Thursday, November 26, 2009

Two for 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

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

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
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
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


statistical improbabilities


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
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
sandstone eyes

Sunday, November 22, 2009

poem written on a lap top at a bar

I've not seen
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

Saturday, November 21, 2009

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

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

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

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

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


has always been
a perfect season
to feel all of the earth's
great mass
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

and the sky is all holy painted the way
clouds just whispy enough crawl
past the sadest
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
angel wing
sea of atmosphere
guided gently
and unarguably
by the certain gravity
of the earth's great mass

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

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


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
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

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

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

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

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

of mad lonely
in the flesh with
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
the words collected and strained
from rivers
through tight lips
from car windows
at 90
the whole rabid world
blowin by
these are women and men
with something
trapped or breaking
these are symbols

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

he was romantic
tears in the knees
of his jeans
as silhouette
in the doorway
into another night
of car headlamps
as roads to heaven
and damp

Thursday, November 05, 2009

the kittens are hogs!

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

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

train station

hustle and bustle of
rush hour
i, girl with the busted car,
shockingly patient
for the 8am train
Waits on the ipod
cold caffeine stains
on my scarf
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


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


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

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

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