I dream
to have every person
who has helped shape my form
throughout and over the years,
each a thread in the fabric sewn
creating the intricate colorful quilt that has been my life,
meet in one place at one time if only for once in their lives.
Because they are all truly priceless rare and exquisite essential parts of myself, of this life.
And for all the greatness and amazing love I have seen in each one and shown by all of them,
my wish, if for only once... is that they'd all exist in the same room and learn each other, see one another, as i have seen them, in light and dark, beautifully flawed, extraordinarily.
My only wish... please god, grant it.
With or without me.
A wedding or a funeral.



...and I laugh, wondering if they'd all get along, or tear one another apart by the end of it. :-)

A sweet little story poem s'all, nothing intense or profound. It's like a love note passed in class caught by the teacher and read out loud...

While he's out there banging away fiddling with his tooth all amphetamines and nicotine stained hummingbird wings he thinks of her at home making poems. He gets sad and dies in her arms. He gets strong and takes on too much. He gets drunk and slaps the streets, any street, gum booze and piss, with his rough weathered hands trembling. He's made of motion like Neal... rambling, methodically sifting though the files in his mind, behind the blue of his eyes an insanity reserved only for those who can afford it...for those who can truly love him. At home, she does not worry. She cares not for the reassurance of faith or hope...She needs no guide in this love. She is like lamp oil and he a match sparked. As one they make light, for that is all there is when you peel away the hummingbird madness his drumming fingers her heart on fire and smokescreen sadness. Each rock has a name they've tied 'round their ankles to weigh them down crumbling now there is more light for the world in virtue of love however it's born. He takes her hand in his. That's all she needs to know.
It's all she needs to keep her going.

Fade to Black

4am
awake, it's raining
the only thing to be thankful for
the sound of the rain
in a haze
in the kitchen
kettle on the burner
numb Xanax cloud
standing in the rain
and barefoot
Each drop a freezing tear
from my eyes as they are the sky
hiding there
in the night
under the biting cold, very cold, rain
A harm I cause myself
to distract my wrenching heart
from what is lost
the sound of falling drops
fading my soul

The fish in the Gulf are mutated.
It's raining on me, a painful release that hurts on purpose, that helps the deep terminal sadness...breathe.
The tea is too hot
burns the mouth,
A pain to fade the pain in, to out
For what is lost.
The fish no longer have eyes
or the sockets to put them in
the universe cries with me, as me
Fade out into black

It rains in Canada too.
I know because Renie is there and hasn't called.
it won't last
the rain
or this
us
the fish
or the only thing that's kept me here
And I don't see the beauty in any of it anymore, only the bleak
And this life, I'm tired, and I don't want it anymore. Any part of it. Save for the rain right now on my face and in my tea...

I'll be committed
drugged heavily
stop eating
and fade to black.
A fish without eyes
my heart, my will, deformed.
I won't come back from this one
from what is lost
Fade to black
and burry me there
with her.

Winter at Trinity Point

Nathan's wool blanket
The way it scratches
Slippers on our feet
The cold concrete
The bathroom pictures
The smell of smoke and electric heaters
The dry air
My chapped lips
His sadness
The dirty windows
Let little light in
Our morning kiss
Combined wits
The sky winters grey
My breath in the air
The frozen hitch
His first attempt
at homemade soup
Another movie
The dogs and my cat
All laying about
Mending his coat
Making buttons
from old penthouses
The hardwood and my teacup
His coffee always
Our love
Weather we wanted it or not.

When There's No One Around To Put You To Bed

4:59am- Camomile tea I didn't drink cold on the nightstand next to me
It's smells drifting me to dream
But the light is on and the birds are gossiping up a storm
Feathers ruffled outside my window
A baby wakes and cries in a house across the way -6:36am
There are crickets.
This is not the city.
I can hear every creak in the floor, in the walls, as the house settles in on it's self
shifting, mattress springs
far away dogs
the seconds ticking the clock
my pen on the paper
my thoughts out loud-

8:03am

Struggling America

Hey Jack,
We're still out here.
Making the night.
Hiding the morning.
Struggling America.
We're still drunk when we can be, and when we'd rather maybe not be.... anything at all.
We're beat up, we sweat it out, we still let the coffee drip down the back of our throats.
We fall off our chairs and flick out our cigarettes.
We still kick dirt and fumble through each others beauty and madness.
We still love unconditionally and unrequitedly. We eat apple pie and rest against trees on hot days.
We still believe we will be saved.
Jack the moon still comes up with wine in his eyes.
And in some places Jack, they still Jazz. The slow Jazz. Not the mess of tumbling smart Jazz. Jazz you can dance to, the real stuff. The heart before it grew a head.

Hey Neal! Hey Charlie, and Judy,
We're still high as kites out here.
We're all prescribed Prozac personalities or Ritalin kids these days. Hook em while they're young that's what they thought one more perfectly functioning cog in the mind of the great machine.
Good luck America.
That shit never worked in the first place.
Hey Neal, you can't smoke that inside buddy. No one even smokes anymore anyway. That shit'll give you cancer. So will that corn on the cob or that soda pop. So will worrying about any of it.
We're still high as kites though.
All the kids, the eccentric ones, they're all hopped up hyper focused chemists now, making new drugs like you wouldn't believe! With all the letters of the alphabet. Well lubricated cogs, mad scientist shaman, long hairs in business suits. Building whole knew worlds of consciousness and fuzzier fuzzy feelings.
We're still high as kites out here.
Still speeding down the American vein.
With a headlight out.
On empty.
In the desert.
Picking up hitchhikers.....and praying.

Hey Robert, Allen.... Will and Patti,
We're still out here. Black sheep. With our art and our poetry, our sins and saints, our sexuality our mental states, food not or on our plates. We're still hungry. We're still out here hustling and dreaming... hustling dreams...day dreaming, drifting in and out of here....
Here!
We're still here!
Lost and found in America.
Making noise, making waves, belly laughing snickering smiling rolling our eyes, bleeding and sick and fucked and humbled and drunk and in love, with each other with nothing with everything with God and the goat, with ashes and music, with the piss in the street, with the stains on the sheets and our clothes, with the road, with locks of hair with the bottle with the gun with the pen with the laces in our boots and the shit on the bottom of them... We're still lonely and confused and absurd and completely devoted...maybe, in the end, to nothing other than the fact that we. are. still. here.....

Splittings

and when he looks out the window each morning,
he will see gray sky scrapers that block direct sunlight
from seeping through the room.
looks at the blank stares from souls draped in coats
on daily subway rides,
spilling coffee from tripping on cracked sidewalks.

day
after
day.

They danced once.
the room was hot and muggy;
August air.
smiling, wine-stained lips.
they laughed
and wrapped each other in their arms
tightly,
holding on to the night.

she sits in Jersey traffic smiling mildly to the man
collecting her toll.
morning weather reports play on her radio,
windows frosted.
exploring new routes,
giving a new face a buck fifty for her coffee.
her shoes are worn out and she will never slip on icy streets.

day
after
day.

Fame

I used to look like

Jack Black with a beard.

Now I look like

John Belushi without a beard

And Jason “George” Alexander,

Oliver “3 Musketeers” Platt,

And one time Charlie Sheen.

I have never once

Looked like

Keith Baird.

I'd Rather Be Cinders

I don’t mind not being the bright

Fireworks exploding, the ones

Everyone goes “ooh” and

“Aah” over. I’d much

Rather be the glowing cinders,

The ones they warn could

Burn if they fall on you, the

Ones you stare at intently, saying

Nothing at all, all the way

Down until they burn out

Completely.

Diner Haiku #20

fuck daylight savings;

only time i save is from

flux capacitors

Diner Haiku #19

when this twenty-four-

hour world ends, will the sun

still rise tomorrow

Diner Haiku #18

after i speed up

on muse inspired coffee

i crash down on dreams

Diner Haiku #17

show me something real

with grit and stain and soft sad

laughter echoing

Diner Haiku #16

poems on diners

are about as useless as

fries without ketchup

Love Happens in Seconds

Love happens in seconds

Between hours of waiting

It’s the lion that sleeps

Slothfully in the sun

While flies bite at its ears

And hyenas scorn its idleness

It rolls over, waiting

It yawns, waiting

Even fucking the lionesses

Nothing but more waiting

Until an eye opens and

Targets a sleek gazelle

And it happens in seconds

Like a coiled spring exploding

And all that passionate flesh

Intertwined with beating blood

Starts in seconds

Ends in seconds

Leaving only that moment

Fading quickly from memory

Love happens in seconds

The rest is just waiting.

To The Stars We Ignore

This is my apology to all those

Ignored stars burning infinite at night,

To all the ones who don’t burn quite as bright

As Polaris or Orion’s Belt, whose

Fires often hide behind smokestack fumes,

Smoggy haze, or sky-scraping city lights.

And even when gazing into clear skies

I usually mistake Venus’ soft hues

And give her undue credit for your glow.

Here is my apology for your lost

Glory, when your fiery zeal across

Cold blackening horizons once imposed

Fear in ancient primates; their shallow thoughts

Never knew your bright flares were dying slow.

He's Got Game

Insecurities run down my

Spine, stick around there

Like LSD, and every so

Often a flashback occurs

Reminding me of past

Insecurities

The time I tried a joke in

Class and heard silence, or

When I had such a witty

Retort that I laughed telling

It, only to see contemptuous

Smirks

These memories build up

Until my spine cracks. I

Can’t walk quite right, I

Can’t talk quite right, I’m

Not quite right in my own

Skin

These memories drown me

In the past, while in the

Present I stumble, stutter,

Try to find the right line or

Right step and miss every

Beat

Sometimes, when I’m not

Looking for it, a good line

Breaks through, a

Moment that’s as

Fragile as Dandelion

Seeds

Some composure is regained.

I’m a baby learning to walk

And talk right again, and

Hope that, this time,

Maybe something will

Stick.

Crappy Phone Reception

[ | | | | | ]

Eight-hundred

And sixty-two miles separate our bodies.

Our words are fingers, our voices are facial expressions,

And all that distance crackles like thunder over the

Phone when all subject matter has been exhausted.

[ | | | | ]

“How was your day today?”

We ask for the third time. It’s not the answer we’re

Searching for but rather some semblance of human

Connection that’s dissipated as the weeks

Turned to months turned to years.

[ | | | ]

“Oh, it was okay,” and you can see their eyes

Welling up thru their tone. Our stomachs drop from

Knowing that our day wasn’t okay, that not a whole

Lot has been okay. “I love you” we say, still

Reaching for that connection.

[ | | ]

We promised each other we’d never overuse the phrase

“I love you”, for fear that such redundancy would wear

Out those words. Now those words carry more weight

Than either of us can be burdened with. We are very

Tired and our voices are getting scratchy.

[ | ]

Eight-hundred and sixty-two miles between

Us, the battery’s dying, it’s getting harder

To hear you, and I just don’t know

What to say anymore.

::Beep:: ::Click::

[No Service]

Something Bigger Than Me

i want to wrestle a bear, two beings

combating over Something

bigger than both of us

for the bear, a Morsel of life-

sustaining Food, either from my

backpack of fruits, granola, and mineral

water, or from my very own

flesh and marrow

for me, the Bear itself, a small

chance to overcome

Nature outside of my own

nature, to show the culmination of

what evolution has given me

for a chance to regale my fellow

combatants that i survived Something

bigger than all of us, and that,

after it all, my backpack was

empty, and that somewhere in the

forest lay a bear full in the Belly.