning came as I sat poolside
with the finest singapore sling
check out's nearing but I'm all packed
all I need is a real feeling
as I enter the room the cleaning crew's leaving
Luis grabs my arm
says, "your chica's on cycle"
I mouth a 'yes' and yawn
the quilted blanket from the floor
crumpled in my luggage
I grab a cab and fix my shades
an hour at the air port bar
then take off has me saved

The Will and Testament

fry me up a last meal
let it be greasy, hot, and dripping
fix me up a last drink
make it a double; I'm not sipping
knock me down one time
'cause you got this one last chance
split my lip tonight
knock me loose of this trance
cut yourself and accuse me
break a bone and say my name
kill a loved one you don't love
put my prints on blades for blame
I'll take all the vices
I'll take all the sin
I'm walking off set finally
I don't really need the win
I've been dark, vague, and despserate
I've been one long bitter tale
so clean me up when I go still
but lay my epitaph out in brail

A Beautiful Thumping

this big funk sound
has us in dance seizure
flipping legs and bouncing elbows
and between sips we make time
to casually kiss
like it means nothing
maybe it doesn't
maybe my radar's fucked
but eye see you eyeing
I see the color in your cheeks
when I slide my fingers over yours
and your smile is high and giant
your an evolution on this floor
a higher being to which we must adapt
and the stragglers have our pity
but you're no top shelf elitist
you're no Coach bag hanger
you are eyes and mind
and words over words
and no one can pay enough
to buy a better trait

Diana

If I could find you now
I'd tell you that all we had
was just as precious to me
if I could bring you up
like out of a dream
or a thought
you'd be that first sight
like you were in the park
while I was drinking milk
writing on my porch
looking like a dick
you'd be new and undiscovered
I'd be curious and unbroken
by the cynicism of a man living
this short drag life
and I'd once again
offer you my hand
and we'd walk six more miles

I call it Voiceterbating

I'll hum and click and sing for hours
keeping my fingers busy
dice or jewelry
loose change and trinkets


humming clicking
playing with the sounds, holding them

mouth
throat
chest
nose

nonsensical syllables
chopped up and delivered
into rhythms
that go on for minutes
that wind along like lifetimes
and get shot through
with bursts of birdsong,
crystallized howlings
and whooping exclamations of joy or regret


I couldn't tell you what I'm thinking
starring blankly at busy fingers
dice or jewelry
loose change and trinkets
voiceterbating

Plea to the Popular Universe

a little mercy, please
just a little mercy
on your latest violent offender
I've never set out
to leave anyone in pain
it's always meant to be
blunt
swift
and ending
a little mercy, please
a little mercy
for the hopelessly lost
I've not found anywhere
where I felt I might stay
I've not screamed
to be taken back anywhere
all I ask
a little mercy, please
while I continue
to destroy myself

hangover,
breakfast sandwich,
Barry Manilow

jukebox blasting classic rock
dancin'
drunken chatter and laughs

it doesn't matter if we
hardly hear
each other's
whiskey scented words

baby,
it's our eyes that are doin'
all the talkin'

those lonely Brunz nights

the record stops playin'
candle lights fade
just a drop of wine
in the bottle

i take
one last drag of my cigarette
stretch out across the floor
and the stillness
of the room
slowly seeps in

waiting waiting wanting waiting

A still shot torn
left on the cutting room floor
cigarettes on your voice

Small Wonder

a tiny ship on a vast
expansive sea
sometimes there are
many ships
usually there are not
sometimes the weather is golden
often it is not
sometimes the roundness
of the world is made apparent
and sunlight makes the water a mirror
of heaven
holy and reflective and transforming
but usually it is just lonely

To prevent the moon from disappearing
Stare at the moon
Never blink when others are blinking
and always think
about the moon

idiom anthology of volumes 3 and 4

So i've begun making the idiom anthology volumes 3 and 4.
I'll probably make calls anyway but if anyone wants a new bio put in this book email it to me. and if you weren't in the last one send me a bio because yer probably in this one. theidiommag@yahoo.com

Im hoping it will be out by the fall and will have a book release party and if you wanna read at it let me know.

I will still be drunk when I wake up

I will greet the morrows sun like an absent lover
and welcome it with tea and silence
like a tired friend
hanging on

stood on the edge
and curled her toes
if the wind came by
it'd cut her loose....

When I am too drunk and missplaced
I put on your shoes
walk around a bit
and we become pieces
no one yet has eyes for
forgotten
walking
home again

tis better to be thought a crackpot than to open your mouth and drop a fucking a bomb

pardon the interuption, this will take all of your remaining time, but leave you shaddowed reminders of what men are capable of undoing. spoil all your genius, let it fester rot roam aimless, your better off reminding yourself that you did the right thing when no one knows what you did. free form kentucky moon corn from a thrice used jar scored with too few x's will keep your ideas warm while the rest of the world keeps on moving along trying to sample the happiness on your tongue, al who, theyd say, and you could relax knowing all the explosive treasures locked in your head belonged to you and wouldn't be out sourced to extravagent cities in japan.

They had their chance
to clip yr wings

It's a Saturday
in June
and the sun scorched the
brightest parts of the sky.
I felt my way along
the cold, splintered ground.

It's morning and yr blood pumps
thick into this weighted tissue.
Your limbs jerk in pneumatic motion.
The sun is beautiful but deadly,
wreaking havoc over
the morning commute.

It's noon and I'm begging for change.
Just today's worth. Just to get me
through until I can maintain.
This is the end of the world,
what better time to stand
on ceremony. You may still
have a flag to raise. You may
still see heights to
ratchet yourself up
towards. I'm a civil
servant struggling to keep
the peace.
I'm a box truck driver, loaded
with jewels being smuggled
in the pocket, then right towards
the river.

Some of these guns are loaded
and others just feel heavy.
Next door they're taking
side bets on Judgment Day.
The sun keeps bleeding a little
farther down the line.

Provenance

The Ocean claims provenance of potential to be a never ending vision linking lands and providing a platform to float until the madness recedes into the past and each day renews itself as dawn turns night over to the new day fLOT

2.23.ten Santa Cruz, CA

One By Three

One By Three

I’m not that type writer

Deleting doubts

Selecting emotional sure-shots

More like I’d subject you

Into celebrating natural selection

Focused directions westerly intimating

Tables hold things and chairs hold people

Ideally, one page feeds at a time

Avoiding jams of traffic, raspberry and paper

And fish of cats and dogs and

Monks with bowls turned up or down

Permeating skin surface dreaming

Under all the misconceived ideas

I have ever imagined inside one dream

Or one day of calamity clamoring through

Then no more ever

Only questions without fear of retired retributed

Crossed purposes and redirected ingredients

Listed one by one because

nothing is ever one by two or

one by three

sitting standing walking lying

on a rug, like a rug

cutting said carpet with culinary academics

cleaned up or corrupted out

if you like misdirection

I am her leader

Clearer and without all the insincere

Without tears and with a sense of

Urgent sense of common matter

Not tense or insensitive

I’m culminating months like

A sandman makes glass

Sculpturing air into wind

Pine into knots

And would be’s into yesses

I’m fulminating right now

Jumping silently writing down how

And if indeed you need to follow

Choose yourself

Empower the hollow feeling

That never burns

Spark the fire

Inside your own belly

I’m not that type writer

Flot ------------- 5.9.77, I mean ten

For Rainy Days

I’m loose change

at the bottom of your purse.

You keep me in a jar

above your bed or

behind your bedroom door,

only taking me out and

cashing me in

when I’m needed.

Or maybe you

forget about me

lying on the floor

of your passenger seat

as you drive out of town

or go out for a night

drinking with your friends.

I’m crumbs

at the bottom of the bag.

When you’re really hungry or

when you’re really high,

you turn the bag upside down,

ingesting all of me;

chewing me up into a pulp,

washing me down with

wine or

beer

or diet soda.

I’m your favorite movie.

You tell everyone about me.

You remember the lines

I spoke and you

repeat them,

never getting them quite right.

Or lying alone in your bed

on a night when you’re bored,

you take me out,

laughing at the right moments;

crying when it’s your turn.

I’m your old pair of shoes.

You tie me together

by my laces.

You leave me

on a clothesline or

in the corner of your closet.

We have too many

great memories;

too many miles

traveled together;

too many nights

soaked in alcohol and

dance-floor sweat.

You can’t just throw me away.

You need me here

to show people;

to tell them what we’ve seen.

I’m the love-letter

you got in high school.

You keep me in the box

on a shelf in your closet.

Maybe I’m under the bed.

When you feel ugly;

when you feel lonely or

upset, you go to your closet;

you kneel down,

lift up the apron

and reach blindly,

feeling for the place where I’m resting.

You crack open the top,

almost expecting the contents to glow

like the soul of Marcellus Wallice.

You cry when you read me,

whispering the words on

my pages so low, that you

can hardly hear them, yourself.

And you’re left there

wondering how someone

could have loved you so much

and how you ever could have let them go.

a tweet

wine drunk face flush

Some people swim gracefully through the calm waves
while I wade
awkwardly
each thread of the wet hairs on my head intertwine
and all the beautiful curls I desperately try to hide
finally shine
boldly
like the mid-summer sun

Doing imaginary favors for strangers

in an empty super market
super well lit
I smile
you shyly smile
and for such a small while
our eyes

but besides that
I catalog your face
and your pear and that place
late in a super market
when the produce misters go off

you wear red well
and like pears
brown eyes, hair and pale
it was only for a little while
our eyes

Walking away without consequence
buying single servings

I don't like the way that you move: Spider Tim
I don't like the way
your arms buckle and your legs crack
I don't trust the way that you swing
your big gray sack on your big stupid back
I don't like the way you move
spider Tim

That Thesailie Sim

Thesailie Sim took thirteen days
to get to the bottom of the big red gorge
Stomping on Shrubs and snakes
letting his beard get long

He chewed on the end of an ugly empty pipe
The pipe was black with teeth marks on it
his teeth were white with pipe marks on them
and he smelled just terrible

The Frankin-lover

He is a gauze wrapped mummy
A hackneyed premise
tilting and lumbering
ungraciously towards me
with both arms out
like a big dumb equals sign

Still sweating something out
Perhaps the pounds you've added onto this heart
To make it heavier than rock
So I'm weighted and chained down
Instead of feather light with love
I'm a tethered stone falling to the earth
A kiss on impact
Cannon balls and heart attacks

moving on

I could become some mans way 
To carry on his fathers name
Is that what love is?
Animal instinct
My blood and your blood 
Making new flesh
For old bones

We were higher then we've ever been
Counting time with cigarettes
The stars are just reflections
Your smile, burning embers,
Dieing fires, simple pleasures
Another day you won't remember

Motels with high ceilings
Kissing while we're sleeping
The weather outside teeming
might've well been dreaming

Another bridge, a flooded street
Caught off guard, don't claim defeat
We could drown here on this island
If we can't find a way off it
Anyway I'd be just fine with that

The parkway, turnpike, leaving
Elevators, trains, revolving doors in
New York city, saintly wisdom
Graffiti bumps and king pins
Sneaking into buildings
Singing, smiling, let me down again
Get me outta here
Let me outta here

I just want to be
back in your passenger seat

Two people sit in a room saying nothing to one another
Their silence is thick and tence like thunderstorm weather
They don't even bother 
He doesn't touch her she's afraid to touch him
Some things should have ended long ago
Some things should never begin

Turquoise Turned The Turtle's Head

Turquoise Turned the Turtle’s Head

Turquoise turned the turtle’s head

Dog-like in conveying his lack of understanding

The beauty of this jewelry

He slowly passes and

It’s nothing like this turtle has ever seen before

Perpetually slow, saved and surreal

Forever remembered

The first fragile time

Turquoise turned his mind

Slow to speak

The turtle turned his turtle head

Slow to speak and turning he slowly said

“This stone I see

Commands my attention

I am connecting to it

Like no other connection”

Turquoise, turtle, time and place

Turtle, turquoise and a slow pace

Like some example of rapt attention

Focusing on a certain selection

A slice of sunshine in a slow, slow life

2.10.ten

The Bass Rhythm to Being Belittled

I got another piece of maybe
it's stuck to my shoe
she said, " today is your day
I got tools just for you."
and we were dancing and hopping
and leaving the street
for our heads and our hearts
and the reasons beneath
so when I fell backward ugly
and I injured my head
she sipped at her dry wine
said," you're hurt or you're dead."
I never told her how much I'd agree
but she danced her little seminar
all over me
and when the walls were shaking
and the pictures fell down
she was clawing and quaking
I was pinned to the ground
the noise fell off
in the cold of the night
so when she lit me a smoke
my chest got so tight
I tossed my pants
up on the bed
I was searching my pockets
for my mouth or my head
that's when the bathroom door
stole the room's only light
I took a drag from my cigarette
stepped into the night
as I stepped over cracks
and hopped over curbs
she was under my hat
with all her sharp little words
and I could swear the street lights
were burning me blind
everything that I'd lost
all that I'll never find
beneath the smog and rain
and the pain of a night
where a girl crushed my conflict
and fractured my fight

The Trick

"bang on the table hard enough
and every one will be listening."
she always had a way of making
my passion seem stupid
she could always cut me right on the vein
until I just started breaking things
a trick I picked up from the old man
toss plates against the wall
smash the mirror with the lamp
then breathe
angry heavy in the silence
now she's dying for it
now she needs to know
what pearls I've got tonight
and that's where we leave it
you can't whore yourself
that's when you look her in the eye
tilt your head a bit
" how late does that chinese joint deliver?"
try and cut that up, sweetness

Heaven

I was in this joint
downing my shitty beer before it got too warm
when a man next to me said
" I'M IN HEAVEN."
so I looked around
If heaven is in a filthy strip club
where the fuck is hell?
heaven is where you're over charged
for beer
and anything else, really
and dick teased for hours
with no satisfaction in sight
girls with c-section scars
pretending to love you
until you're broke
or broken
heaven

I'm fascinated by people
but most people
I've noticed
most people aren't really fascinated
by much
most people want to be told
told what they're interested in
what they care about
I can't see the fulfillment
in never really being shaken by something
to have something tingle your nerves
are you listening, people?
This is really fascinating stuff.

RED WIRE/BLUE WIRE

when you're still awake for the sunrise
but angry for its rising
you feel my every morning

when you can't find the difference
between yourself
and the characters you spin
then you've found my madness

I can be a blank canvas
ripe with potential and beauty
or I can be
A home made time bomb

Just when you want to kiss me
And, yes, you'll want to
That's when I finally burst
spraying you with deadly debris

when you've shut your eyes
and begged my lips to find yours
you'll be torn apart
nuts and screws and carpenter nails

razor blades and thumb tacks
whatever I've collected through the years
whatever's been lobbed at me
As I was making my way to you

Atlantic City Majesty

For a place with so many lights
it manages to stay so dark
Beautifully dark
A dollar here
A hundred there
Pulled upwards into these high rise fortresses
shined up nice
Complete with bells and whistles
and all the mind numbing vice you can handle
So it leaves these streets
barren and desperate
and dangerous
He had a condo here two years ago
now he's asleep under the boardwalk
pretending he was in Vietnam
All the savings
All the college funds
they're all in these high rises now
how else would they ever
keep all those lights on?

It comes out of me warmly
It spins me in all directions
Like a gyroscope
I love the light
I love the tones and places
I find
Out here in the inside

She only wrote the last one to share it
there was no therapy in it
NO
NEED
no unresolved inner conflict
outer conflict
stellar conflict
she has the luxury of words
hardly the torment
she makes whispers blast like shot guns
she makes stanzas loom like high speed
permanence
her plot devices like torn crumpled steel
bending over a mutilated cutlass grill
she's a literary muscle car
in high gear
with the windshield
painted over black

The Ballad of Punxatawney Phil

We loaded up our warmth
and threw it in the trunk
A couple smokes burned down
A couple whiskeys sunk

We hit the long road early
searching for the thrill
of finding a country legend
named Punxatawney Phil

Blowing through the mountains
charging through the state
Our stomachs were aflutter
for all we'd anticipate

Barely sitting still
as we pulled into the town
Rushing out to stretch and breathe
we began to ask around

A waitress at the diner said
she'd heard he'd gone to jail
sent up for a robbery
three million dollars bail

A store clerk said, "He's out at sea
to find uncharted land."
Rest his bones in the sun shine
expire in the sand

We'd about lost all hope
when we made it to the bar
and found a burly biker
drinking whiskey from a jar

He spit on the floor and put out his hand
We all felt the chill
I shook his hand and asked his name
he said, "Punxatawney Phil"

He was shorter than I pictured him
with a pair of jagged front teeth
wrapped in old leather and dirty denim
covered in fur beneath

We sat and drank with Phil all night
He regaled us with his tales
The women he'd given children to
His escape from county jail

He sat there posed and solid
chewing wood chips into splinters
said, "I'm heading out west tonight
'cause there's six more weeks to winter."

A shot gun slung over his back
he never paid the bill
On an old rusty Harley blasting away
was Punxatawney Phil

slipping in and out

The kitten laid on my chest
as I held my breath
Floating on my back in a blue pool of water
Wearing an old pilot's cap with goggles on top
The kind made of soft brown leather
(the kind Amelia wore before we lost her)
He spoke calmly to me about being free
while I tried to keep
Our heads from going under
As someone was preaching
while synchronized swimming
about the suffers of dreaming,
the lonesome and weary,
but all had lost meaning
with the alarm and it's ringing
We awoke and lost each other

alright heres an assignment I'm doing in class right now and I thought I'd throw it up here and see if you guys can come out with anything for it.

Its based on a poem called "The Museum of Stones" and its a descriptive piece about stones, but what you have to do is rename the museum of something and write about that. Hopefully its something you know so you can use fancy technical good sounding words that noone else knows about

heres a link to the museum of stones poem

http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2007/03/26/070326po_poem_forche

and ill comment with what i got so far

quit your job and find your rabbit hole

come away from the rust and the pictures of dreamscapes
put the ambitions before logic and reason
bury the aprehension and scald the nerves to stop the shakes
tomorrows shoulders buckle under the weight of postponed joy
you'll cut your feet
the grease under your finger nails will not fade
pain and prosperity are sisters attached at the heart
and life doesnt hand out second chances, let alone first ones...take what you can from the sinking vessel that is the today, and taste the blood proudly
in truth, the measure of success is worn on the chin

eric clapton sells telephones now, rock and roll is co owned by a t and t people will look back on our generation as the first to do worse than the last...in truth i dont mind it really, never really worried to much about cash, but the world falls short and theres a generation coming up behind us and we're gonna hand over thhe keys to a lemon....0at least bob dylan did somthing cool with his celebrity...he sold the shit outta them panies from victoria secret...now thats rock and roll

Risk v. Reward

after just a few hours

the smell of

your skin on my skin

had faded

replaced by gasoline

cigarettes and

cheap, rest-stop soap

and hand-sanitizer

I kept trying to find you

on my clothes,

the collar of my shirt,

under my fingernails.

you weren't there.

blurred, instead by so many

state lines and miles,

gas stations and

grease traps.

later that night

as I laid restlessly

clutching the blanket that you claimed

as your own

on our trip out of town,

I found you again

before finally drifting off,

the smell of your face-wash hidden

somewhere in that blanket or

maybe only in my mind.

I'm not sure.

but now

your scent is gone from me

and you are hidden as well

blurred by state-lines and miles

and I'm left on

dark roads, alone, unsure of

the ground beneath my wheels

and I should've said something,

anything before you split town.

I should've kissed you goodbye

on at least 3 different occasions.

I should've jumped from the bridge

and, you're right when you say

I don't take enough risks.

And maybe I'll take more of them

if you take a chance on this.

Aries

Aries

make the best lovers

because we love to love.

Two fires flickering,

red hot, licking

at each other’s flames

and burning

each other down.

Stumbling Upon Dharma

Alone

just me and my wheels

against dark roads;

crossing state lines.

I didn’t realize,

until the last leg of my trip;

until my head was finally clear;

no longer filled

with road maps,

music, and anxiety

about my bills or

about how I could

possibly make it another

20 or more hours

on the road

alone,

when all that was left

was you,

Dharma.

What else would I call it?

The Virtuous Road.

The road that

lead me to you.

The road that

leads me

away from you.

I try to find some meaning

in things I see,

in my experiences.

I keep coming away with patience,

a virtue by

all definitions,

as you are virtuous,

and I am

still learning to be, but

I’ve never met someone

that makes me

want to be as good

as you are.

My Mother The Mountain

I drive along
pushing from 60 to 70 up to 80
mph
and I close my eyes

I am driving by sound
and the feel of my tires running
in the tracks worn into the
highway

my arms lock in front of me
and I feel the cool air blowing
of the mountain I am gliding down,
and I wish I was the mountain

eternal and eroding
solid and fragile
and I honk my horn occasionally
to warn any drivers nearby

I slide the car into neutral
and my right hand fumbles
on the steering column
and slides the key out

then I coast to your street
and your window is open
with that sad mystic music
dispersing into the neighborhood

I let my arms fall
but I don't open my eyes
and I think about that mountain
and its enduring wait

loretta built skylines in her hotel by lamp light

nothing like falling asleep at the wheel
theres a monkey skull on the freezer shelf
begging for a suede handout
with a fistfull of fish and a paranoid stand off
platinum nuances stoking my ego
then a word to the right from the left set in motion
all the beauty of stagnance and the pieces of perfect
got a drum of pure misery and two quarts raw sympathy
baking in a coal fire stove
got me running got me hiding got to be more than a principal
all adaptations taste awful in introduction
but theres road weary criminals
and essential bad gurus
theres a sandwhich shop laced with a decades indignities
and the farmers dry tabacco shell peas with the little uns
while the missus play footsy with the visiting vagabonds
its a whole new world out there man, and forgive the expression
but tomorrow is hideous while today seems just ugly
and yesturdays fair as it hustles away
but isnt it the charm that brings the eyes to the fire
and the blind all the while offer no words of warning
the wisdom has run out of the cups and its fitting
cause the bottom fell out and the thirsts been outsourced

snow plow plantation

with ware of asphalt and backroad dust
my boots speak volumes of the search
slept in box cars and rail yards
beside rivers and the kindness of strangers

faces painted thick with road lust and sun stroke
mom and pop video store/gas station
in a town with three houses and one street light

there was nothing under all those rocks we over turned
no a glimmer of freedom in the oil slicked highways
lost with an atlas that was all destination and no journey

plastic palm trees and pink flamingos decorating the only vestiges of a forgotten generation
the malt shops and drive-ins abandoned by time
all the juke boxes link to itunes and the saw dust floors have been tiled over
a fist fight is a felony and a drag race is is close behind

protests and propaganda lead based toys new influenzas
a war in every living room for thirty some odd years and im tired of peeking out toward the horizon and burning my eyes

if you think you've seen the promise land, i promise your a fool

what soft grace in disregarding the disaster of the season
she's ill but carries handbag full of cure alls and redemption
theres no beauty left
we watched the last of it sail off into the final sunsets just before the switch from analog to digital but i think she could serve as a reminder at least
of the moment before the shithouse burned and the stench of truth caked our nasal passages...

one longstanding memory of dust and clay and rubarb she said what did you want to be before you realized it was over

red lights, blue lights,
glare

and i love the way
he dances
center stage
singing into the mic
greasy hair in face
the occasional break of a
drumstick
drummer,
wasted, shirtless and
slightly
off beat

and i love the way
you lean
and tap yer cowboy boots
as you play guitar
scarf dangling
off yer tight levi's

and i love the way
we scream
and drink
and sway
to garage rock nights

she feeds on the mystery,
no need to plead for answers

Two for Molly

Molly,
you were a vision
dancing in the kitchen
blown mind
sparks flying


Gypsy sits in stockings
staring up from Molly's feet
watching her gently pull
the bow across her cello strings

he was a shooting star
(torn jeans wide eyes hungry rock t-shirt)
she was a shooting star
(hips dreaming on their own, lips, a rushing)
for those two dazzling and finite masses
to meet
in all the far reaching intoxicating space
at
a
perfect angle

a miracle of impossible mathmatics


after quantum physics, after quantum physics shows you the possibilities, the possibilities of a coffee mug.

a coffee mug complete with the inked on recollection of a vacation destination with a fantastic climate for the middle aged.

after quantum physics
shows you the possibilities
of a coffee mug
piping hot
light and sweet
materializing
on a dashboard
at the exact moment
eyelids get to heavy

after quantum physics
we are forced to realize
that miracles
are not physical impossibilities
they are only
only

only

statistical improbabilities

and
those
happen
constantly

lesson from the roads of ny state

we drove 1300 miles
and every song we strained to hear
in the green dashboard glowing
was about us
and we learned

the earth makes granite
and men shape it

light will fall forcefully
on a woman's perfect form

fame is one end
punk rock is another

even water bends to gravity

time and distance
can be masters or slaves

love and poetry last forever

you can make yourself happy

the guitar hung
with all her locks
in the fashion
of angel wings
as they sleep
standing
its pale unfinished
face matching
the imperfection
of her shoulders

wood grain and freckles

in Ithaca
is a head shop
where her lips
admit she cannot
play a guitar
underneath
sandstone eyes

poem written on a lap top at a bar

I've not seen
anyone
who makes the dirtiest scene
shine like you do
maybe it's the colors
contrast in the background
maybe it's the words
that you gussy up
on their way through your lips

two tone trigger happy

its so cold when youre above me
politics and promises
we dance like no one else could
im alergic to the reasons
want to bury my devotion?
want to press your lips against the barrell
cough recoil blister
paint the palace with a thought
and flip the light switch for the audiance

You were always,

Always making Everest out of asphalt

Your ship was always sinking

All of your bridges:

set ablaze

3,000 miles between us

Or one breath,

It didn't matter

I remember the night

You came to me with

Fearful eyes, asking

"Are you mad?"

This is a birth defect

A sinner born

Into a world of sin,

Of broken glass,

Of fallen skyscrapers,

Of dirty grey air

Black lungs

And cigarette butts

But you were the tree growing

In the abandoned factory

There with the glass

Shards and

Rat carcasses;

The homeless shanties,

The unclean

And you were always making Everest out of asphalt

And me?

I was the king

Of the streets you roamed

every time I

grab you and I kiss you

it's not a smooth transition

it's not reminiscent

of some romantic movie

it's only awkward and

I'm always unsure

But as I pull you closer

and push you

against the brick wall

of an anonymous building

on an unnamed street

in the town where

we were both born

your fingers run through my hair

looking for something

maybe for a reason

to forget this sleepless city block

and all the people passing by

the basement stairs

are dark

but your light shines

through the door

leading me

back into your bed

and you're

hidin' 'neath the covers, waiting

your back turned to me, waiting

and I don't want to

be the first to lean in

and I don't want to

call you "baby"

So, I kiss your neck,

your light shining,

showing me the way

A poem was being written
while the planes were crashing
High up in the sky colliding
in the depths of a sad mans soul

jealous
of every girl
wide eyed blind eyed
that ever
craved desired clung to
obsessed over, fought for
endured saved suffered through
loved
me
at least partially
unrequited
those beutiful sad
dancing shining dying
wailing strong enduring
faithful crazy
sighing crying
struggling blind
mad incredible
women
are capable of a passion that these weak bones
can only dream wantingly of

fall

fall
has always been
a perfect season
to feel all of the earth's
great mass
below
wheeling about its axis
the dry cracked hands
of mighty aging gods
with massive
arthritic knuckles
slapping the ball of it
onward clockwise

the atmosphere
a tolerable cool
reminds the skin
that it feels
always unstoppingly
recieving
stimulii

and the sky is all holy painted the way
clouds just whispy enough crawl
past the sadest
moon
of the year

at least
dope sick
eaten away inside
by carrol's hallucinated buzzing
insects and their larva

would be a feeling
a pain
a pin prick
a feather bobbing back and forth
through the mad
invisible
angel wing
sea of atmosphere
guided gently
and unarguably
by the certain gravity
of the earth's great mass

at least that
would be
something
tossed hair in a breeze
marble gleaming in moonlight

her lips
her lips
her hips
her weathered leather
jacket
all the things she is
sway
down the damp 3AM streets
pieces of a ghost
evaporate
in the distance

bodhisatva

budha played cards with the greatest of all the prophets cuz where else was he gonna be able to find a good game. and somewhere between the raise and the call, jesus leans in heavy, i mean with all the weight of heaven and tomorro, heavy. and the son of the almighty asks for a favor. he says the only thing its gonna cost is the traitor's eternal soul, but what it would save would simply be everything.

we became

thin filament arcing across
part of eternity
shook by the wind

one night

the sky was so big that night, bigger then the sea, bigger then god, bigger then new mexico sky, the psilocybin ran through veins electrically, reminded me that i was composed only partially of bones capillaries sinews and muscles, but maybe i was part sky also because there simply wasn't enough room in heaven for all of it, there was ocean and moon and tom and tom's girl spinning or twisting of refracting, all these things were calm and peace and holy, the moon fell across the atlantic in a long column, it told us things about wind and a dancing universe and how tonight the universe wasn't dancing it was breathing at a regular rhythym and how that is a dance to.

(someone elses poem, my version)

these leaves fall
not colors burning
but pale as city autumn

and they are not blood on the street
i remind myself
they are not blood on the street
they are the unstoppable passage of time
symbols
mile posts

three nights ago
brownsville, brooklyn
specifically not washington
square, manhattan
a man and wife stabbed
there was blood on the street
running from his
drunk and torn
artery

but these leaves
paling with the day
these are not
blood on the street

angel and gravity

i met him in the rooms
with burnt coffee
or earlier
wiping the asses of invalids
on the 4th floor
of Community
with a bad attitude

he must of had
a greying soul patch
or a salt and pepper
mustache

and he said the only
purpose we have
on this planet
is to help
others

that's when gary or greg
started with the cocaine
workin doubles
to ease all the
suffering

on the 4th floor
of Community
all those sick
all those dying
on respirators
with feeding tubes
and dimensia
and traction
on their fractures
and the pain
management meds

the booze would bring him down so he could sleep with the cocaine in his veins and the grey mustache and the hair parted on the right side and the masses suffering and the phlorescent lighting

thats how i met him in the rooms
with burnt coffee

fragment arrangement

moments
of mad lonely
myth
in the flesh with
perfect
foregrounds
and backdrops
and the shadows falling as if scripted


it was 1950's silhouette
hilltop, opulant
moon rising
he, star glint wine bottle
(the glass of it winking in the dark)
dangling from loose fingertips
(in the fragile balances of pressure),
raised a
romantic fist
to lonliness, to tomorro
defying fate
denying his stars


these are tumble weeds
dreams
the words collected and strained
from rivers
through tight lips
drained
condensed
from car windows
at 90
the whole rabid world
blowin by
these are women and men
with something
trapped or breaking
these are symbols
etched
painstakingly
in
stones


it was autumn
gold
it was the texture
of crisp electricity,
the polarized molecules,
and the sound of
car engines behind gleaming grills
she
was caught in
a momentary wind
and she was
only real
in a world's
loosest sense


he was romantic
vigorous
tears in the knees
of his jeans
saintly
as silhouette
in the doorway
before
evaporating
into another night
of car headlamps
as roads to heaven
and damp
glistening
texture

the kittens are hogs!

sometimes,
i'd rather be a little cold
in the middle of the night
with only half the blanket on me
laying beside you-
kittens,
in between us.

he said, she said

she's sorry she's so complicated.

an unopened book,
you have to bend the spine a little
bend the cover,
break it in
really read through the pages,
absorb it-

he's sorry he's so inpatient.

train station

hustle and bustle of
rush hour
i, girl with the busted car,
wait
shockingly patient
for the 8am train
Waits on the ipod
cold caffeine stains
on my scarf
sitting,
just like the scattered piles of brightly colored leaves
in the parking lot,
among the crowd
women, men, children
wondering where they are going
wondering what they are doing
this gray day
wondering who sat in my seat on the bench
an hour ago
and wondering
if any of them
are wondering about me

Station

Dancing to that Spanish music
The clearest station on the radio
bare feet on bright clean tiles
Cowbell ringing a jay bird smile

Humming with that Spanish music
rolling shoulders slapping toes
bare feet that could dance for miles
maybe all the way down to Mexico

tiny creature

hand lenses
and long slender drawers
replete with thousands of pinned insects
arranged to display
the clever gradient of life

Puppy

You can fix anything
because you are so small
I can hold you in one hand
you can slip through cracks
and bring back keys
cherish useful puppy

joy ride nebula

Lets get on a rocket ship
and ride
through stars as thick as flies
wiping star dust from our brows
picking star guts from our teeth
in a rocket ship with the top down

Ripped and Whipped

few have i fallen
shards in these lungs
a habit
metallic
when the sun shines
im blinded
and each breath
to drown
so
just so you know
i'm still working it out

goodnight, insomnia

lenses

what i thought was real
was only just a blur;
obscured.
and after all this time,
everything is finally put into
focus-
crystal clear
every single detail;
all the fine print
focused,
to the point where it is over magnified
like looking straight up into
the sun
blinding-
and i just want to smash the lenses.

I'm all wrapped up in 28
My birthday's gonna strip me down
I'm not sure how I'm gonna feel

Driving along a lonely highway
8am, Saturday morning
Hot coffee
Cold air
Chill in my body
And the heat just takes way too long to kick in
Heavy eyes
Dylan's 'Desire' singin' in my ears-
The sky is in many shades of gray today
Yet the leaves still burst in shades of
Yellows and oranges and radiant reds
Making my autumn morning golden.

In Brooklyn with Joe McCall

I like finding things
on bar shelves with other
fliers and magazine
homemade things
do it yourself projects
fliers made in minutes
for a show are the
best ones.
Zines stapled in basements
smears from markers
and stains from coffee
in dark dark bars
or well lit burrito places
I like finding things
and I also like
giving them away

please stop calling stop the letters and the flowers and the sympathy cards
we're living in the moment for a few hundred years and every now and then a turncoat waltzs in and disapers then the coffin and the eulogy and we all breathe bettter you than me the traps reset and we begin to boil our minds to pass the time

im waiting for the idle to reach itss true creshendo
im slipping in and out of conscience
too much to do before the future catches up with you
developing a little cold

postcards from truck stop promised lands

I’m alone on union railroad
Sticking to the seat
Of an empty vagrant’s box car
Crossing midnight city streets
And the girl that’s never on my arm
Is chewing on my mind
And the desert lives in Pittsburgh
Laying switchmen at my feet

And I’m on fire with the lights of passing time
And delusional desire
playing tricks on eyes
Is the rust
dissolving empathy
Or could she ever try to be
The loser in the timeless place
Is only what
she makes you face
alone

lets bleed with all the ambition we embraced a few sad years back missing a few more teeth now and caressing a different woman, still wondering which way you all think your going and who alot of us are, tasting all these runaway lifestyles till the buds turn sour and no ones picked a side and i really need to borrow you car

what is it about september

some where off in the distance we're screaming from mountain tops about all the glass houses we've hit with stones. and the miles we've put on aging buckets of rusting bolts still echo of distant life that won't yet die. im either begging for the way back or pounding pavement forward with no destination. i'm a little tired, shes breathing heavy and telling me dreams come true when you make them and i roll naked in the idea that she might be right, and hell if its all an illusion why cant we lie to ourselves and call it perfect or happy or just plain nice, im on trains bound for everywhere all at once criss crossing the Nevada desert in old fords low on fuel, im home with the kids making dinner watching cartoons and riding a stolen Harley to Mexico with two pounds of grass in the saddle bags missing out on nothing but the day before when we weren't even friends yet. still we scream at empty skys because we know its gonna fall one day, but for the rest of the night at least its over looking the hoards, the excited dull and cheerfully miserable, the divorced infected and the sober peasants, cause its not what your going to be or even what you use to be, its probably closer to what you wanted to be...i think i like that, knowing that were better off not knowing what we think we should know.

I want to be
the wine in yer glass
touching yer lips, staining them
and flowing through yer veins