Wednesday, August 29, 2007

I need you
To be distant
For while I’m chasing you
I’ll always out run
Those lean dogs chasing me


I thought you were gone
Never a more pleasant surprise
Then to walk in
And see your face again
Hey chief…
I think I love you

Wicked English?

Yeah I guess its pretty wicked!

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

found in an old book

then Sharkey's
your house -----------> VAN- Green
Stephanie's = $

John's house/picked up truck
7-11: bought 20 oz Mt. Dew and yellow rose -------> Truck- white
inlet: made you cry

Thursday, August 23, 2007


sittin at the bar
sippin my gin
you appear
from a far
against the wall
i thought i had it
all figured out
but with one look
i'm tangled in the hue
of your baby-blues
and my dancin eyes
have danced their last dance
your name
once cancelled from
my memory
is lit up again
in neon lights
and my door
reads open
cause i'm sucked
back in
your gravitational pull
and i travel,
travel behind time

Thursday, August 16, 2007

addicted to drowning

i dove
way too soon
now i'm stranded and alone
once again left
choking in the wake
you helped create

it's just that
for the first time
the water was just right
and swimming
with you by my side
i could bare the oceans bite

now with each waves
relentless break
your face
washes through my brain
as i gasp to breathe
what we could have been

plastic sunset

from what i've seen
lacking wings
inspiration and beauty
can't rest still here
in this body of fire
even throughout sleep
i dream or nightmare
in movements
that wake the bed
I'm sharing
every feeling
like money
when i can't really
hearing every footstep
walking over me
and if it's kindness that kills ya
i think that i'm dying
can't change faces
this one is my only
eyes afloat subtly
one would barely take notice
but i do see
where this is going
what sweet intentions sprout from
there's no light
in this plastic sunrise
there is no hope
to shake the smog from these bones
can i just dance please!
like i have a soul
in this city of angels
watching the plastic sunset
and if it's kindness that kills ya,
i think i'm already dead

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

if i'm not mistaken

the sparkle
twinklin heaven offa
that there half full bottle
aint the
of brown translucent liquor
or the simple shine
of glass so slow

its simply
a reflection
of lust and romantic potential
for destruction, so seductive
bouncin offa my soul

some advice

kill yr idols, kid
b'for they
kill 'emselves
in yr eyes

feel better
that way

to the stars

sorry girls
that i forgot you
all these nights
with all yr peace
i've just been a wreck
and yr so far away
with yr light
falling softly
like lullaby

what was this white fisted madness?

alchemy, a definition

the world
the observer

tricks of the light

this is it
america and drunk
till new morning
or old mournings
all over again

the thunder claps and tradgedies
in this world we live with death and syntax
craving these girls

in this open door light
this ink
the properties
of stars

underneath drunken gloss eyes
whole worlds envelope
dreams dissolving in dew

flashes of beauty
fireflies in the grassy, dew laiden field

one second whisper

the moon, tonight
all molten orange and holy swollen
was slow hope,
a ghost in reverse


so you took my offer
and let me be America
and you were a naked body

but now
i'm just the howling metallic sound of train tracks
and you're all
empty bottle truths and reflections

bright lights, little city

little city keeps the lights turned up

little city don't like the dark,
don't like to miss a beat.
it don't cry when it's drunk
or kick at the street

little city bleeds red traffic lights
across your feet
and it's heart beats louder

little city is dressed in green today,
waiting for the fireworks and
the rain ,and the wind to
move them both along

little city and yr secrets,
and the girls hearing confession
give you wine to drink,
and brick buildings keep so much cooler

breathing under hot lights

while tonight is thick
and I'm squeezing through
capillaries with it
lost in NEW Jersey
and the Arab
tobacco flavors

where are you
in the mountains
cool air despite

summertime static
letting the highway pass by
while I distill
to chemicals in smoke
and radio waves gently breaking
can't you hear?

Saturday, August 11, 2007

Those Whiskey Boys

With sports and war on our tongues
we sat with our cheap light beer
and ideas of how government should be
in our skeezy little dive bar
home away from home
escape from home
when these young boys came in
early to mid-twenties
and we scoffed and snickered
when they ordered a couple of whiskeys
we had soft little quips
about how they'd choke down these drinks
in a futile effort to look like they belong here
and before long our thoughts were diverted to our simple attention once more
baseball and sex
and maybe a half hour or more had slipped by
when the smashing noise from the juke box recognised itself
as an obscure Rolling Stones song
paid to be played by only the most discriminating fans
and we called to the barmaid
to ask about those boys
and their drinks
as she answered, "seven.
Not counting the shots."

Friday, August 10, 2007

lifes a beautiful addiction if you can live through yourself long enough to feel it

I have something for you
but you must understand
once I've given it all
poured it all out
into the finest crystal wear
it's done
the bottles empty
I have no more
and I can't give you any
and I'm gone

you must know
they've placed razor blades in there
and it hurts
as it should
when you drink the blood of life
taking swig after swig
not appreciating any of it
and howling at the burn
unfortunate razor blades up turn

but once the bottles empty
and there's no more life left in store
cause supermarkets don't stock magic moments
and there's no pre-packaged dreams for you to score
when all you have left is hesitance
yer frightened, bloody bored
and nothing moves you
like it use to
I can only give
decanted hope and reassurance
that everything will be fine
I promise
when you finally stand up to the face
that glares back at you everyday
reflecting your every miss-action upon you
in it's contorted mirror ways

...that's why they throw in razor blades
to clink against the glass with each velvety swirl
threatening as they slide
to bleed you out from the inside

I'm tired of loving empty bottles
and trying to fill them when they've been drained
It's time we stood up to one another
there's many confessions to be made
and not just to each other
but to the faces looking back
as we stare into the mirror

Thursday, August 09, 2007

For ever in us

your dead
your brother's dead
your family's dead
are you crazy?
to confront me with this
all on an animal?
how about a grandfather
but a dog is just as good
what about a younger cousin?
or a mother figure.
I guess all animals to you
and your pity party
send me a reminder
to your horse shit
it's a big word
don't choke on it

Joshua Fink

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

The Gentlemen's Circle

Gripping wind throws litter
in the parking lot
where six Jersey winos
swap sob stories in laughter
They sing Irish folk songs
overdubbed with burping
But when they're all out of jokes
all out of deceit
their minds fold into themselves
with memories of daughters
lives left in a house condemned for a decade
So they're left to lift their bottles silently
and cough out a cold smokey breath

lets have a sun day
and wine moon night
red moon

while you spark
and kiss me in orange

Monday, August 06, 2007


how do i see you?
only through the blinding glass
i've seen you walk through oz
there's something wrong with your name
its coming up in sevens
i wrote it down but i erased my line
youve got to give me a key to open my mouth
and let you fly out

a short circuited nerve
the transmission is scrambled
she doesnt feel me
she doesnt know im dying
do not reboot
do not connect to me
my virus shatters channels
i'm static with hazel-glazed optica

do not confuse,
your name is coming up in sevens
this machine is used
around the trim its shedding
exposing wires, i can see them fray
there's more that's been contused
tissue breaking down in sevens
agreed between to close the system
its faulty at transmission
from the bed i used to sleep in
you can fake a cardio-cision
it sends a message but it doesnt speak
it transmits but it
does not connect to me
my virus shatters channels
i'm static with hazel-glazed optica
your static is a bastard compass
embedded in your eye
i hope it hurts like hell
when they remove your splinters
when they remove your splinters
when they remove your splinters
i hope it makes me well
when they remove my splinter
when you're not in my vision
when you cloud over
i hope it makes you well
to know that i'm in hell
i hope it makes you well

I couldn't fall asleep on the bench in the park by the harbor because of the hospital right there, and the constant sound of the ambulances. I wasn't drunk or homeless. I wasn't even especially tired. But I find myself down there, leaning on the splintered railing, not really believing in the water below me it was so still.

So after a while, the parking lot cleared a bit, and the police left, and I could smell the water so I knew it was okay. I lied down on the bench, trying to sing myself to sleep with some 90's indie rock, thinking about Buddhas of gold, and Buddhas of jade, and Buddhas of wood, and Buddhas of flesh and water. Still I couldn't sleep. The hospital was right there, and I forgot my cigarettes anyway.

mosaic sun, put together
piece by piece, like mirror eyes
on the streets of Louisville,
and hands that evaporate,
and days when I lie about
the train schedule, and
the moments with streaks of
cream in my coffee

the wait upstairs burning
it's way down to the shy
streets below, and I smile
because my heart is made of
newsprint, that was another day
and this one is another day too
and is illuminated piece by piece
by the mosaic sun

Friday, August 03, 2007

special tea

sometimes I drink away butterfly omens
and sink blueberries into laser fields
only to stare off into oblivion with cannonball eyes

there's a bug that has boiled with my water
I'll drink this cup to its memory
through smoke rings and wastelands

our lavender love

I was resident of the Richmond for just about two weeks
there I laid down next to you on a bed of lavender sheets
finally feeling, after 22 years, the comfort that home brings

There I spent lifetimes with you and made lifetimes of love
We laughed and cried and dreamed up more lifetimes
We raised children and watched their children giggle at our silliness and we grew brittle and closed our eyes and died there
In our bed of lavender

And when they took our bodies to burn
They wrapped us in those same sheets
and the whole city smelled of aroma therapy
all was calm and beautiful and folks stood in the streets outside their homes with smiles as they breathed in the sweet perfume
of our lavender life


I'm beaten to a pulp in the heart
I feel that we should be making love like orange juice
thick and sweet and nourishing
I'll be the oranges, you be the juicer
and we'll quench this thirst...

sugarless sweetness

7:48, I'm awake
been that way since 2 or 3am
I've walked around in my underwear with the dog watching
I've showered
boiled water for oatmeal and coffee
searched for sugar
without finding any
and as odd as it may seem
I substitute with honey

I'm back in Nashville with the cityboy and Johnny
dripping honey off the spoon into black sludge coffee
all crammed into the closet kitchen of his Music Row apartment
sweet minimal Johnny Z
his mandolin and violin hanging proudly on the wall
the fridge and freezer (for some reason) stacked high with cartons of organic milk
being all that he is
sharing all that he's got
his life advice in riddles and lyrics
I smile and laugh and think
coffees not so bad with honey in it

the language of purple water

In Jack's House I am staring at the ceiling
We paint purple water here for hours
It drips from the ceiling to pool on the floor

In the shade of the lattice we talk about art,
but not our own
We talk about love
but not our own
We talk to the dog
We talk a lot
between the purple water

We read each other our latest works of heart
We listen to the Talking Heads, Franti, Buckley, Dylan, Roger Waters, and Jack Johnson
We dissect the music like fermented 7th grade laboratory frogs
As we ferment ourselves
with white wine and Bud Lite
We puff a pipe but not for long
We don't need much these days to get us off

The way we talk is our own
No one else knows
We talk with our bodies
We talk with our souls
In Jack's House I am free
In Jack's House I am at home
Living in purple water

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

The Night Before, a Dog, and a Lamp Post

The night before had been
A more extreme fight than usual.
And I hope you enjoyed it
As much as I have.

The next morning I looked
Down and noticed a lined
Red scar running up from my
Wrist to my elbow.

I think it happened
When I mentioned
The mistakes your parents
Made when raising you and your sister.

I looked down at the mark
And laughed thinking of a dog
And how it makes its own marks
On lamp posts as it strolls down dirty streets.

Me and the lamp post
So much in common
Silent illuminating light
And you and the dog who leaves your mark on us.


My idea of homelessness came from cartoons,
a seemingly happy character with a stick
and a polka dot handkerchief tied to the end
to hold all his worldly possessions.

I first attempted to be homeless when
I was 7 years old. I packed up a comic book
and a jacket. Took some cheese and crackers
from my moms fridge and walked to the clubhouse
in my backyard. It had its own imitation kitchen
with its own stove and permanent red stickers.
I stayed there for at least 4 or 5 hours
repeatedly looking at the pictures in my comic book
trying to find things to do to bide my time.

Looking back it seemed kind of silly. How could I have
possibly survived on cheese and crackers for more than a day.
But now I’m 26 and I have a car and a nice state job with benefits.
Because my car works I’m considered to be
an upper class person without a home
and since I’m pursuing my Masters Degree I will have
plenty of things to take up my time.
When I was younger and homeless I went back home
because it was dark and my mom called me in.
Now I have a flashlight on my keychain
and I don’t think I’m gonna listen when she calls
because I want to see the sunrise
really see the sunrise before I get old..

FLCL and the story of Puss in boots

Pretend to be that someone
And in time you become that person
You transcend the mask

Pretty clever huh?

Like puss in boots

And I’ve been me for such a short time
I’ve been this for such a short time

But this skin fits fine if tight in places
And loose in others

Just happy to be someone
Who ever she is