i want to talk cost

i want
to find my arms without him

i
want
him

clenched,
a fish on a dock
weighing its wants

poetry
has
its
costs

beneath easy gleam
nests a network of need

speak
breathe

speak
breathe

speak
breathe

looming network of nerves
need
beneath easy gleam

Hey WHAT'S UUUPPPPPP!

You ALL BLOW MY MIND! Spring!!!

UNBELIEVABLE!

~*Rabbit

luncheon

there has got to be a foward-flowing thrust.
even if the ceiling fan dissuades this stagnation.

my feet float above the floor
and the flowers fall like rain
and furniture spins and dances
like fingers strumming a violin
strung from the moon
my joy knows no gravity
my joy knows no gravity
my joy knows no gravity

shreds

i find myself in two separate dreams:
a green room
plush and fresh
abundant, clean, concise
embellished by plants
and creatures of the wild,
melodic with the beat
of nature and harmony,
smelling sweet of grapes and passion,
unruly but donning a mask of reckoning
organized with the rhythm of my life
and the life of one other,
flowing together through the written
words
of our favorite authors.
the other vision
deep and red,
dripping with the blood of desire,
yet dry with the air of resistance
having been created by two beings,
each with thoughts similar
but repelling like the opposing poles of
pride.
weakness allows indulge
in a glance at one another
every now and then
longingly
wanting to touch
and feel
and be inside.
[the toughness of the strong animal
being sliced
and picked apart,
pulled back-exposed
is excruciating
yet most satisfying.]
at once when the sun falls
and drags the guards down with it
the floor ignites
and the red turns ablaze
through their defeat.

we muster and fuss,
makeshift,
stuck
in umbrellas and loves,
in musings,
in musts.

The day is the color of oxidized copper
And the warm wind is turning you on
And over
To stretch and arch your back
Slowly rolling muscles
In your stomach and shoulders
See
The red rocks break open
Only for the purple flowers
And you can smell things growing
And wet wood
With birdsong and creek babble
What a good day your having

Floating in twenty something land
With beer, music
A cat and a room mate
Like floating
In a tidal pool
That’s warm and changing

What a strange vacation
And how things are always changing
And it doesn’t bother
Because I haven’t realized
Fully yet
That I’m getting older
Letting the water hold me

And feeling rather free
To roll about carelessly in sand
Or bed sheets
Or bank statements

Because I don’t know
Fully yet
What “having time” really means
Letting the water hold me

adrianna
flicks her cigarette
to often
cuz her soul gets nervous
in pleasant conversation
but the moon
always catches
her lips just right

the winter's been cruel
to light spirits
and wet eyes

to the exhaust manifold of the midnight smooth
to caravans of wandering chilren
to the hearts of women
to poets, drunk with clenched fists and heavey smiles
to stock brokers, pullin their coats tighter
to truck drivers

thankfully the frost has melted
and the wind feels
right
again

warm nights
pass the air across my skin
lightly
as i smoke my cigarettes
on the brick stoops
of houses

and thats when the whole of samsara
doesn't simply look beautiful

it tastes and smells and feels and sounds
with all the wild textures
of perfection

like its swallowing me

supertramp

alex,
you were a saint
and yr eyes and smile
in that self portrait
with the "magic" bus
rusting
as the backdrop
show
the dream and the power
of freedom

i hear all these
prophetic words
like fireside and primordial
of a world amongst
the gravel sides of ghostly rushing roads
and wide open
ness

and i have to wonder if that dream
still breaths

or if it has become
just crystaline myth
all unchanging
in memory
now

or if the American Road is still a wild thing
filled with tramps

sometimes it all seems unlikely

panic unknown yet and racing
and i beneath
this 900 lb statue
of knig neptune
falling

then

next to a towering
faith healer
in the dual engine sesna
with the holy rockies
reclining and sprawling
below

to live just one life
which crosses paths
with both rollercoasters and witch doctors
spitting sugar cane whiskey and blessings
with poets and proffessionals

with dreams all etheral
and concrete, slow and hard

sometimes it all seems unlikely

to be blessed

Trains

I always lived by the train.
went to school next to the tracks
and rode my bike along them
to the rail yard and
the eerie yellow lights and
concrete platform
and names carved jagged
into to the benches

then moved north
and the station was just upstairs
and when it rained
water would run down the stone walls
would smell musty

and the train would take me north,
or I would fall asleep drunk
and it would take
me too far south

and now I can see the
Long Branch train yard
from my window

which is good
because I'm a poet
and trains make good metaphors

i'm sittin on a trian
pt to asbury again
5 stops there
high school kids
fresh off the beach
all shinny sun-screened
hop on and on
not off
but on and on
aways on and on...and on on on
until the whole damn car
is sardined and seeping
with girls
not women
girls
all chat chat chatting
and seriously
there are hundreds of them
squishing in
and they all know each other
so i ask one
a pretty blond
their destination
the PNC Arts center
...a Tom Petty concert

and I'm the pop culture casualty

listening to records in the art gallery

we dance on paint splattered floors
painting the rhythm of our feet
our bodies move together
the way a paint brush glides
across canvas

our chemistry
in red acrylic

first speed -
weeks
the speaking in dreams

next precision -
the teachings

then the days like petals -

yours

yours is a china dream
inside a dirty box
inside shiny tape
you ought to gnaw through the package
tear it open, make it food
smash your china dream to dust
and run

what are you still doing here

jibittY OH YEAH i'm laced with toxins and i like the way i smell like innocence. she ought to be a little less descrete. i'm still amazed that it all became a cluster fuck. i didn't have it in me to scream.

Springtime is a fucking cocktease.
Summer is worse.

My sweater
Fairly reeking of your perfume
Found behind a couch cushion
And my cigarettes
Always shared
Lead me to wonder
If perhaps
I shouldn’t reach
A little further
And ask
For help
Or more simply
Ask
What the hell is going on here

Only one hour left
And I thought
That I would be out of this bar
Unscathed
And then he leaned up and said

“Is that a mirror in your pocket?
Because I can see myself in your pants”

I was drunk
And feeling rather surly
So I said

“No… no that’s just a really shiny bear trap.”
And left
Wearing the worlds smuggest smile.

fuck

i'm tired you see, i don't know. i'm out of terrificly splendid ideas for making you smile.
shut up. i'm a gasoline fueled explosion of what the fuck was he thinking. don't try too hard babe, i'm relaxing in a trash bag waiting for the truck to take me to the rest of the rubbish. throw me out and i'm looking for more like this. just a rebound player from the under skin. got a bug in my head saying take it apart and i'm fine just fine. one little mouse says its okay to feel in a world full of questions im looking for more than answers, thats a trip, a ride on today. right now i'm thinking of drugs i use to take and pains i use to feel. i like all this sullen garbage with a few gallons of screaming guitars and broken glass. just a sore throat away from the end of the middle. and i'm looking to never end up you.

If you want to write poems about women
Stop writing
You're pretty much writing about yourselves

We are the same eyes and knees and shoulders and hands
The same bruises
Every now and then someone puts a bottle in your hand and looks at you

The world is otherwise the same
Lush and bleak and never quite home
We're both poets, let it go.

i will not receive proper questioning
i will not be summed or summoned
my curt greed will take chances
a searing rift to bridge,
i will demand bandages,
ribs -

We circle

We cicle, work,
And work on circles
Nearly crime,
This maze of manic ills
Impeccably aligned.

Crisp beads to carry
Too many left yet
To keep the cords clean
Their tense anxious mass
Keeps tangling my hands.

Strings to pick apart and chew,
Time to tame and temper,
All those orbs to move
You shiver, tighten, pick up speed,
Unfurl and reach for fresh machines.

What will we deliver
But ragged nerves and meager green?
These spheres are squalor, let's lay them aside
Miles of skin still
Tender, blind.

Pink

Are these returning birds?
Spindle prints and glints in the dark
My throat, filled with new air, aches
My hands and feet bound and unbound
My sick skin pink with wine and cold

Williams' Mechanical Bulls

I can see our friend
William S.
hunched over the pedestal
talkin' bout
gravity
and love
and always
mechanical bulls

and Brownstone
finding the longest
darkest roads
wishing us luck
in our journeys
throwing his head back
laughing mad
at the night

I can see
Grayson
stumbling down
narrow pub hallways
and back alleys
to take a piss
always showin' us
and tellin' it
like it is

Ed's at the diner
and Fisher's on the road
convulsing in
nameless hotel rooms
somewhere in the west

and the countless faces
and names
that it takes
to start a movement
or a cult
can be found in
all night diners
and stranger bars with
all of Williams'
mechanical bulls

I welcome the hand fans
and thin blankets
I see on the horizon.

I gather the treats
Clean cups for lemonade
And chill watermelons

And long desperately
For the company
To share these indulgences

When I looked up springs skirt
I noticed she was wearing summers panties
But I only personify out of need

Because time feels unknowable
And if that makes no sense
Let me make less

Time ends too soon
And leaves nothing behind

Like a dream had
During a warm afternoon nap

It is the perfect crime

Happy National Library Week, Kids!

I am crouching over the flute
its body lying in my hands
fingers paralyzed, not touching the keys

I am unmotivated
falling short
one note short of the chord
one string short of an instrument
one musician short of a band

Music needs to flow through
the veins of my body
flow straight to the beat of
my heart
so my heart could squeeze
up against the front of my ribcage
pushing me
telling me to play my song

I have to move
move toward that source
move toward that sound
move toward that rythmn
that allow my fingers
to feel the keys
give me motivation
play my song

I'm spinning
moving
falling faster than my hands
alive
the ground begs for me
I'm solid
with thick spit
and my heart heaves
slamming on the front of me
alive
shaking
sight blurred
bleeding
but just enough to love it
alive

She

She chooses wolves
Lines them up like glass
She lets them choose her and chew at her lack
They abuse form and reason, all reckless and rash
She chooses illusion and polishes glass

walls are mans way of saying hey stop lookking at my insides

i got a mixed message from a woman who eats emotional salads with balsamic vinegrete.
oh the colors she vomits when she's speaking to me about the death of passion and the purpose of peace.
just a letter i wrote that said go if you must but you've got my number if your hungry or lost

i was an abstract painting of
Johnson Park

you
wanted a photograph

5:47am

i drive down the highway
contemplating
trying to reach a destination
come to a conclusion

the fog gets denser
down the road
and it's really hard to see
the sunrise
through all those clouds

Split

Today I twist myself until I snap
Split open
My insides raw and loathsome, old dough
I twist, snap, and call it dance

In a city full of beards and shields
I stand
In cellophane dress
Cold

Everything around here yellows and tears
A cancerous pool
Sick fruit and abandon
These fools upon fools

all the ways

from a sunny balcony with a picturesque panoramic view in Russian Hill

from a staple stoop where birds sing their hearts out all day long in Alamo Square

from a fire escape where NYC eludes to be just blocks away in Lower Pac Heights

from the back alley entrance way perfumed with sweet olfactory essences in Lower Haight

from a comfortable greasy spoon cafe that caters to all senses, destroying hangovers, and feeding the soul for under 10 dollars on Divisidaro

from the 12 galaxies of a dark windowless bar that hosts local bands where on any given night you can find a friend and the drinks are always stiff in the Mission

from an occasionally shady bus stop in the jazz district where the trees that line the street are lit up perpetually on holiday, where footsteps sound like saxophones and the history is as thick as the locals are black on Fillmore

from the window across from an ethnic mural on a secret street cornered by the Beat Museum and the first strip club in the area to go topless so many years past, where the ghosts of Kerouac and Cassidy laugh in the seediness of night over slices of pizza in North Beach

from the front room with double doors and lavender bedding in a house, on the outside, identical to every other one on the block, where the fog lingers longer and the breeze is salty in the Richmond

from my seat on the grass behind me a DJ plays while an eclectic group of beings flared out drunk and smiling playing slosh ball (kickball+beer) watching the frothy spray shine in the sunlight as they slip and slide from base to base in Golden Gate Park

from the entrance of the BART amongst the hustle and bustle, towering buildings, abundant beggars, street vendors, mass transit, business suits, and brand name outlets of Downtown

I love this city

A Warm Kind of Gray

I feel like something I think
A person who trims orchids might feel like trimming orchids
Where the furniture is a warm gray
And everything is clean

And not
Not right now

Like the way a person who wears bruises well would feel like when receiving them
Where the sky is getting lighter
And the gray is cold

on the sand

Wet salty cool air
Has a way
Of making me assume
All my delusions
Have some founding
Down here in the clouds

I water the fern
And the geckos
And the kitteh
And stumble around
The internet
Getting closer and closer
To the future

Once and for all

I’m throwing out this handset
Once and for all
To a cordless phone
We never owned anyway
Because so many things
And people
Just hang around this place
Collecting dust
And bottles in our only corners

My Angels

when i am low
bottom of the trough
dirt in my lungs
rotting
like neglected fruit

when i am so low
only earthworms and anglers
greet me in the morning
that never really comes anyway
for i sleep through it
because the cold and the pain
rarely permeate my profuse dreaming
so low a smiles a burden

when i am that low
angels come to me
without warning
and wake me
lighting my heart
and lifting me up

they never say or do much
or present themselves as such
they leave as abruptly as they appear
they are discreet
and i have yet to encounter one
wearing white

but they sure do fucking shine!
and it's aways undeniable
that i've been touched,
looked after,
by the renewed hope in my heart
and the tears
washing the dirt from my face

my angels
are cab drivers
of all ethnicities
overflowing with wisdom
and drifters crippled
bearing honesty and kindness
in it's PUREST
my angels are quick and beautiful
and when i am low
they change my life
every time

that peacoat in your closet
always
catches my eye
the one you always wore when i was a child
its 50's style
the way it weighed you down
because it was a size too big
you wore that ugly coat
without confidence or style
its musty smell
combined with old cheap perfume
still embedded in its fibers

the coat always reminds me
of that night dad picked you up from nyc
i was lying across the white seat
in the back of that rusty toyota
"aqualung" blasted in the background
while you and dad sat
silently and cold
your eyes heavy
from the tears
the lies
the guilt
finally revealed
the decision to separate
my eyes wide and intrigued by the city lights
not knowing what was really going on

the peacoat remained in your closet
since that night
you had bought a new coat
one with style
one that fit
one you wore with confidence
and your eyes were radiant
eyes i inherited

22 years later
i wear musty old clothes from thrift stores
longing to be in the city

Act One
scene one:

woke up
thought well fuck,
the night had killed me
I died dreaming
the light and sheets and ceiling
white like heaven would be
and soundless
like purgatory
I roll around a bit
it's comfy
clouds or pillows
engulf me
then I feel you
warm beside me
the fog lifts
with my eyelids


Act One
scene two:

make strong tea
of the Chinese variety
love please
I'll smoke cigarettes
on your porch
while the dark haired woman
on the rooftop
of the building
across the street
tells (yells to) me about
her illness
and her kitten
and it's stitches
you invite her over
she just wants a soda
root beer or ginger ale?
we turn our heads
she disappears

when you stop to think
you should hurry up and start again
make every decision based on the breakfast you ate in 1972
all th elimo drivers in all the world and you had to walk into mine
sunsets are pretty and homelessness abundant
but i'm tired of fake smiles and white zinfindel
give me the rude crude bastard child of rock and roll and crooket teeth with fist marked faces
where cigs are 7 dollars and gas is as expensive as milk
where the lights illuminate something worth looking at and where you can get in a fight at a bar with a stranger cause he spilled your beer on your cleanest pair of dirty pants

listenin to soft guitar driven
art rock
in parking lot desert
reading poems from america
one state at a time
in a suit jacket
before goin into
a bullshit job

thinkin about mans three choices
(staying with the pain
running to some eastern metaphor
riding the mechanical bull)

i feel the muscles in my jaw tighten
with stress and desire

i see
the new punk
standing tough
outside the cinemas
of america
on friday nights
in expensive and pristinely worn
skin tight denim

and i play a movie over in my head
where
the dead milkmen
walk up

and kick the ever livin shit outta

the whole lot of em

bloody fuckin wenkers

strange
the way dancing
freezes the world as a picture
resting on the mantle
and leaves
you with the girl
swimming
through the baseline

she was tension
pulled tight
like force contained
and the snap
when it comes
will echo
angelic voices
and
steel twisting

metallic dreams
breathe
on me in my sleep
the light they catch and reflect
perfectly sharp
and clean

of convertibles and messiahs
and friday nights
late for curfew
and redemption

of swarths of light
smeared by mass and acceleration
and the uncatchable
wind, all holy

of murdered youth and innocence
by the clean sharp edges
of pleasure

of faith
lost AND found
of rebirths just as painful as the first

these kids playing banjo music
dancing in doorways
right in front
where they throw cold coffee
and snuff out cigarettes

no slow heartbreak waltz
the street is a-glow
and trinkets roll down through
the drainage grates
i'm stumbling blind past taxis
and they don't even reflect
in the headlights

so the air gets kicked up
at their feet, and i'm
walking off a bottle of wine
whistling along, echoes
shaking into the future

DB Cooper
jumpin outta his plane
in the darkness
in the black beneath
in 1971
in the wind
closing his eyes
and clutching his chest

bandits may rob me
but I snatch their eyes

and keep the dust
outta my face,
peek out over
my eyes stinging

DB Cooper
in and above
the skyward forests
or Oregon
says "get away with it"
in the darkness
in the wind

speech leech

I have 4ooo feelings
welling inside me
expressionless
and coughing
just don't see how writing
could do justice
these emotions

words are quick
and easy
we throw them around
recklessly
in attempt to communicate
we complicate

but what of a smile?
simply
solitary
where no arrangement of consonants
and vowels
parts it's lips
obscuring it's honesty
and innocence

I've lost them
those linguistic little instruments
lost the will to manipulate
my spirit
into grammatical framework
to justify my smiles
with reasons why they exist

may have been obvious
in the growing silence
I've been feeling anyway
that it's not how or what we say
it's what is never said
that leaves the deepest impression

samsara

as all this samsara
is beautiful and holy
all our footholds
will be worn down by time,
leaving the world and us
sheer and shimmering, beautiful and holy

sing me a song, beautiful and holy
ooh-ooh, la-la la-la
don't you see i gone too fa
just gonna stay at home with my ma
cain't see for the light coming off that sta
sheer and shimmering, beautiful and holy

as all that is in the universe
and all that isn't in the universe,
time lapping like waves
leaving us battered,
sheer and shimmering,
beautiful and holy

too many days without a decent burrito
and i'm telling you darling i miss your smell.
i keep a lock of hair to remind me
of that time i almost dove out into traffic
in an effort to escape that song.
i'm trimming nails with my teeth and buying two dollar burgers on the beach
waiting for low tide.
just a man with a dream of nudity wealth and love.
brown toned skin from the all week sun and even on its bad days i find it so apealing.

living a rich lifestyle on a shoestring budget trying to remember that i'm only acting like i know what i'm doing.

Child Prophets

ive got my hand in the plate
will you deliver it unto the king?
my tongue is sharp, cutting through the collection
with shattered excerpts of prophecy
we babes are speaking do not turn away
we share a leaking
its dripping into a pool on a tile floor
where you'll all seed deceit
and it will flourish
like an infection

the orgasm of this wicked sowing
will chill you to your home
and the mountains refuse to give you comfort
and the oceans wont swallow you,
no, this station will not serve you
its not crippled its cocked for self destruct
its indifferent to the human plot
look out

shaking hands wet with the washing of hands
kept with the shivers of man in a place where light is in a great demand
ma'am i can't feel your fingers in my grip
the branches are slipping away slipping away
don't let the blockade of complacency stop you on your way
it's made up of wires soldered tight to the board
feeding their greedy little beadies greedy little fingers
great greedy arms of a great greedy bastard
beast is unarmed but LIVES like a weapon
beast is unarmed but lives like a weapon
throw us overboard
we're going to have to be the tribe of exception

Unmeasured Tides

for now its walking in the temple,
the cannonball through the mosque
paradise lost

christened with the toll
cremated at dusk
fire and rust
were his only parting gifts

but you can shake a hand
and feign to comprehend
we're full of failing dams
wither us, we rust
envision us as dust
its welling up inside me now

apply pressure release the puss
boils inside my throat
vomiting water
let the dogs come home and lap it up

i'm shivering shaking
we're a bomb without a casing
exploding little eyes to find the
carcass where she hides in this mosque
i'm quivering quaking
we're a litmus tounge into the acid changing
and when i think i'[ve got your hands
you'll be thinking about how long the fall is taking
we've reached the nexus
but it's just the vestibule
we've abandoned our dear friends
we've reached the next place
the unquestionable
its in our written end

turn off here,
the engine
may be on fire,
or there

may be an
electrical storm,
the sky ripped thru
with jagged fire

or maybe just a
beat up old field,
and we can build
a lean-to out of old
poems, radio
waves and opiates

I mean, the clock's
busted, so maybe we've
been on this road all day.
my eyes are starting
to reflect the pavement
in that way they do
before momentum
simply takes over

"Always remember, your focus determines your reality."

don't get carried away with the labeling people
...seriously

Only My Name as a Title

I put my number in the pocket
of your coat with only
my name as a title.

And tonight was the first night
in a while that I listened to the Keith Jarrett Trio.

Sometimes it's what's not in a poem
that makes it sound so sweet.




*Winner of The NJ Poetry Society Contest*

Spiders

She said "I love spiders" more than she said
"I love you"
But that was okay because
She was my first love and
That was enough

And when I helped her
Bring the Christmas Tree home
From the woods,
She brought the spiders
In with her

Scolding her
Parents for trying to
Keep them out
As they moved from the tree
Onto the railing, the walls, the ceiling

I suppose they’re safer than I am,
Shielding you with their webbing,
Appreciating your
Beauty with a thousand lusting eyes,
Suffocating you from the rest of the world

And from me
With Eight
Million
Caresses.

A Poem About You

You asked me to write a poem about you
But I couldn’t because we were talking about
Me writing a poem about you.

Ten years and two phone numbers later,
The page is empty and the pen is still
As I sit here thinking about you,
Wondering if you’re still waiting for
Me to write a poem about you.

So Much Depends Upon

I
Brush my teeth with cement toothpaste
On a bristle-less toothbrush

I scrape, spit the blood out
Look at myself in disgust
In the mirror spackling with spit
So old it reminds me of
How much inactivity I’m capable of

From the corner office we
See an accident on 18th and Cross St
Where an old man in a grey sweat jacket
Is professionally re-directing traffic
We can’t hear emergency vehicles for miles

As the traffic depends
upon

A grey old
man

Glazed with rain
water

Besides the white
wreckage

I'll Give You My Sun If You Give Me Your Rain

I'll give you my sun if you give me your rain
Drops of tears and smiles could only be so sweet
The black clouds amidst the white day.

Give me your days existing in vane
When life is blacker than it seems
I'll give you my sun if you give me your rain

And accompanied with foolish grin
I’ll lend Maddening laughs far more upbeat
To the black clouds amidst the white day.

My glass is half full, yours half drained
Earthly realities clashing with skyward dreams
I'll give you my sun if you give me your rain.

The typical yin to my typical yang
Only the Gods would kindly beseech
These black clouds amidst my white day.

You're the fishhook to my open eye
A queer union of love and peace
But I'll give you my sun if you give me your rain
The black clouds amidst the white day.

"Before I die I want to swim with sharks"

Of course she meant

Inside one of those diver cages where

Sharks can only glare sideways,

Like a Weight Watcher's consumer

Glaring into a bakery,

With black hollow eyes that

Need their promises to be

Broken

For one single meal.

Can't break your diet though,

Doctor's orders, your

Hearts are in bad enough

Condition, you stop moving and

That's the end. No,

No red meat needed with that

Hanging over your dorsal fins.

Yet they continue to stare,

Hoping to resurrect some

Ancestral Megalodonian strength to

Manhandle the thick bars of the

Cage to get to the soft

Chewy Center.

You can see evolution in its most

Sincerest form as you witness the

Same frenzy a little kid has

Ripping a cereal box

Apart to get to the prize inside.

Before I die, I want to swim with sharks.

Ripe

she's crying on your shoulder
begging the ceiling to make it stop
and you're the one who has to answer
you have to stop the world
from the everyday things she does
days keep coming
deadlines get closer
problems get bigger
this
woman
is no special case
but for now she's all
the room and the town
and even the air
and why is she with him or her
or him or them
or me or him
or him or him or him...
nobody's free once she's graced them
with an empty brooding smile
and me here with her head
on my shoulder,
I'm the newest toy

My New Year Revolution (resolution)

if your life isn't a movie



make it feel like one

Neilson likes to pick locks
but he doesn't like getting in
behind doors
he likes tumblers
and moving them
and he can draw them
from memory

mechanical, like
clockwork
Copernican universe
movements,
planets in orbit,
epicycles in fine detail

Neilson and the universe,
all musicboxes moving
tumblers and gears,
all heretics,
all for the sights of beauty
in
pure movement

weak seams

an observation of your mind unraveling
contemplating taking over the morning
what is this disco
galactic limo
booze and bumps
dip and thoughts of breakfast
before the sun rises

picking up lucky pennies by the dozen
we're a rock show
from the east coast
and sometimes
finding ourselves caught in a net
of disillusionment
out of the corner of my eye
I see the machine of your mind
spin and snap, threatening

there I catch myself wondering
why do we humans
continue to exceed sin
to replace lost innocence?

who in their adult life
full of deadlines, dating, and procreating
finds the time
of their own free will
to roll around in the grass
and laugh?

when did the simple things stop cutting it
and when did misery become so attractive?

you break
I watch it happen

flying from the sun
sequestered in the great belly of an east bound bird
are one hundred hungry mouths
on one hundred hungry heads
discussing their hungry lives
feeding their hungry minds
in between time heading into darkness
all facing away from the sun in earnest

cigarettes on the west
burn faster
due to the airs
lack of moisture

that couch felt better on my back
but i'd take sharing cross-words
and the softness of your skin
on a lumpy pull out mattress
over a good nights' sleep
anytime

when I think about those
veins of roads out there
and all that metal
screaming like blood
down and through 'em
with all those lost wanderin kids
hollerin' at the night
just waiting
for the night to holler back

when I think about all those
anywheres in USA
all those street lights comin' on
and all those teenagers turnin' on
behind mini malls
and gas stations
sneakin' cigarettes
and sippin' whiskey

when I think about all those
highways in darkness
or in afternoons
rain blurred tail lights
and foggy mountain roads

when I think about all those
stretches of suburbia
and long
farm scattered
country lanes

when I think about all those
veins of roads out there
with those wanderin' wonderin' kids
takin' metal and screamin'
down and through 'em in the night

I just can't wait to get out there

when I think about you, baby

synapses fire off in my brain

chemicals combine and react

but I just wanna know, darlin'

when ya think about me

do your synapses fire back?

Your House

your mother never looking
up from her book
your aunt laughing
lighting cigarettes
repeating our words
with a chuckle
your sister and I
avoiding eachother
exchanging only a few
awkward glances
your father
cursing us all
with his head
deep inside the refrigerator
all those stories
and couches
squeezed into just
one little room
and you
doing your best to smile
and always having fun
but that's all
I really know
'bout your house

My Dead Friend

I see you in dreams sometimes
riding in the backseat of a car
like we're going on some trip
maybe to the beach
or a cabin we rented with our friends
and you crawl on into the front seat
slide into my arms
and I kiss your head
'cause I know you're not really there
and as the first tears
make rivers of my cheeks
you slip into the backseat
'cause you know
that nothing is allright

At The Bottom of Pandora's Box

somewhere
planes are touching down
bringing bodies home
somewhere
children are crying
somewhere
a man stands outside
squeezing on his hands
and trying to find words
somewhere
a woman is crying
and somewhere
lies a mother dead
somewhere
there may be angels singin'
and devils laughin'
or nothing at all
somewhere
something is born
somewhere
people are praying
somewhere
a small child
is sleeping on his father's chest
somewhere
a man just threw his dinner
across the floor
somewhere
there is happiness
everywhere
there is hope

The Night with Sex and Cigarettes

formaldehyde
I promise I'll preserve you
long after all that I love
is gone
swim in me
air born Christmas
raped in the night
by swear word benediction
velvet whisper
under your skirt
'unclench your thighs'
that street light that blinds us
even through the window
the ash in the red sea sheets
the hollow slam
of head board to drywall
and that stinging wail
of your last bath in me
formaldehyde

Thump

there's vomit in here somewhere
I can smell it
which of these staggering
overzealous
warlocks
is our culprit
I get it, hallway
'beat the pussy up
beat the pussy up'
I get it
so quit it
with the floor shaking bass
already
Cuervo's had enough
and I think he wants out
so ease up
before some other
self righteous monster
comes looking for me

even a hobo
will stop
to notice
the beauty
of a motor oil rainbow

jesus
or Jesus
or hey suess
josh
or Joshua
or FINK

Where does the sky go
when I can't see it
Where do your smiles go
when my money isn't mine
I found a sweet little dungeon
It held in all my screams
Nothing fucks you up
like a perfect moment
Nothing makes you feel unwanted
like true love

come on

Hey baby
Whats’ say
You and I
Go disprove electromagnetism
By showin’
That two people
CAN
Really
Really
Touch

a broken bottle of wine and snow scattered inside a monte carlo

snowstorms
will always ignite the child within
no matter how old
the thrill of dodging snowballs
and swinging on snow covered swings
in full force
the warm glances of those close
the red wine running through veins
and sadly, how quickly the moment ends
like childhood
and the snow
which melted the next day
and all that is left
are the wet clothes
the sting of cold hands and feet
and the remnants of red wine stained on lips

count em'

These words
Dime a dozen
Good
Cause that’s all I got left

tacky charmer

He heaved
Into the room
With buckets full of cheesy charisma
And mopped the floor with all of us

His weedy smile
Somehow charming
That seedy style
Somehow beguiling

And then when he left

Though his saunter was ungainly

His feet
Never touched
The floor

dispatches

i listen for you tapping
i listen for the rhythm
and i shuffle my feet
i listen for your fingers
against the floor
light thumps
or barely brushing
and the rhythm

I'm just swayin here
from a branch
growin offa tree
or
if gravity works
the other way
it might be hangin
offa me

fact

life is an existential crises

hosana

saint peter
had told me
but she
moved
all rosary
heavenly holy
through the air
filled with
shafts of stale light
and the vibratin
dusts
so infinite

the world is an old church

of poets and mechanics

these women with their academic tone
and publishing credentials
and every syllable purposefully humbled
dress all deliberate and proper
tell that same story about
their oldest son and one bad decision
talk about their second trip to Greece
and the lovely hotel with the view
that their dead husband hated

but never fought a war
and made it feel like heaven
all dusty and silent and well lit
never slept on a floor all creaking
with the heavy breaths of inaudible poetry

my mechanic has tattoos that smear and bleed into one another all indistinguishable/owns four shirts all oil stained and torn like truths/named his daughter dharma/tells detailed stories of freight trains and hobo rolls that may not have existed but feel like concrete

as he perches on the hood of the '72 duster because he always seems ready to move

advice in stereo

The advice is to stare
5 feet in front of you
the street on one side
and a sidewalk on the other.
Stare 5 feet in front of you
and don't look down
at right where you are.
The sharks on either side
are dangerous but when you
fall off it doesn't take much
to get back on. This game
goes a lot further than the curb.