Sunday, December 04, 2011

Dead Celebrity

I am a dead celebrity
I have the latest hit
my name echoes acrossed the radio waves
my voice is heard by millions everday
I gave my name to a foundation
to help the poor children
of the latest flood
in the latest country of poverty
to the freshly aknowledged regime
of the most powerful and compelling story
on the latest news feed
I am a dead celebrity
My movie came out last Summer
I've been nominated
I've been concidered
for all the awards
for all the acolades
for the life time achievement
thanks to my tireless efforts
for my undying support
of whoever and whatever
I agreed to smile about
and speak of on camera
I am a dead celebrity
my clothing line just released
the "Black Collection" in my honor
and my fragrance
available at any upscale department outlet
just released the memorial collector's package
the same spray
in the same bottle
wrapped in a black velvet sack
this year of our lord
printed in gold ink
Fifteen percent of our proceeds
go to the starving/ hurting/ troubled peoples of...
see reference above
I am a dead celebrity
there will be men and women who earn thier names
who deserve a place in history
but manifest the character
to step aside and make a space
for my Gucci ensemble
and the beautiful plastic piece of nothing
I carry on my arm
They'll all cry at my ceremony
They'll all meet at my restaraunt
I co-own with Bruce Willis
try the Calamari
pair it with the suggested wine
don't forget to buy my comemorative key chain
and sing my song at Christmas
light a candle for me before you rest
light a candle for all I've earned
for my tortured time

Friday, November 25, 2011

I am the buffalo contemplating barbed wire
confused by the world that hands of men have built around me
but in awe of their ingenuity
the craftsmanship found in small objects
and the belief that they will live


It starts slowly
creeping up the back of my neck
until it's whispering in my ear

we are all riding an escalator
up up up
and at the top just darkness
or a guillotine
or a firing squad
whichever end you may find yourself choosing
but it's inevitable

you hit terminal velocity the day you were born

and it's somewhat unfair
because you didn't choose this for yourself
which begs the question

if given the choice
would you choose existing
knowing full well
that someday you would blink
back out of existence once again?

Godspeed and have a good death.


If Betelegeuse goes supernova
and night turns to day
if the moon hides
behind the gamma ray burst
and starlight rules the sky
I will hold on to you
until darkness returns

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Traffic Violations

I often mistake Stop
Signs for Yield Signs,
And I think I have the
Go ahead then POW!
Now I gotta explain
How I thought the
S-T-O-P looked like a
Y-I-E-L-D, even though
Not a single letter is
Shared between the two,
Or how in my eyes, the
Octagon lost five sides and
Morphed into a down-
Facing triangle.

I also need to read Traffic
Signals better, but Red
Inevitably flows to Yellow
Inevitably flows to Green,
All those colors blending
And easy to

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Halloween for The Walking Dead English

The night's October air
came with a ghostly whistling wind
the corn fields leaned away from the air
and let the still terror in
The power had been out for days
a storm had been approaching
the battery powered radio told the tale
of the evil encroaching
The windows and the doorways
were boarded/nailed/obstructed
the few stations left on air
read off names of those abducted
"These creatures in our towns and streets
are not monsters from our fiction
the drones ravaging cars and homes
don't follow film restrictions..."
Mae and I were wrapped together
huddled on the floor
lamps extinguished, beliefs relinquished
as the dead came to our door
The wood began to creek
from the rotted front porch stairs
Mae was screaming behind my hand
when they broke through the wicker chairs
We heard naked bone scrape the doors
flesh-flies came through broken glass
the smell of death and stagnant blood
came wafting brisk and fast
The pine was snapping, dead skin clapping
breaking through our home
moaning, growling, slobbered scowling
we, together, are alone
Through the darkness of our dining room
come faces plagued with sores and gashes
we kick backward into the fireplace
sitting/hiding in the ashes
As the first wave comes we kill the rum
Mae's drug screaming from the scene
They pass her back like army ants
and soon her bones are clean
They lay thier teeth into my legs
I start to bleed and scream
and as I go my last real thought...
My first real Halloween

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Turn Back As We Go Our Ways: An (re)Arrangement, in parts, by Missing You

Gosh how I miss the way you sit, one leg bent
With your guitar rest against your belly...

I miss your turned out feet and
The way you sleep
with your eyes covered by the hands you create with

I miss the tobacco in your teeth and the moments you sneak away off into the folds to
Right before you step in front of an audience with only your guitar to lean on
Your dear friend.

I miss the start of your song
right before it's born
when it's still in the womb
and watching it turn
into a masterpiece grown

I miss the shake in your leg when your on cocaine or just excited about the music.

I miss the coffee drip
your fingertips
Their calluses
Their stains

The crumbs in my bed
From 2am picnic's
choosing netflicks
pressing buttons
Taming the beast
Squeezing your hands
Your sigh of relief

I miss you drunk in the dark I miss your legs curled up with mine as we wrestle the sheets.
I miss simple things like the silent passing of our time and the sound of your lighter as it hits the street.

Your socks on my floor
playing cards everywhere
The metaphors throughout your stories
You losing your pouches

The sweet n low
Your cup 1/2 full
The ice you chew
The smokes you roll
Butts left all over

I miss falling into a kiss
the tension and release
And your shyness
Your hand on my knee at the movies

I miss the haze in your eyes
After you've gotten high
That mischievous smile
and having someone to bring leftovers home to

I miss your concern when I do my work or for the Gypsy I insist you can't cage

I miss the baths you draw
and what the fuck
Your hair amok
Shirt half untucked

I miss you most in the morning, right out of our dreams
Yours you can't recall,
mine I replay you everything
Sarcastic and silly witting, laughter ringing 
off the bedroom walls

I miss the tricks up your sleeve and
How you make me believe
In magic, in myself, in love

I miss catching your eyes and knowing that you see a part of me 
I miss you catching my eyes and showing a part of you to me....

I miss....

Friday, October 14, 2011

The Leap Frogs

took you to the leap frogs
walking between the sleeping buildings of downtown San Francisco
the time of night that makes a ghost out of the city
a coward of the brave by daylight
In a quiet you can count your blessings on

the city is a faker
and the daylight her disguise
people running around
carving their marks
her skin bleeds

in the quiet, in the still, as a ghost
She licks her wounds by moon and streetlight
breathes deep
and can finally be at peace

took you to see the leap frogs
because they are one of her subtle scars
because in the dark, in the silence, in the still
You see the scar solely
without the daylight to blind you
without the busy distracting mask
you learn all her secrets

that's how I know her
in the dark, still, alone
she is so far beyond beautiful
with her leap frog scar

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Birthday Poem

In this dream
You are the only one who knows you
Don't think that anyone else can see your self
You are vast 
A well with no bottom
You are a speck 
Dust in the eye of the dream

You were once a plant
You were once a vapor
You were once a cold stone 
a sip of water
a scratch
a beam of light

You were once nothing

You were given a birth and you will be given a death

Nothing is taken from you
Only rearranged 
Into different forms 
Nothing is created
Only realized 
Creation is simply a silence waiting to be heard by your self

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

laying on the floor
eyes fixed on the ceiling
deep in his lungs
Lot told me about the black dog in Boulder
who's face was ripped off by a car
while he stood waiting
for the light to change

as he spoke
he relived it
watching the blood pour
from where its face had been

unable to understand
why no one
did anything
as it lay in the road

even he
did nothing
but stare
and that, he hates

i think
in his life since then
in little ways
he's trying
to make up for that one moment
where he could have
eased the suffering 

where he could have done something

Monday, October 10, 2011

the friends we were and the nothing we are

Don't you worry darlin
Well I'm through you know
being so unpredictable
Don't you worry darlin
I'm no longer a surprise
We'll take the low road darlin
The same road every time
Cause I wouldn't want to turn
the pretty world you've built
From out to the inside

No I wouldn't want to hurt you darlin
Or leave you like you left me
All tied up and confused my darlin
Questioning everything

What I want for you is simple darlin
Like names carved on a tree
Like the fog in San Francisco
Or vanilla coned ice cream
So don't you worry darlin
You can count on me

To make no noise
To shake your hand
To smile nice
without catching your eye
That's how benign
our friendship will be
Like we've met only once or twice
Not like we were once a team

And I'll tuck my love in an envelope
address it with your name
And keep it between a book folds
For some down the line rainy day
When your life turns outside in
And you long for a familiar friend
Who's love remains the same
long after times had it's way
long after the threat I was back then

what you get when you ask for it

Kirk met her in the bar of the Mont Blu after the show
She was tripped up and absent
Spent what seemed like hours trying to catch the bartenders attention
Bought five shots of tequila with her friends and threw em back like a deep breath
She had a white bangled tiger fanny pack hugging her hip and a black bear backpack with cans of cheap beer in it
There was no truth behind her smile that night, until she met him
She got jacked up and taught us all how to smoke a 4 inch cigarette
They watched the bar fill up then empty out again
picture time laps photography in slow motion
they talked about everything
"Keep no secrets between strangers
this evening" he said.
And in the morning, as the sun rose waking the rest of Tahoe
They followed each other around the whirling casino
Not wanting to let go
Glasses of rocks and whiskey full
Until management would have no more of it
So they packed their bags and left
Phones dead
Cat shit breath
She by westie, with two good friends
he in a limo, filled to the brim
And that's the way it went
Que sera sera
The end

Sunday, October 09, 2011

the smoke on the steps

10000 butts on the back step
twice as many words
the pipes
bent off the buildings side
prepped and willing
to be fucked
by the crawling ivy

There is a tight space
under a yellow light
only wide enough
to fit two across
where history was made
and repeated
every weekend
and on Tuesdays fortunate enough

we all made friends
fucked eachother
and moved away

that stale cigarette smell
waxing the moon
10000 butts
twice as many words

Melancholy Centerfold

my friend Josh and I have been fooling around with lines on our texty machines, this is our next big hit ;-)

Melancholy centerfold
Beautiful dangerous
Cherry red lips, gun in her purse
The bagman said three more dollars and girl you got the whole universe
Just three more dollars that's all it took for a million dollar smile in a short black skirt, we'll make it work...

Million dollar smile short black skirt, baby I got a chevy and a sleeveless shirt
A fix, a flight, she curves like the road with reckless class, she feels so old, she grabs my hand cause it's all she'll ever know
She's a crash and burn, crash and burn, she's a never learn

He's a young man in an old mans game. Its too much trouble sometimes to remember that name
At the end of the day on the front of the page, memories are all they make
That's all he can give, it's all she can take
She doesn't want your pretty words
They won't make her beautiful

Melancholy centerfold
all your secrets have been told
In black and white, on the news last night
Didn't you think to hide
Some deep inside
The dark and cold
To whisper to the reaper when he calls you home

Didn't you think to hide
some deep inside?
She doesn't want your pretty words....

Monday, September 26, 2011

Thirsty Strangers in a House of Cards

The room was falling down around us
Paint chipped off the molding walls
Each morning waking my back to yours
A heavy fog in my lungs

Our bodies had melded together
Our hearts our wounds our clothes
But the room was falling down around us
As we tried to ignore our scars

So I took your knife and sliced my deepest vice back to life
Tracing the blade down lines the past had left
Bleeding out to let you in, to heal again
Then leaving you, salt in the wound, with the rest of them

Some loves you can't just hide
They live inside you like a parasite
You're sick with it for your life
Like a drug to get you by

You were the drug that got me by
And now you're an overdose
One more fall off the tightrope
Only this time I fall from great heights

And the room falls down around us
I hit the floor as the ceiling hits my head
Pinned under years of scars and buildings
My heart crushed with the weight of it

Loves the drug that'll kill us
it'll hang us by our necks till death
you see we're both in love with loving
and the ones we use it with

I'm an addict
just like you
between the walls of this room
you know everything

leave me, let me be.....
Alone again

Sunday, September 25, 2011


a night of regrets
followed by the awkward sun
rising to greet fools

slender fingers grip the
the car
glides toward the horizon
clouds slowly, peel back
like curtains
and the white world cracks open
wide-eyed and blind
she reaches out and
grabs it.

Night skies loom above
wearing the stars
draped as elegant gems
and she layed underneath the moon
her skin glowing
cast in antique silver

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

My Thoughts As Microwaves

I write atleast 3 poems a day
most of them never make it to paper
but i like to think
the poems I wrote that perished
somewhere inside of my head
made it out alive and are floating
somewhere in outer space

Someday when I am gone
some future race
or one of my distant descendants
will discover some new frequency
beaming back from deep space
and they'll hear these thoughts and poems
the ones I've lost and assumed dead
and maybe it will start some sort of
renaissance or revolution or
atleast send them looking
farther than any man has gone before

and I'll be alive in their hearts and minds
and they will discuss me in university classrooms
and some will claim in the Devil
while others will say I'm God
children will be named after the men and women in my stories
people will wage war in my name
people will fight and die for me
my stories will be passed down from generation to generation
and they will write it all down and make it into a book
and leave it in nightstands at cheap motels
and I will be on the Best Sellers list for a thousand years


the white haired scientist
tinkering in their basement
that brilliant descendant of mine
will tune in to the frequency beaming back
to this planet from the outer edges of space
thousands of years from now
and pass right over it
unable to find any beauty within all the white noise

Friday, September 09, 2011

For us, if we weren't so confused

You were kept in a weird way
Alive like a flower under glass
We were close enough to know it well
This time would never last

Cause there's a giving and a taking
That comes with all you are
There's a yesterday and tomorrow
That leaves us with what we have right now

There's a captured flag upon a hill
A lighthouse in a storm
There's a fall and bottles bottom
That leads you to rebirth

I could hold you once upon a time
And laugh between the sheets
Cause the day is something sacred
That neither one of us can keep

And within words you've abandoned
And under fuller moons
There's a breaking and a saving
Ending a love thats true

Prayed for New Eyes

She prayed for new eyes
and soon thereafter fell
Into fever pitch
For seven days
She saw shadowed crowds
at the foot of her bed
Leaning in
For five days
She ate nothing
she slept
For three days
Her eyes bled

And when it broke
She was alone
Her eyes opened
and in her blindness
She saw
The truths she always knew
Only more clearly

from a cold couch in the house of my love

Wake up smelling my own sweat
And a bottle I danced into the night with
Up with the dawn the dogs and the rooster crows
Up with a paining heart in my chest
I'm a mess

What can you come home to
When home is what you left
What can you turn to
After all, the times been spent
What have you got
Turned your pockets out
Again and again
An empty head

I don't miss myself when I'm gone

Tied a shoelace
Made a fist
Crossed your fingers
Wished for this

I'll be gone for weeks now
I'll be gone as dead
I'll be too tired form sleeping
And playin for pretend

Tossed a coin
Took a shot
Head on fire
Body shock

If  I never thought of you
If  I never came
If  I never thought of you
You would be the same

Thursday, September 08, 2011

little bits

All the dogs you know have nightmares
They'll kick you in their sleep

There's a song in you everyday
that puts the breath back in me
Makes me believe tomorrow exists

Somethings are so much
that you're not yourself
but everything at once

I see your shoulder blades
curve with the chair made
just for the way you sit there

You breathe
asleep like the ocean
back n forth motions
and I am a ship lost at sea
under a starless sky

What is life but a million little distractions happening at once

shit end of the stick

The air was dry
I was dirty tired
And missin a home I hadn't made yet

You were there
You had cut your hair
And I was sad about it
Two ships in the night
Just passing by
You won't wake me in the morning
And a taste that was bad
Left in our mouths
From shit we ate
That rainy day
We went our ways
Smiles replaced

Now here in a home I have yet to make
One that was once yours
You no longer can take
I wish I could see you
For what you are now
And not just remember
Moments of ours

And part of me hates you
For shining your light
For rooftops and kisses
Stolen that night
That part of me hates you
The same part that regrets
those moments of weakness
Where I let you in

They're selling the mountains
One by one
To the highest bidder
At the landscape auction

They're selling the rivers
The stones in the streams
The grass in the pastures
The leaves on the trees

There's a lake over yonder with a couple of geese
Cost me my savings, threw the geese in for free
But they come and they go as they please
There are parts of the wild that you just can't keep

things i wont tell you

Encroaching on your territory and doing things I won't be able to take back. The past has left me crippled. I don't believe you in late loud rooms, I don't believe you drunk in the dark. Your pretty words are grains of sand strung on a hair like pearls and if truth was the needle used to string them there I'd be that needles pull. If I could believe you it'd be in the morning, in your bitter sleepy haze. You before the coffee drips, you right off the dream. That's where I love you forever. There you're made of gold. There nothing else matters. There we tear down walls we've built. Exposing ourselves in simple forms and laughing at the stones we've thrown.

The rain does to the sky
What I can not do to my eyes
For my heart

What hurts most
Is forcing yourself out of love

Like a moth winding back into its cocoon
Or dislocating a shoulder
Pulling a mangled tape from a tape player
Holding your breath

Trying to fit back into some form of yourself
So small
When you've grown swollen with the entire beauty of the world

Somethings just right
Soft and light

You played that song
Down on the docks
I dipped in my toe
And watched the ripple
Out to sea

Monday, September 05, 2011


The church towers over the
neighborhood. It
is a constant reminder
that you are being watched.
Over your shoulder, peeking
at you between buildings,
always the center
your line of sight.

Maniac street sweeper does
not care about your life
or property. He is an urban
glacier, remaking the

Ticket puncher or token taker,
squeezed into her daily costume
tries to shake off her skin.
She is tightly packed gunpowder.
Her hair is her is glowing
and her walk impresses concrete.

old man drags a dolly down
the street and stops
in front of the church. He
genuflects and bows his head.

He crosses himself. He lets
go of his cargo because
the church doors are open on
this August morning and he
has a direct view across the street
and up the stairs and over the pews
to the tabernacle.

His mother leaning over his shoulder
“Mostrar respeto. Es su lugar
de ser humilde.”
She fears brick and
placates mortar. She raised
masonry missionaries.
This city is a church
built on bones.
The earth is too much, you
must place your faith
into what is cut into it.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

money cant buy happiness but it can rent louise

elastic stretched thin the mind bends on
we're slobs in defense of an over turned blonde
pintos out of fuel and she starts walking in the rain
gonna beat the train to levettown on those stems again...
the bombshell shes afflicted
and her fathers still addicted
one more junky promise
just a score to beat the ages

now me thinks she dont protest enough
one night standing on a broken heel
laughing at traffic in the down pour of the century
shes got a diamond in her handbag and a gold tooth collection
every soldier she encounters has a name that sounds familiar
but they left no room for error or for jesus on the dance floor

night comes breathing heavy on the neck of bitter days
they tumble in seductive outbursts
dipped in cherry flavoured lip balm
on my better days im know to all the fellas as louise
but if you get me far away from Bristol ill be any one you please

now mister,
can you help a disaster find a payphone and a shot
bourbon if your buying penicillin if your not
cause theres a round of applause after the audience is gone
and im left to my devices looking for the perfect john.

Monday, August 08, 2011

Count it

There are somethings she can always count on in life
Her father will always call
From a loud bar
And shout conversation
Over 12 states and breaking bottles

There will be two to three calls a night all from her brother
at least three times a week
Anywhere between 10pm and 3am pacific coast time
Slurring on the front porch
Recapping the entire evening
Over and over

She continues to attract men with current or prior opiate addictions.
Or men at the bottom of a bottle.
She won't ever trust one of them.
Or become an alcoholic.

Everything she knows about romance is a fairy tail.
She is jaded in the right light.
She is as constant as a dial tone.
And as lonely.

Her phone rings
It must be around 11pm
She doesn't answer it.

Friday, August 05, 2011

My Own Shadow

I thought I saw a man
in the corner of my room
where dusty memories gather
where ugly troubles loom

something in the shadows
made it look like he was hurt
clutching at his ear
blood running through his shirt

I kept blinking hard and peering
hoped he'd go away
but he just chewed at all my loose leaf
turning black and white to grey

as I trembled he made smiles
as I whispered he would grunt
in the darkness of my bedroom
I felt around for something blunt

he spun quick and the eye contact rattled me
he tossed a notebook against the wall
as he hissed and lifted I went missing
scrambling witless down the hall

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Joshua's Father

another woman has left my life
she took my boy
while I was riding through deserts and deltas
painting the story with a pen
hidden in my leather
I kept everything on a page back then
I wept at the western sky
hallucinating under still thin clouds
with a man I never thought I'd lose

I found my boy and taught him quickly
early tests and violent evenings
in the room we called a home
I begged my brother for sanctuary
I found a moment I'd hold on to
in these precious years
we were learning each other
and teaching each other
I didn't even see it then
I think maybe he did

another woman left my life
when everything was tying up nicely
when everyone was proud
she walked off the mesa
she dragged me around
and cut the string when the boy finally spoke
we were back out in the cold
we were throwing dice every minute
landed in a box full of roaches
with a lot of literature at the bed side
and I force fed him
the chemical plant had me bleeding
any time I'd open my mouth
but there were basketballs and rayguns
gluing us together
even after midnight
the pipes burst and the room was sour
and our clothing
always musty
but we could laugh
at all six channels
and the sharp young things he'd say

another woman left my life
and I found the wet floor of a bottle
I'd been swimming in for five years
she took my boy with her
and I breathed hard for every inhale
sitting at my window
in a cold and lonely loft
I had an Irish flag outside
to signal him home
but he never came
everything bled back onto paper
everything bled back to the night
and I sat cold and wrong and drunk
my fore head against a window pane
my eyes so closed and tight
my boy was dead last year
and I'd have never known
if I hadn't crossed the railroad tracks
that would wake him every night
when the cars banged past our home
in those early hours
when we had forever
to kick at each other
just to get some rest

I know my boy is out there starving
I know my boy is hard and wise
If he remembers me anymore
if he sees me in his mirrors
maybe I'll have a real moment again
when he finally finds my porch
when he finally calls my name
all the blood I've breathed
all the glass I've put my hands through
will shape into a message
that even I can get back home

Friday, July 22, 2011

Where has he Been

I've danced with the worst of them
I drank fire from the glass
I spoke with mystics and vagabonds
and found futures in their pasts

I sold ketamine cigarettes
to fiends hiding 'neath the crowd
I took the show from the showmen
and gave it back to the loud

I saw Renaissance killers dying
I saw new wave glisteners rise
I saw young rich boys practice politics
and fed them brand new lies

I threw stones at a street messiah
I've worn a razor wire crown
I've poisoned my genetic mother
and took another family dinner down

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Another Thanksgiving with Arlo Guthrie

my father sat down on the edge of the bed
I was on the other side
trying to get my tie right
before he noticed I'd forgotten again
we had a "portable stereo"
back when a portable stereo
looked like a cinder block
he pulled a cassette from his jacket
slid it in
and pressed play
back when you'd have to actually press it
and soon we were once again
having our ritual
'Alice's Restaurant' had to play
in our bedroom
(we shared a bedroom in a tenement building)
before dinner with the family
I'm on my ninth try with this neck tie
my father broke out a homemade pipe
gave me a quick trust wink
and filled it from baggie at his side
my silk tie
now full of wrinkles and awkward folds
is being aggressively spun around my neck
quick and angry
stylishly violent
my father's gulping from a glass of bourbon
smiling at his favorite lines
between puffs from his pipe
Arlo's almost done
my tie now looks like a ball of used duct tape
my father exhales his last from the pipe
he looks back at me
and says
"We have matching Irish sweaters in the closet"

Monday, July 11, 2011

Things I Know and Don't

The economy
is a tad-bit dreary
and separated
from our common manifestos:

Call everyone a jerk
and fuck off
to the whole notion
that love is
really all we need

you’ll see when you get there.

Break away.
Travel far beyond
your wildest nightmares.
Dream dreams upon dreams
upon dreams,

of early twilight,
rising in the cold wood
of the oak,

and count all the moments
of freedom
as they drop in.

Watch all the rains

as they leave
me breathless
and you...

well, and you,

to that which I will never know.

Say la vi,
I guess.

My Poem About Music

My Poem About Music

my poem about music
simply because
words cannot be
what music does

the delicate state of things
wound up and unwound
till temporary eternity
returns as real eternity
for just a moment

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

The Closing Hour for Her

her nail polish made her fingertips look like jade
and she painted watercolor landscapes on her window shades
and she only drank tequila in pink lemonade
but she'd make the saddest man fake a smile

she had extra tall veins popping out of her hands
and she only knew two songs from all her favorite bands
and she'd talk about how much she hated their fans
and the worthlessness of what they call 'style'

she rode the bus every morning and the train every night
she said just because she liked the change of the light
when she wakes the train's boring but going home the bus is bright
and it stings her eyes when she sleeps

she kept all her favorite body parts in little mason jars
her toe nails, skin tags, and parts of her scars
she flossed with piano strings and strummed on guitars
and said, "at least this one gently weeps."

she had bull frogs hopping all around the kitchen
and her aunt lived in the attic and she'd run down bitchin'
about the walls that're moldy and her towel that's gone missin'
and the rust at the end of the hose

and the Mustang in the half shed was forty years old
with a cherry red finish and the edges in gold
and the sign on the windshield said, 'gone but not sold'
but she knows that everything goes

Tuesday, June 07, 2011

Just Now

every step I take
up this staircase
is one more step
I'll have to deal with
when I fall down

a ball
will only roll
in one direction
if your world
is just that slanted

you can't wake yourself up
if it's a nightmare
you can only pray the nightmare
wakes you up

words are empty
words have no weight
the trick is to make sure
your thoughts are heavy

City Boxer

walking bloody
damp and muddy
making change for scars
rigging games
exchanging names
taking bets in bars
slip your tongue
around your lungs
and preach to lesser scum
live the dream
and drown the steam
in sterile shots of rum
tie your laces
work your faces
tell the biggest lie
dance with punches
shake the touches
sell them all they'll buy
smokes for dollars
shots for hollers
bring the donkey down
you can manage
tear the bandage
off the wretched town

Monday, June 06, 2011

Clay and Castles and Temples

In the end
there is only one bond left
connecting us
to the underworld
and back again:

a single thread of yarn
used to hold water together.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

They say it's lonely at the top

But never speak of the bottom

I just want to rest

Somewhere in between

Somewhere that's forgotten

Friday, May 27, 2011

The Last Late Night Dance

maybe eye cancer

if you get sick
in a bar
on ladies night
none of these guys
are really doctors

I Wasn't there

I was just thinking about you
while you were thinking about me
I know you were
I wouldn't have thought of you
you must have just realized
exactly what this is
and you must feel stupid
you must feel betrayed
I can't pull that off of you
I can't ease this moment
I was drunk then
I was dreaming
and I thought you were
some one else

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Sun-kissed bliss

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

When the World Around you has Changed (aka...Leaving Newmarket)

I guess you cant stay in one place forever,
because the world around you has changed,
but you,
you haven’t,
and the still waters that run deep
through this town seem distanced
now that you are not
supposed to be here.

There are tears
joined with heavy places
that come at me
like a mountain top
comes down the mountain,

and though it spins me out
I feel awake, knowing
the weight I will leave soon
to rest with this forgotten place
will go lumbering off to live
another of its many lives,
overlapping, as change
outlasts us all.

I am left with nothing
but a solitary goodbye.

No words exchanged,
only sedimentary salutes
as silence hovers over dirt.

No understanding glances,
just the quite footsteps
as I walk away,
shedding my skin
like a snake
who has caught fire
in the underbrush
and is fighting

for everything in his life.

The World Happens

I saw a man with a steel pole pulling his teeth out
--one by one with his fingers.
I saw a vegetable, dressed up like Francesco Guillamotti,
--curving around in a Lexus automobile.

I saw a skylight pointed straight at the sun
--to blind the children with time honored shame.
I saw a rickety old wooden man, pushed to hard
--to smell all the roses he saw, break into tears.

I saw a dovetail, homeless, because he wanted to be
--for god sakes.
I saw ten roller derbies, five Japans and two Germanys
--throw rocks to spike blessings with spite.

I saw a teeny-tiny hand emerge, and hold onto the light
--for a year before it was ripped proudly away by others.

I saw a swan in the economy and wished him well, but
--I had no yogurt covered raisin to offer, so I sat silently,
--hands folded and empty, with blue dragons in the rain.

In Laundry Mats the Dog Years Go Flying By

Back when it was still legal
Dinosaurs ate each other for food
And orange prescription bottles
They could keep their marijuana in.

The Sea It Wishes

and the fishes
they don’t want to work on land

but we tumble hard to imagine

that without these tragedies and passions
we would all surely throw ourselves
right off a cliff

just to joust ourselves

and have a little fun
with bone crunching gravity


salt away your tears
in its blind rage

and let loose
your fundamental tensions
with the world
your mind fumbles

right into a beautiful pattern of colors

like a school of fish
swimming in the

If We Ever Meet Again (for amms)


If we ever meet again
we could both watch the sea
turn a bright red,

then purple
as the seagulls flew past

to a better world, where white
was as close to gray
as there was

and the spray of salt water
warmed the bones
like steam.

Or maybe the trees
would all grow peaches

and a thousand of them
could be heard
hitting the earth
at all times,

splattering against the world
like pink plastic paint
spilled from a 4th story window.



It is possible too
that they are right,
and nobody will come

running up to us
from the center
of the circus tent

to sweep us off our feet.



I think
that should we ever
really meet again

it will be the earth
who bows down
and sighs
with deep relief.

20 Prayers

If you only have twenty
prayers left,
then go ahead
and do thirty

plus the sacrifice
of an orange
peeled and presented
on a plate of used
titanium steel alloy

from the after market blowout
of 2017

when I was juxtaposed
to the idea of dancing.

I hurt when I am hurt
mostly because love
does not stand curiously by
awaiting our arrival
like a limo service guy
with his airport sign,

your family name
etched upon its surfaces.

The momentum from others' lives,
which we absorb
like darts

through our feet
to the cross roads
of our daily lives
leaves a small portion still
where Elvis screams

from a roof top
and sings,

ooh, laala lala
─ain’t this some world,
──────────────we be livin in
─oooh laala lalala
──────────────ain’t this some world.

Friday, May 20, 2011

i recal slipping further into the doorway, forgetting my self, the room i was in as well as the one that would follow. just a soft incoherent jumble of white noise combined with an inaudible scream that seemed to lack origin. a warm scent of sickly pine and sweet smoke fused in a nauseating aroma that challenges the stomach not to retch and recoil/ a lesser man would have been sick, and better men should, but this day, no meal would resurface in response to such an affront to the nervous system. instead, like fingernails clawing the pavement on the slow drag to the furnace, i resisted, swallowing my fears and what little breakfast i had not yet convinced my stomach to pass along.

Monday, May 16, 2011


We all make mistakes
so forgive yourself foolish one.

The bear who dances with the honey
has none left over
to bring to the pot luck,
and shows up empty handed again,

until next week,
when he will run into fences,
camping out beneath the stars,
zig-zagging his way across this
broken country alone

Sunday, May 15, 2011

The TV is Blaring

(Hey this a newer one and still maybe a work in progress)

The TV is blaring.
Ain't that some bullshit
I got myself wrapped up in.

The silence returns
and feels good,
warm and stable,

and fruitful.

The book of poets
that should be by my bed
is missing.

I still dream of it though.

Hard cover, green material,
and someones god
scrawled along the inside.

For now though,
that is a hard bridge to cross,
and the mental capacities are used up
in other ways.

The fruits of a different god.

A more demanding one,
where Math and Vectors
are the Kings and Queens.

A world so mysterious and bright
that even more straight lines
moving in a forwards direction
could not impede up on its beauty,

because I believe
humans and consciousness
and art and math
coalesce somewhere
in the 4th dimension,
and are attatched to Pluto,
or anything else
ranging across this
great complexity
with eternal and intimate

I Will Ride My Bike

I will ride my bike over $1.49
and into pizza shop windows

I will ride over the rainbows
and fall
my bike against my body
until the ground
shatters up against us

It is 11:19 in heaven:
you pull the covers from your face

Whole lifetimes that we are left
with only seconds to explore

I will ride my bike
and make the upholstered atmosphere my own

I will ride my bike
into a giant glass herd
of masking tape tree frogs
calling out blacklisted words
from a lengthy list

"Tantalize and Blueberry"
erupt from my lips
before I go reeling off the curb
like so many dinosaurs
before me



Oh America.
The land of the free.
Where the dumbass can do

whatever he wants to do.
And the honey from the bees is left
freezing in the combs,

as snow comes
to cover with a hushed whisper,
a tear,
and a silent prayer,

for the relentless tides.
Oh America.

The land where topsoil
is a legitimate topic of conversation,
and cheese means as much to people
as other people,

you shine your light
in some of the most fucked up
places of all time,

your glowing cock guiding the way
for us to follow
to some dumb ass
hotel complex

so we can jerk each other off
while playing pictionary,
because the normal way
is boring
and doesn’t so directly involve
our penises.

Me Ears Go Pop When I Go Up High

The hard roads
are the ones not taken
without cigarettes
in your little gay purse
that has stayed so blue
through so many
long winters.

Ahh, so the deeper the connection
the more confusing it is.
Who cares?


This life, or the next,
Are not that important,
Said the elephant,
Out in the rain
With the other elephants.

You Came into my Life (...for amms)

You came into my life
and out of my world, so fast
that the naked eye could not see it.

But you,
you saw it.
And me,
I felt it.

Yet still, lost moments
slipped past onto other moments
and the lives maybe lived
drifted like dust before us.

Enough to taste with our mouths
and sting our eyes on windy days,
but never enough to hold.

Never enough to run our hands through.
Never enough to pile up like sand
we could sculpt into a silly castle
and go running from

into the ocean, happy and free
as the waves of the sunlit sea
rolled just beyond us, breaking
before the lives we dreamed up
for each other could be ripped away
and carried
heartbreakingly into the
deep blue water.

The Life of the Party

The shampoo bottles
Were all white
And filled with soap
Like we were used to,
So we partied,

The tin man
Drank a tin cup
And almost died
By the weigh station,
So we stop partying
And put together a play
To make him feel better.

The fox was the good guy
Dressed in hard green fabric,
Like the disney movie.
The evil purple octopus
Almost swooped in one time
And ate the fox, but the badger
Was there to save him.

“Over the warm brown earth
Of sacrifice.” We all said
For that was the end of the party.

Feeling Sorry for Yourself

It is pain and reprisal
waiting motionless around every corner
like a lion sits, hungry and mad as a cow.

Bottomless and diffracting agelessness
the fish wonders who he is
now that fame has swept over him,

a blaring streak
pulled across his life story
the same way
a blunt object can deliver
near death experience
damage to your soft head.

It is During These Times I Dance...(literally)

Sometimes when you step inside yourself
You can feel the earth turn
And hear the warm sun hit the spreading oceans,
And even things from a thousand years ago seem close
And heartfelt.

Sometimes when you remember your whole life,
The black and the white of all the colors combined,
You can imagine how beautiful this all is
Compared to how beautiful this actually is
And be greatly humbled.

Sometimes the blue specks of red light fragment
And shoot lazer beams out into the sky
And past Jupiter, until, with head held high
You can march on to death and only wonder
About the giant smile across your face.

It is during these times I dance.

Men and Women

I could crack binary codes.

With the right kind of paper
I might even be able to bring my baby to the moon.
Swing her around and show her what it’s all about.

We could talk about the comets.
Blue cars with engines
and firefighters,
bright red as the sunshine from earth.

Call it what you will and I will throw rock shamans
into the sparkle
as these awful pink glory days of hypnotic cathedral bashing
go flying by.

Saturday, April 30, 2011

If You Want To Write Like I Do (I Doubt That You Do).

Take a memory,

pick it up and look at it.

Magnify it or

look at it through a loop,

like a diamond.


forget about it as if it never happened or

Exaggerate the shit out of it.


exaggerate the fuck out of it.

Never mind the fine details,

paint the picture of that memory

like a dream

because thats what it is.

Never write about right now.

Never write about the woman your with.

Never show your girlfriend your poems

just spring them on her at open mics.

Don’t invite her to your featured readings.

Whenever you’re unhappy with your writing,

claim you’ve retired or that you’re done writing.

Write secretly at work or in your bedroom.

Drink but don’t write drunk.

Throw out every other poem.

Throw out all of your best poetry,

this will keep you always trying to best the memory of that poem.

Write about nature and things you love.

Write about people you hardly know

or strangers.

Treat your woman well

and she will give you endless amounts of inspiration.

The Smallest Thing

The smallest things remind me of you,

like driving home drunk in a rain storm.

I’m brought back to the night when

I let you drive my car

trying to find some road

that lead to Manhattan.

We spent two hours arguing about the best route,

driving aimlessly on back streets

as you ranted about bridges

and I complained about my bladder.

You finally pulled over in front of a burned down house

somewhere in Harrison.

I pissed on the front steps

while you changed the radio station.

And we ended up at a diner in New Jersey

sometime after that.

The smallest things remind me of you.

I don’t think of California

without hearing your name somewhere in the back room

of my mind.

Every time I think of LA, I want to throw up.

I remember writing countless poems

about your ride on an escalator in Newark Airport,

crying and begging me to come with you;

spending sleepless nights on the phone with you;

spending sleepless nights waiting up for your call;

spending sleepless nights worrying about why you were staying out so late;

spending sleepless nights wondering where we went wrong.

The smallest things remind me of you,

like the feeling I get when I think of you and

remember everything you were and then

that little thing that you’ve become.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Getting Over Chrissy

I got a flower
and put it in a vase
to try to replace you

then I let the rain drops
count themselves

when I was too weak to worry
so much about so little

Zen and Music

I see you fighting this in your mind,
an age old Japanese trick of self enclosing mirrors
whereby the startling of one string
outlasts even our thoughts about it
and tumbles down the grass
happy and free.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

the inner monologue
of Judas

think hard
on the motivations
of one kiss

there is an exact weight
to 30 pieces of silver
there is an exact weight
to bodies suspended
above the ground

saw 4 gutter punks
walkin through queens
as the sun rose slow
all army jackets and dreadlocks
pitbulls walking loosely
besides the morning

in the first warmth of the season
went to Thompkins Square Park
as the light was dying slow
to hear the whispers
of Leftover Crack
across time

there were homeless clutching bottles
and an unconscious clutching a needle
the plaid youth on bicycles
young proffessionals with
small dogs and small children

the park still has an ammonia scent
and somewhere Stza plays
radio friendly music

everyone you've ever known
comes back to you in the city
whispers of aquaintances
in the almost faces
on benches
in the park

all the sadnesses
all the drunk nights
all the naked bodies
in varied lighting

but softer this time
in a stranger

union square gutter punk tarot reader

in afternoon
wide eyed
and machine gun talk
rattlesnake sounds
reading cards

but one warm evening
make out the bugs
beneath the skin
hood pulled up
dark eyes
and slow

the setting sun
the molting

the moon sometimes dies


into observations
of concrete motions
of concrete objects
the tempting shadows
of overarching themes
deal with the objects and their motions

leave the horizon
to itself
with the flirtations
of astral bodies

saw guilotines on the horizon

and i courted her awkwardly
in so many towns
stopping and going

i've always seen the arching
of bridges
on the same horzons

and i suppose that is why
it never worked out


the movements
of soft
fleshy fingers
on cold
hard ceramic

as it catches light
and holds the

maybe the
soft compromise
of stomach meat
as each gives
just enough
to erase
the space between

the lights
of a ferris wheel at night

the feats of engineering
of all the centuries

the deft
of the operator

as it rolls
in stationary

the romances of untruthfulness

his hair was short
clothes torn
and work boots worn
needed a shower
you couldn't tell
if he fumbled in from
hard months
on dusty roads
or meant for it
to be taken that way

but the love his voice
made with the banjo

was greyhounds and knapsacks and state lines
and horizons at varying latitudes and mile markers
and gasoline and all the holy flat states


a muse
is a girl with perfect gravity
a skirt
that catches the wind in
impossible ways

arrangement(reworked a poem from over a decade ago)

the lines of sea
and sand and horizon
falling long and flat
break against

the naked form of the girl
still wet
in the night

sleep heavy
my eyes still see
the silhouettes
and tight lips
of the dead

the city shakes a constant dust
it coats me
a destiny of tired eyes
and worn shoes

the first time
i sat
chain smoking cigarettes
in warm brooklyn night
on this balcony
we were surrounded with flowers
and she was brilliant
and her voice was soft
like she was burnt
or the sea

now last years flowers are dead
secretely promising secret whispers
from beneath the hard dirt
and she and brooklyn
have soft voices still
but now
more like the flowers than the sea

(andean new year)

there were christ's portraits
sculpted from infinite
sand grains
on the street

and the stuffed rpresentations
of all the bad memories
burning in thin thin air
(sins in the wind)

statues of saints, the paint flaking
from to much time
were heaved up over the crowd
and carried 'round the park

with the mountains rearing over us
from each horizon
sugar cane whiskey was drank hot
from reused plastic bottles


the way barroom nights
and holidays die


the spinning
of all the earth
its waters
to and fro
twice a day
and the
lovers touch
of the moon's
cool gravity

city nights
are high gloss
we, like the myth
of the banshee,
wailing in the shine
to announce
the deaths
and ills
of this city

we will always be children

my mother always
quoted a poem,
"fog rolls in on little cats feet",
convinced that this one line
was the whole of it,
as her favorite poem

over breakfast
trying to relate to me
as i ate and she moved
about the kitchen

and now i'm thirty
and now i write poems
and for most of
the last
I've known that
my mother's favorite
poem has other lines
and those lines
are just as good as
"fog rolls in on little cats feet"

but i still write
short ones
of just a handful
of lines or

deep down
in a Freudian way
weather he's right or wrong
weather i need to or not


Monday, April 18, 2011

It's Me Against the Moon Again

The human body
contains something like
78 percent water.

My son asks me
about the importance of the moon and
I explain the way tides work

Gravity pulling at the Earth;
Mountains holding on;
Humanity holding strong, but
water giving way,

pushed and pulled
between Sun and Moon;
between Earth and Stars.

He asks what else is important about it
and I think of the moon,
the way it pushes me
and pulls me

because I'm made up
of something like
78 percent water
so I must have an inner-tide

that urges all those
particles left over
from exploding nebulae
and neutron stars
to scatter every which way

and return home
like salmon do
when it's time to die

but instead, I think a little further
and tell him we might need it
to find our way home
should something happen to all of our
street lights, and cars and flashlight batteries.

I tell him it's important
because it makes people,
both children and adults,
look up and ask questions
just like he's doing now.

Just like I do every night.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Condolences (an epilogue)

I often held onto you
when you cried, no matter
how often you pushed me away.

It was never about the rent,
when your roommates let you down

It was never about your father, or
his constant disappointment
in you

It was never about your pet crayfish,
his health and happiness questionable
at best
(cause who really knows
or ever asked how a crayfish feels?)

It was always about your mother

When you cried, all those ripples centered
around your mother, and how she died when
you were only thirteen years old.

I never really knew anyone with such tragedy
in their lives, never really saw them cry as
constant reminders plagued them, never
really tried to console what could never
be consoled.
maybe I wasn't
saying the right things, maybe I wasn't
holding you tight enough, maybe I wasn't
caressing your cheeks soft enough, maybe, maybe,

When we took that trip with
your family to Disney Land,
another constant reminder,
you broke down in the
gift shop after Splash
Mountain, a ride you
always went on as a kid.

The attendant tried to console you
without ever knowing what it was
exactly he was consoling you for,
offering you discounts at the park's
photo center.

When I think about that
moment, all those tears for your
dead mother, I think that you
really never can be consoled.

And, when I think about those
discounted photos that seemed to
stop those tears, I think that
maybe you never want to be.

Diner Haiku #15

all these electric
synapses firing off,
all thinking of you

Diner Haiku #14

bouncin' out early
from the diner, out from fate,
without direction

Diner Haiku #13

let's light this spot up
with halos and tequila
or it ain't worth it

Diner Haiku #12

i shaved my beard yes-
terday, only to be cut
by stubble today

Diner Haiku #11

let's dance without time,
sing without tune, walk without
beat and rhythm blues

Another Poem About Drinking

A stream of
Bubbles climbs to
The top of my mug,
Defying gravity

Or racing for
A quick breath
Of air,

Something that
Can't be found
At the bottom
Of the glass,

No matter how
Hard you look

under the weight of it, backs shatter, knees buckle, bone grinds to a dusty halt, tendons snap and minds lose focus long enough to convince ourselves were up for another round. say hello to solar powered porn star, and the miles of unpaved intrigue, you're bluffing, the eyes have it and you turn another and another and another.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

White Blues

tonight I'm listening to
white blues
young white lads
slamming out blues chords
with hard hurting rhythyms
that can somehow
land on the same vien
as those old sharecropper tunes
I once dismissed these acts
I'm a purist
but every once in a while
we can find Muddy's fingers
or Mr. Johnson's wail and moan
and yes
sometimes even Little Walter's throat
and thinking this
I stop
and I have to smile
I've been a blues man myself

the curls of ash and scent of burnt varnish overpowering the senses as we march mindless through the past. a tuft of grass sprouts now through the old foundation waiting for the temperature to drop and reclaim it. victory is a strange animal, it twists a narrow sliver from your spine for safe keeping.


We all make mistakes
so forgive yourself foolish one.

The bear who dances with the honey
has none left over
to bring to the pot luck,
and shows up empty handed again,

until next week,
when he will run into fences,
camping out beneath the stars,
zig-zagging his way across this
broken country alone.

Hey there

So, I am new here. I tried to post a few poems, but the spacing doesn't translate when I post them. Any help would be appreciated. Also, is there a way to take down the poems that are all jumbled together. thanks, bunches. Peter

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

On the Water

we can see a gang of brake lights in the distance
they'll allow everything
except for resistance
empty cans hide the tire marks snaking in the sand
there's a cooler in the dunes
but that's all for the band
water plays with the moonlight
like a cat pawing at a string
there's a rhythm on the land tonight
it shakes everything
and I'm home
I'm home
Remy's got a used van fixed up with track lights
you can get loose in here
but you better act right
the Telecaster's bleating against the tune
poisoning the air out there
but i think we're all immune
I got those shakes again
she's got me some to sip
I won't bite the belt again
she offers me a lip
and I'm home
I'm home

Saturday, April 09, 2011

Most People Don't Retire, They Just Stop Doing Things Full-Time

If words fall silent, they still fall. Words cannot be broken or unbroken, only bent; shaped like rivers shape rock; like glaciers shaped valleys. These words will echo. They will break and not break. Someday, these words might save a life or be the wind blowing against bare feet on the ledge of some unnamed bridge.

Thursday, April 07, 2011

Die Cast Metal

There’s a fiery Corvette wizzin’ by
Passing up the traffic jam
On the Hook Rug Turnpike
Three squad cars give wailing chase
Losing him at the Linoleum Tile exit
He pulls up alongside a rusty old Chevelle
It was always my favorite
They were always wanted for something
And they usually got away
But this afternoon was a suicide run
They fly up the Hallway Interstate
And the Chevelle tail ends the Fire Bird
Sends him spinning into the Nova
And they wreck on the roadside
The black and whites are coming up quick
When they take the dangerous road
Up the side of Love Seat Mountain
You gotta have the right horse power for this trip
The incline is insane
Some how the cops are in tow
They hit the top and know it’s over
They idle side by side
Corvette’s thinking about his only son
How long it’s been since they’ve seen each other
How long it’ll be now
He revs up and gives Chevelle a wink
Blasts over the edge into Blue Carpet Canyon
Takes fifteen minutes to slam to the ground
Spinning and rolling about ninety two times
Before the end
Chevelle takes a long gulp of bourbon
The squad cars parked behind him
Begging him not to
‘you have so much to li…’
Chevelle pulls a picture from his glove box
His ol’ lady in a sun dress
Drops it in his lap and hammers the gas
He hit’s the edge and flies high
The front end dips in the air
He’s wishing he’d done it all different
He’s praying to saints for salvation
And just when he’s ready for the impact
Dad says, “Dinner time.”
And he lands softly in my corduroy pocket
Tomorrow’s a new day
Count your blessings, Chevelle

Joshua Fink

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

she was wide-eyed and wild haired
danced on paint splattered floors
loved dusty old books
sang to untuned guitars until the neightbors complained
she was poetic
drank red wine and whiskey from coffee mugs
smoked camel no 9s
played an old shitty flute
she laughed
and she didnt give a fuck

she wonders,
swollen-eyed and straight-haired,
when she'll return

Flashes of street lights
Shattered glass
Beats heart beats heart beats
Blood flows
Underneath skin

Black and blues
Punctured wounds
Rashes and scabs

I want to shed it all off
I want new skin

Pink and delicate
Soft and pure

Like an infant

Thursday, March 03, 2011

First Picture (of a man that lives on)

A man of purest soul died
Left his body weeks before we found it
Alone in his apartment

I live with four people
But don't really
I live and they live
We don't live together

Chad and I lived together
in that small-ish orange North Beach apartment,
around the corner from the Hungry I
and across from the Beat Museum
The window to our living room faced Romolo alley and was broken
We propped it open with a wooden arrow that read "chill igloo 200ft" painted in purple
We'd sit and prop the window and smoke butts out it, looking up and down the alley
Hollering at passer-bys
smiling and laughing
We'd order Chinese, the delivery boy would pass it through that window
I've climbed through it countless times when I'd forget my keys

I moved out
The neighborhood got to me
the noise in the streets
The cat calls
The garbage truck at 4am
The street light always shining in...

I didn't want to leave him there
It was one of the hardest decisions I've ever made
Consuming all my thought
To leave or not
To leave my friend and our home
We made that rundown hole shine!
We lived together.
It was ours...

...and I thought, for years to come I'd be able to visit.
drop in whenever
knock on the window
hear papa bear snoring through the thin walls...
I still have keys.

There's caution tape there now,
and my friend is gone.
And there are things of mine still in that apartment
and my friend is gone
and they won't let me in
and my friend is gone
and I can't stop crying
and my friend is gone
and the windows still broken
and my friend is gone
and I miss him

We hid from the rain.
We propped open the window.
We lived together.

Wednesday, March 02, 2011

Something was breaking 
I move in and out
to avoid time
That album has a color
I can see it if I listen
The light in the room 
boxes still
with things in them
Just the bed, you and I
in that light
and something was broken.

All that stuff
It goes out there
Into the eveything anyway
All those words kept between us
Slip through cracks
are overheard
And kissed goodnight
with loose lips. 

Sky turns pink
early evening
As the raw wind blows the curtains in my room.
old photographs of spring time
Fall off the shelf
And I grab hold
As birds from distant skies
Toward my window.

Tuesday, March 01, 2011


The nights have been clear

and I’m sitting on my back porch

burning another cigarette

watching stars give off

just enough heat through the smoke.

And some great creator

is busying itself

with one chore or another

not caring much about

my fear of death,

my troubles with women,

or how much I have saved

for when my son goes to College.

And I’m not thinking much about

that creatures chores,

or it’s creations; or it’s dreams.

Because the stars are out, right now.

I got my woman right here,

and all the beauty is free.

Fuck You, Dylan Thomas.

And death shall have no dominion.

A poem stuck in my head for a month.

A fear that’s been wrapping itself

warmly around my bones.

The realization of my own mortality

making the veins in my neck

thump ... thump ... thump

pumping blood into my brain

like a fire-hose,

making me think about it,

making me visualize it,

keeping me up at night.

Death shall have no dominion

when I close my eyes

and I see yours,

singing me to sleep,

lulling me into darkness

where I find bliss, where

Death shall have no dominion.

Monday, February 28, 2011

Diner Haiku #10

milk, cream, sugar, half
n half, whatever takes that
coffee taste away

Diner Haiku #9

i'm so glad we have
texting so i no longer
have to talk to you

Diner Haiku #8

i'll have scrambled eggs,
a side of burnt toast, and all
those crying mothers

70% Water, 30% Land

You be the rolling waves
caressing my shores

I'll be the landmass you're just
scratching the surface of

You be the rushing water tides
always changing

I'll be the shifting sandy earth
always being changed.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

strangers swinging from the rafters pouring vinegar from holy pores
a balcony fire that spread to the chamber pots through valleys of cream and sulfur.
the empress violates greasy spoon and fork wisdom. storm clouds stalk the indigent and glass slippers seamlessly line the walk ways of paths unknown. all in the good of the fountainhead says i and we are dancing light years beyond the putrid purple sky.

Friday, February 18, 2011

The first word is the hardest

Be a first word poet.

Compress the whole poem
into a tight little ball
along with your sketches
from memory,
a microphone chord,
a ukulele,
the Cats Eye Nebula,
and the clang of a free game 
of pinball.

Also your last letter home,
the Heart Sutra,
an awkward hand job,
Kansas at sun up,
buying a girl a shot of
Southern Comfort,
rusted batteries eating
through an old camera,
and the smell of Atlantic City,

squeeze all those things into
the first word of your poem
because it is infinite
and everything else is emptyness

Monday, February 14, 2011

A thought sitting on a raised eyebrow

It happens without you noticing, all the meanwhile it's all youre
thinking about; everything is changing. No, you've moved and thought
too slowly already.... things have already changed.
It happened while you were sleeping. It happened when you were out in
the road spinning around in circles like a topsy turvy carnival swing
It happened while you were falling in love, you didn't notice it.
It happened when you got angry and shouted at the clouds
And they just poured out to you
But you didn't notice
Things are changing
No, you've moved and thought too slowly already.... things have already changed.

the ancient egyptians believed that if the names of the dead were still spoken in the land of the living that they would continue to live on in the next life as well. with that in mind,


i miss you all, and hope the next life treats you better than this one did.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Skeletal Closet Blues

I've got some men hanging from my branches, swaying side to side as I walk
Skeletal closet blues
I've got hounds gnawing and gnashing at my back, smaller ones lapping
up the blood
Skeletal closet blues
I'm running away
The blues will stay
And they'll follow
Ain't that a paradoxical
Walking death sentence
The skeletal closet blues

Friday, February 11, 2011

Liquor is Love as Water

There’s a ghost & he lies in my bed

He has a beautiful face

but lacks a beautiful name

He kissed me on the mouth

& told me that I myself was beautiful

By morning, his soul was gone

Fleeted with an apology

“Moving on to the next life, mama.”

Throw some change in my direction

‘Cause this scenery needs a fresh take

Everything adds up to dollars and sense

Each breath, mile, sip & smoke

Drags me back for the same price to the same place

I’d like to grow new skin

& exchange my used organs for new ones

like products sold on late-night television

with lifetime replacement warranties

But here you go darlin',

You can have my old ticker,

Free of charge

No shipping or handling

No cash on delivery

You can use it as a pair of shoes

Lace them tightly to your feet

So I can feel where you’ve been

You’ve been vomiting romantic words

Naked in your kitchen

Coming up as bubbles

& I won’t say much

Because my nerves are shot

& I must remain delicate

But you’re the type of bad habit

Mothers warn their daughters about

The kind of guy that'll make

a perfectly good woman go mad.

Do you love every dish

that’s put in front of you

with a side of booze

or am I the only one?