Monday, January 28, 2008

Poem About Poets Who Talk Too Much

I don't care about what you have to say
Nobody cares about what you have to say
You talk to loud, you talk to fast
Everything probably rhymes which is gay
it is gay. Do you hear what I say?
I say what I may
so go fuck yourself.

Nobody cares about what you have to say
You'll work your jobs
and nobody will care.
Nothing will change
and nobody will care.
Your five minutes of fame ended
in third grade
and I'm gonna break your heart
your teaching didn't care either.

Nobody cares about politics
or hippies
or your books
or your magazines
nobody cares about your environment
or your library
or your beards
nobody cares about your hip
nobody cares about your hop
but we should care about the weather
nobody cares about your literary blogs
or your photographs
or your rock and roll bands
nobody cares about what you have to say
and nobody ever will.

Friday, January 25, 2008

cats don't understand string theory

I throw the toy mouse attached
to the string and the cat always
thinks I'm getting rid of it,
but I'm not I pull it back it in
and he chases it and when I
get it again I just throw it
right back out there.
Girls don't understand it

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

I dreamt I met Sara Garmin in a Dream

I dreamt I met Sara Garmin in a dream.
It began on a baseball field and all my friends
were there playing baseball. They weren't up
at bat or anything and sitting in the dugout.
I think I felt that they lost the game and things
were rapping up and they were all headed
to the diner.

I was in my car and using my Garmin
to find the diner. She said in a british
accent that I had programmed for her
to get on route 9 north and eventually
I would hit a diner. and she said it in
a way like it was obvious, that there
is always a diner with your friends
on route 9 north.

When I got there my friends were there,
on the far side of the diner against the wall.
But I was seated somewhere else
and I didn't object. And Sara Garmin
with that British accent asked me
for my order. (As if it should have
been obvious) I didn't know
what I wanted but stared at Sara
with her short black hair
and notebook waiting for
my next direction.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

My Women

My world is a woman
a mother I call Earth
beautiful and strong
wise and calculating
She may be bitter at times
ever vengeful for our gluttony
Though her patience is immeasurable
and her hand is always open to hold us
My ship is a woman
Her lines steady and taught
to keep her in a safe motion
to take us to new and wild shores
She lets us believe we direct the voyage
while she turns us blind in storm
but she'll bring us in come daylight
My mind is a woman
pitting this against that
discriminating all and nothing
She teases me with dream and hope
and burns me with truth and fact
as a woman will do
As my sun is a woman
who will never stay
and my youth is a woman
destroying herself for temporary pleasure
My heart is a woman
who hates and aches for hating
And my art is a woman
who persistently tires of routine
My women are devious and cold
but comforting and loving
Taking all I have
as a woman will do
But their eyes disclose a secret
you can only see in desperate hours
My women are not my women
I am theirs to carry
and that is why I lose the fight

in sunsets
i'll remeber
(the way dew remebers
shifting states)
us as
butterflies and volcanoes
as a unity
of fragile simple natural grace
and the unimaginable power
of all that rock sliding
and torquing in violence and time

women and words

women like sex
or at least
women like sex
with poets
than poets
like sex with

and i'm scribblin
scrawlin syllables
constantly, obsessively
as some poor attempt
to make love to the dazzlin world
all out in front of me

where mortal hands weep at their limits
and women weep at their poets
and poets weep at their words
and words weep at the world


i think of steel
and holy cold detroit
with its winds
and cars glistenin commin offa lines
and jack ridin in em across rollin hills
and insanely flat and large spaces

i think of steel
and how the west was won
by smith
and that house out in california
that his wife built
cuz all those ghosts just kept tellin her to keep buildin
and how that steel was pressed into
the shape of death
and how steel is beutiful
in the right light
and how death is beutiful
in the right light
and how we're all so beutiful
in the right light

i think of steel
and buildings
so strong and tall
and straight as
the horizons
they erupt from
and all those saintly iron workers
building america
building america
girder by girder

and the bridges spanning
and the train tracks runnin off
and Bethlehem rusting

i think of steel
and history
and romance
and steel

(tribute to william s, i mean chris)

Ginsberg wrote about himself
as the universe and all the poets in the produce isles
in all the whirling samsara
Jack, about lost soot covered America and the souls strewn across
Faulkner, about the holy mud and dilapidated buildings of an Ancient south
and London wrote about dogs fogging in the cold
but Mac wrote that William wrote about cats

me, I write about women

and sometimes they move all smooth
and liquid silk
and occassionally they burn and swallow everything
when they bat their eyes or throw their hips

but sometimes they're sunsets, static and memory
and the moon rolling heavily across the vacuous night
and cars all cold and metal
with aggrevated headlights streaming through the streets
sometimes they're the streets and the tears
and the mysteries strung out on rosaries
wrapping whithered hands
and eyelashes and cement trucks and
travellin miles and loving and
all sorts of elements with wild properties

sometimes they're stars
and sometimes they're drunk sciences
or religions and faith and frenzied dance
or nine to fives in poor lighting

and sometimes they're the dry dust kickin up from the dry earth

but mostly
they're the nameless space between

me, I write about women

Sunday, January 20, 2008

Telepathic Telephony

Friday, January 18, 2008

She's Prime

I fucked 'er
You fucked 'er
So who's gonna drive 'er home?
I'm low on gas
and the goddamn drinks
weren't cheap
They must charge extra
For the fuckin' umbrella thing
How many times does it take
'til we realize
that first they're just tits
but then it's a dilemma
Maybe it was worth it
just for the kinky shit she's into
until she copped my last smoke
So take her home
Grab me a pack
And when you drop her off
tell her I love her

Ugly Women

Ugly women
are not as lonely as you'd think
They know the right places
to find those hollow men
Men with no eyes
for the beauty we see
or think we see
Men who stir their thoughts
slowly up there
In that hard and ruptured block
with cheap water beer
Tired and heavy
Hoping for a strong women
beautiful or not
to help them lift their bones

Thursday, January 17, 2008

don't think it needs one

Hello Melancholy
is it good to see you again
welcome friend
tired lover
where have you been
for it's been
quite a some time since
you've wandered you're way into my life

little blue
I've missed you
I've reached my limit
of pleasant moments
my cups overflowing
smiles wide and glowing
but you've come back
to meet me empty
at the bottom

and I know
even though
you drift in and out
crest and trough
you'll be back around
to flip me upside down
pull at my heart
and call the rain
make me want to die
so i can be reborn again

Hello Melancholy
I've missed you
my friend

Rattling Windows and Buckets of Hope

okay so here we go
feeble be it may

dreaming last night
your giant bed
drowning in the down comforter
and out the giant double windows
the city at night lit up and dreaming

strolling through vivid half awake semi-sleep hallucinations
and I am dreaming,
of a strange neighbor of yours
from across the hall
who keeps barging in
and milling about
in your apartment

then (in this dream)
you have to drive me
to the airport
to go back to Jersey

but that's completely irrelevent

now awake 11:30am
in your Russian Hill abode
on top of the world
you've left for a meeting
and golfing
and i'm on the balcony smoking

and someone starts knocking
and it's your landlord or something
and now there are all these people here
measuring the 80 million windows
in you living room
that provide the panoramic view
of our city San Francisco

and in the bedrooms
and accidentally in the bathroom
they're just milling about your apartment
with a tape measure

and i wouldn't have answered the door
if i hadn't thought it was you
forgetting something

and i wouldn't have let them in
but they seemed to be of authority
I mean, he was dressed like a Rabi

and lately i've been
contemplating religion

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Points of indeterminable size

I was reclining on the loveseat
In the library in the sun
Not thinking about anything
And feeling the time standing still

But time started back up again
When I started to think
Of why sloth is considered by some a sin
And why some think time is an enemy

But I know time is just the dimension “above” me
In that dimension
There is a multitude of me-s
That exist on offshoots of moments
If you think of moments like points along a line
Or rather more like points along the lines making up some kind of crazy time ball

I like to imagine that mine is shaped like a sea Urchin

Now I recognize that those branches are influenced
By choice, chance, and transaction
So some where, some time, some how, in a transaction

I picked up some Quantum physics

That the subatomic particles
The ones that make up my world
Are collapsed from waves of probability
And that’s done by the mere act of observation

So now by my foolish thinking
I realize that I’m collapsing the indeterminate waves of my probable futures

And it bums me out

But it was really something else
When time stood still

Why I Loved Hershey Bars. (Unchanged since 1918 and again in 2007)

Everyday was Diner Day when I was in High School. Another Piece from Art Con. 2004-2005. The Original name for this was "Why I Love Hershey Bars." Even that has changed now.

That sweet smell of Nostalgia made its way into my nose and back into my brain as i made my way into the town where i was born. I made my way into the diner, where i had spent so many days and nights. When everyone knew my name. When everyone knew what i wanted. "Give me a coffee," thats what i muttered to the waitress at the counter. "Just give me a coffee and nothing else." I don't want to bore you with stories of the past, but the price of coffee had gone up in town since i'd been away. An additional 25 cents. And the Diner looked no good; Well, worse than it had years before. And the waitresses were all new and they had changed the menus and the managment had all left. I had no more friends in that dank place.
-Change is no good.-

A Flag Upside Down Means Distress

Another one from Art Con. Probably from 2004-2005.

Raise the flag upside down
Tell the world the fire is burning
in the heart of America
and it's growing
Families and buildings
burned and destroyed
Tell the world the fire is burning
in the heart of America
In the amber fields
and the purple mountains
whose majesty has turned his head
Raise the flag upside down
Call out distress for someone to help
Tell the world America is burning

Not With Me

I used to post my stuff (before I met you wonderful lads and lassies) on a site called Art Conspiracy. I figured I'd post some of the stuff that was on there to show alittle bit of contrast. We're all friends so you should all know where I come from. This is probably from 2003-2004.

The soft caress of my hand moving gracefully around the curve in your neck
quickly became a strangling embrace, forcing the life from your body.
As the light left your eyes, you looked so Beautiful.
Goodnight, my Darling.

And there's nothing I'd like more
than to put out cigarettes on your arms.
And there's nothing I'd like more
than to hear you scream and cry.

This seething anger quickly replaces my tears
of lonely frustration.
And as my hands fall from my face,
they harden into fists of rage.

-My cheeks are dry, dear. My eyes don't leak-

This was all written in a promise mailed to you 6 months ago.!!
Take it out now and read it outloud.
You scream, You shout, but your words will just
go in one end And out the other
Just like they always did

And when you come to tell me that this poem was lame?
I'll shudder I'll Laugh And I'll spit in your face
It was always a game And i was just playing
And as for the new GUY thats come into YOUR life?
Baby, he's a boy.

And everytime his lips touch your face
You'll think of me
And everytime his hand holds yours
You'll think of me
And i hope everytime he makes you cry
You'll think of me
And everytime he hurts you
You'll think of me
Every slap across your face
You better think of me!

And when you die, baby girl?
You will think of me

-And my cheeks will be dry, dear. My eyes won't leak-

Because every mistake you make from here to the grave, will be...

Because you were not with me.

Monday, January 14, 2008

god damn thats a nice fridge

the orange juice is so...

i said god damn

football = poetry

when boxers are training
for a fight they can't fuck.
it weakens their performance.
(While boxing not fucking)
and their essentially the same
thing, boxing and sex
or boxing and poetry
or football and poetry
or anything and anything.
Hemingway hated himself
because he couldn't write
as well as Dostoyevsky.
He blamed it on his wife
and the drinking
and F. Scott.
But it was never
the bulls fault.
It's never
the bulls fault.

Sunday, January 13, 2008


I missed the ashtray
And put it out on your forehead
And I didn’t think a thing of it

The ashtray
Your forehead

I couldn’t care less

after realizing it was full again

We all have
Within us
A paper cup

Filled with guilt
And resentment
And all the liquid sour feelings

You fill it up
The paper cup

In moments quick
Without remorse

Then you must either
sip it slowly
Or let it overflow

I’d like to let it
And see how bitter
The reside tastes


I still find plastic eyes
In my sock drawer
And it reminds me
Of what I was supposed to be

Tuesday, January 08, 2008

cult for a few?

if you were here with me
in this beauty city
every Sunday
i'd take you to church
and on each new Sunday
we'd visit a different one
we'd sit in every pew
recite every hymn
admire all the ancient
stained-glass windows
and contemplate divine
untill we've spared
all religion
a momment of our time

Like You Have Anything Better To Do?

Today is Tuesday.

Which makes tonight Diner Night.

It starts at 10:10pm and doesn't end until atleast tomorrow.

Stacy Jones will be making buttons, I'm sure those guys with beards will show up, Brownstone will be doing his thing and I'm sure Mac will atleast try and make it.

Diner Night at the Toms River Diner. Poetry, Jokes, Questions, Conversations concerning the Cosmos and CAD drawings of Alto Shaams upon request.

For CAD drawings, please allow 5-8 business days. All other requests can expect instant gratification. Except for bonfires. those take alittle planning.

I expect to see you there.

Canada Dry, Sex, and Cocaine

There's a war inside my body
it tares at me every which way
from brain to heart to hips and toes love
circle 'round and back again
and it's you my friend who's fired
the first shot into my veins

Oh fuck! the rush
my god, the quake
I tremble, you brush by
the slight chill of your passivity
just simply drives me wild

Now love who bares no ego
well not one I've yet to find
your hair has broken free it's bounds
slipped forward, hides your eyes
and if I'm found bold enough to meet your gaze
through each strand fallen reflexively into place
my stomach twists up inside itself
goose-bumps assault my thighs
Oh fuck my love!
you're intensity electrified
I'm melted, paralyzed
and oh more than ever willing
to fill your glass along with mine

I want to seep into your skin love
I want to feel you when I breathe
I want your hands upon my wrists
I want to feel the squeeze
of my heart and brain and tingling hips love
waging war upon one another
for your eyes to drift in a direction
of most intimate consequences
I want these brutal wrenches of affection

Bring me to my knees love
hold my hair, draw up my eyes
to meet yours as you strip those strings
love SHOCK me left and right
take it slow
subtle one
I'm keen to anticipate
I can smell antiquity
flowing through your blood
you see for now love
I'm most content
just trying to catch
the lighting bolts
off of your eyes as they reflect
I need it

my body's at war with itself and you're winning

Monday, January 07, 2008

I refuse to believe
that growing up means
you hafta stop acting
like a rockstar

Little boy
stomping his feet
smashing his fists
in the air
screaming like a
hell bat
balling out his eyes
cursing the stars
biting his lip
'cause we took
those scissors to his head
and all he could say was
'put it back'
'put my hair back'

I always worry
'bout gravity givin' up
and being sucked into
Black Nothing Space
But I wonder if
atleast to the stars
we would be beautiful
like a meteor shower

I used to see God in her eyes
especially when she cried
But I swear
I smelled Satan
on her breath tonight

Saturday, January 05, 2008

she sits on the front steps
wearing his old t-shirt
which drapes over her legs
wrapping her up in his scent
she watches the rain fall
slow and steady
as the t-shirt
to her body
like she clings
to his sepia memories
and his scent
slowly washes away
as the rain rolls

common courtesy

you talk too much
over dramatic lush
without the good grace
to bow your head
and it breaks my heart to feel this way
for I've loved you through all these years
but yes there's someone new I see
cause each time I see you
you're a child, ungrateful and self absorbed
and it's always the end of the world

a revision of friendship

somewhere in the heat of it all
we started making love
with the lights on
I guess it was about time,
we've known each other long enough

and somewhere in some dark sports bar
in some bitter cold dead town
just a ghost and a memory to us now
over drinks we didn't buy
cause seriously,
no barkeep in their right mind
charges the homecoming king and queen
for anything
we decide to make love for the rest of our lives

and it's ours
something unspoken
that single bar room moment
and you'll go home to your wife or lover
as I do the same
somewhere down the road
and we'll never bank on anything
I'll just find you
or you'll find me
if the mood is right
somewhere where the lights are on

Thursday, January 03, 2008

What do you do with that??

So, I got a phone call from my mother this morning. A friend of mine had committed suicide last night. I used to work with this guy and I never saw this coming.

After I got off the phone, I sat down and just thought about what had happened for alittle while. The usual questions came up..."How did he do it?"; "maybe it was an accident."; "I wonder if his wife will sleep there, tonight."

the one that has stuck with me though is: "What do you do with that note?"

If it was Hunter S. Thompson's? I'd frame it! He had that sense of humor, it seems.

But what do you do with John Smith's suicide note? Do you throw that away? Do you burn it? Do you keep it in a box under your bed with all of your love letters and Valentine's Day cards?

What do you do with a suicide note?

Wednesday, January 02, 2008

Kite flying weather 1

I want to paint this place
Because everything’s better with color
And because then
I’ll have
An appropriate place
To wait for kite flying weather

Tuesday, January 01, 2008

Are We Locked In?

put down the bottle
and help me find my arms
because in all these warm layers
of tricks and secrets
they could be anywhere
somewhere in the folds
maybe we'll find a memory
you hoped never to see again
and you lift that bottle again
high and eager
trying to taste the bottom
the hot burn of bourbon
sets a flame under your tongue
so you can burn down
anything I come up with
and we stand here in the dark
that if we'd just screw the damned light bulbs in
we wouldn't keep falling down stairs