Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Have you ever gotten to the bottom of a bottle of port and, at the last sip, tasted a thicker, creamier contentment than the entirety of the rest of the bottle all together? Mac knows, and now that i think about it over this last sip of ruby port, so do i.

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

A New Years Resolution

Contemplating 2008 (and why I should stop thinking about things way too much).

After all the excessive New Years drinking, I started the year clearheadedly.
It is ending shortly, and I am quite perplexed.


like under water right before you surface
like ringing in your ears before the loss of consciousness
like the calm before the storm

my heart hurts like buckley

Saturday, December 27, 2008

he said,

"a man only sees the big sky
bleed all sunrise
a finite
number of times"

before the bridge

he drug
a cigarette
cuz he was tired
in the morning

and when he believed in reincarnation
he claimed he wanted to come back

i'm done with beauty

i've stared to long
at human necks
and their skin
on new york bodies

and in the folds seen all the myth of it

the way beauty flows like injected fluid
from the gretta garbo eyes of the ghost
how it kills all razors and sparkle and iron on

how it jiggles in all the right places
like hollywood
but gets drunk and jiggles with all the wrong people
and then the places don't seem so right after all

how it evaporates

i've seen it in varied angles of light
i've seen it bottled and sealed and over priced
imported and crying
well off and aloof with the right curvature of the chin

in to many arcs on my sky
in to many silhouette lines
in to many cook book recipes and dime store novells
in chicago
in the sink

i'm done with beauty

Friday, December 26, 2008

confounded is a four letter word,

Monday, December 22, 2008

She said she loves the winter.
But me,
I have mixed feelings.
The cold wind always stings
my pink skin
and though the snow
looks pretty after the storm,
it always turns muddy
and I always slip on the ice.

Friday, December 19, 2008

Thoughts on the Movement (a conversation for Brownstone)

we've got one foot in the grave
and the other
it's on the outside
grasping at candles in the dark

we're unsure and stable
a thesaurus of
walking contradictions
spinning tangled webs of thought
and lies
that we weave
around and around
in Brooklyn pads
or diners
or karaoke bars

and I can't remember
what truth is
(like we ever began with truth in the first place)
but where did it go?
it changes from day to day
setting to setting
it's never the same

I love women
and faces
and poetry
and stories about bars or
strung out medicine men
spitting into cold springs
in hot jungles

I like the quiet of morning
and burning cigarettes
like they're air in my lungs
(though I know it's poison)
but maybe I like poison
the burn of what is real
scratching against my throat
and the pain of what hurts
because I know it's real

I've got one foot in the grave
and I'm not ready
to take it out just yet

where are you?
you don't return calls
and I feel abit forgotten
I think maybe
you've moved on
like I was your muse
or something that
you knew
you could always come home to
and maybe I was the one that wasn't there this time

I feel bad about that

our entire history
is full of
false hope
bad timing

we're great lovers
terrible friends
and just bad for eachother
but I got a girl
that love the world
just as much as me
and I still almost wish
I could share that with you

Nice Meeting You

I met a girl with captivating eyes
but I don't do well with strangers
I noticed her smile
and I looked away
her art was plastered against walls
her card
neatly tucked into a corner
we talked about coffee
I kept my eyes elsewhere
afraid of that stare
and what it might see
dirty soul
crooked smile
truth maybe

we walked on
I was alone in the cold
hundreds of strangers rushing
past and with and against
I sat in mexican restraunt
(the one with homemade tortilla)
unable to come up with the cash
for a burrito

we came back to the store
still I was unable
to see those eyes
I rambled about books
and made uncomfortable jokes
to no one in particular

on birthdat occasion
we spoke briefly
easier on the telephone
but still fearful
that your eyes could
see through the receiver
so I played a part
(a character I liked from a movie)

maybe it was the truth
in your eyes
that made me tremble
or maybe
your eyes were like sirens
and I had wax in my ears
knowing just how many a man
had crashed their ships
against your shores

we're at this standstill
or stalemate maybe
I don't think I'm ready
to hang my hat up just yet
but I want to
I want to be all about you
and spend evenings chatting
over candle lit romance
I want you to dissolve
into the collective with me
I want you to understand
the Creepknick and the Casualty
you're too damned far away
and part of me is still
lieing on the floor
in another state

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Diner Haiku #7

if i got no soul
this cigarette smoke's as good
a sub as any

Diner Haiku #6

this is a homeless
poem, wandrin' pages for
straight lines and edges

Diner Haiku #5

what else can i write
with too much caffeine, too few
syllables left, and

Diner Haiku #4

the storm clouds they are
a' brewin, and all we got
are umbrella dreams

Diner Haiku #3

she blows cigarette
smoke, like a volcano just
after lava bursts

Tuesday, December 09, 2008

Diner Haiku #2

eagles only soar
as high and noble as the
flag poles they rest on

Diner Haiku #1

orange is never
as innocent as yellow
or lusty as red

I never thanked you for holding me last night

You started talking about one thing,
The rent that was due and your roommate
Who once again couldn’t pay their share because
“Hey man, I covered you at last week’s Battle of the Bands, remember?”

You then realized that you would have to
Tell your father about the rent, which
He would yell at you for hours about
Responsibility, about standing up for yourself,

About not letting people take advantage of you
Even though sometimes the only way
To really know that is to take those chances.

The night ended with you crying
About how all this reminds you
That your mom isn’t there anymore
And that you really are alone. I held
Onto you, kissing you intermittently

Between tears to let you know that
It would all be okay, without actually
Saying “It will all be okay,”
Because no one wants to hear that
When it just isn’t okay.

You called me today, two days after that night,
Thanking me for holding you as you cried,
Not knowing that this morning I woke up
Feeling unsure about myself,
Because last night we drove in silence

And had to resort to static radio for solace.
I started to wonder if I was treating you right,
Or treating any relationship with any person right, or
If I’m leading the life I’m supposed to lead
And not just mucking through dead air

Waiting in despair and desperation
Until your phone call,
Thanking me,
And letting me know
That I got something right.

Tennessee Dusk

Nights were filled with
Liquor-fueled drives
Careening across that
Tennessean landscape
Whose charming sun and
Stars at dusk were normally
Hidden behind the clouds
Of Jersey City skylines.

Mornings were filled with
Passionate hangovers
And the lust for what that
Day could bring us;
We would just shut our
Eyes off long enough
To forget that such a
Word as regret existed.

We took many chances
Throughout those rock n
Roll Tennessean nights,
Hoping the gods would
Invoke good luck on us
And getting a little bit of it
When we least expected it.

It was only a matter of time,
Even the gods run out of luck,
And we are left to pick up the
Pieces of what we won and lost,
Hoping to even out in the end.

Youth Laced Courage

bring me back
to the Highland
Grove community pool
where Aunt Rosie
would take us,
where the rocks
jutted out just
below the sand
that we dove
through to hit
the volley ball
for one more
chance to win,
where we would
sink below the
water and brave
the very limits
of Life Itself
just to see
which of us
could do it,
where we never
dreaded about cutting
our feet on
the dirt hills
and rusty fences
because the ice
cream truck’s striking
bells instilled courage
in our hearts.

bring me back
to when we
rode our bicycles
down Oakly Hill
without helmets so
we could actually
feel the wind
on our faces,
as the gods
watched and laughed
when we landed

personally, i love the shapes of poems
orbs revolving a great fiery truth

weightless and grave, they never quite touch it
if they did they'd incinerate

who can resist it?
who doesn't love physics?

the world caught fire and burned down here
the air, rich with white ash, ripens
the clean earth sears

Monday, December 08, 2008

We argued about words
you said that words
come from
that that is
what they mean,
that to be
"prejudice" was
worse than being
That prejudice people
judge other people
and that racist people
are simply aware of
racial issues.

But I argued that words
don't come from dictionaries
but from people's mouths
and then they enter dictionaries
and to be a racist
was a lot worse
than being prejudice
maybe its that hard "st"
sound at the end
the sudden stop of the word
but being prejudice
flows and sounds
more official
like some political
or a religious movement
that woin't go away

I write in three places
my car
in class
and at readings
One when I'm
traveling at 60 mph
one when I'm
infecting minds
the third when my
mind gets infected

you always carried a pen
and that was really important to me
Thanks for carrying
pens for me
I don't think they
were for me
but thank you

Form doesn't matter
sonnets, freeverse
it doesn't matter at all
all that matters
is getting that
written word
from my brain
to some page
to my mouth
to your ears
to your brain
form doesn't matter
rhyme scheme doesn't
iambic pentameter
doesn't matter
communication is
all that matters
in poetry
in music
in paintings
in anything really

Friday, December 05, 2008

Sometimes I wonder

when you storm out the door

out of control

steaming and screaming like a boiling tea pot

that you're getting your gun

do you really have one?

are you really going to get it

and are you frustrated enough

to place it between my eyes upon return

and tell me how much you love me

while your pulling the trigger?....

Art is an enduranace sport.
This far into autumn, the cherry tree still takes me apart.

I am warm, red tipped
Though the world thins, the birds too busy for metaphors.

I keep hurling devotions, crying holy cries
To the whitenening sky, the coming nothing.

Thursday, December 04, 2008

on some bright morning
they'll find me
staring blank
and cold
finally at ease
finally smiling
off to happier times
waiting for the white stones
to pile higher than black ones
or seeing through the dream
and traveling on
down narrow path
through valley streams
and mountain steam

on some bright morning
I'll find you
gone from this world
on to the next
hoping those white stones
are piled high
prayin' you see through
the dream of that devil
death god
and leavin' you
two silver dollars
kiss your vessel
and see you once again
on the far shore

Monday, December 01, 2008

Sometimes, I don't get any sleep-
but I never stop dreaming.