up on the bridge
she explains
stories of the city's ghost
but the words get drown out
thinking of stealing
kisses in the skyline

...always did have a thing
for williamsberg girls

been wanderin loose footed
streets of a great city
with ferenghetti
talkin in my head
'bout his isea of miss subway and the
brooklyn bridge
and saw 'em
in the new york night
older now
after the dream had
gone

lawrence,
there was a coney island
of my mind too
there was a whole new york
of my mind
brimming with
deadbeat saints
and street corner
miracles
but maybe
that was a new york of another yime
or of another world
cuz this is one
of drunk barrooms
and gorgeous
foods

Tonight-
1st Bonfire of the season
10:00pm
In LBI

It's Publisher's birthday!

the soles of my boots are worn.
dirt and rocks seep inside,
underneath my feet.
there's no traction
walking along pavement;
yet, i always manage to get across
without falling.

by light of sick machines
we count flowers
admonish ourselves

Me and the Moon

it's me and the moon
and here I am
looking up
at these stars again
thinkin' bout all those
dark figures
movin' all
secret and holy
like they're protecting
some unseen treasure
in New Brunswick basements

and then
all those times
caught in hailstorms
or meteor showers
cloud cover
and thunderbolts
knowin you were there
protecting us from
places unkept
devoid of that secret
treasure of night

it was you
showin' us where
to hang our hat
rest our heads
when to quit
and when to
drive it all home

kept me stirrin'
and crazy
when you got all full
like I was protecting you
for once
from exploding
out and off
stormin' their shores and
killin' them all

in the end
I know it'll come
right down to
me verse you

you'll bathe me
in stars and maybe
a lightning flash or two
and go on livin' here
as I go
discoverin' new roads
in another place

destined?
ha, i just got here
leave a couple lights out so i know which ones home
i got a bone to pick with all or none
im alone a twisted mess my dear
but at least we're on the same page

you had me at goodbye

"you want an explanation?", he screamed as she trailed off into the empty frigid would be romance of another wise pale evening. "hi kids, this is a fairy tale we live in. i'm Pinnocchio the dwarves are railing snow white on a mattress behind the 7-11. truthfully theres a yule log channel and a trees that dont need water in every living room this side of the mason dixon, but i'm traveling to the shit grove where they grow elliquent ignorance and package it all in the back of a museum dedicated to the finest store bought mass produced garbage of the 21 century..."

to which she replied,

"take me, i'm yours

on seeing a beard in a convenience store

I threw open the double door
and growled "it's Tuesday"
and everyone inside the store
put down their distractions for a moment
and looked at me because
it was Tuesday,
but that's not the kind of thing you say
in polite company


and you, you looked at home
in the florescent lighting
seeping into yr bones.
the daily, ever present
ebb and flow of coffee and
cigarettes and the tides
and the moon
and new newspapers
replacing the old
creating the illusion of
time passing, but in yr veins
it's the same, and when the
register rings up

I slid dollars across the counter,
like a piston in mid-fire,
and yeah, it was Tuesday, and I wanted
to leave my ID there when
I walked out,
make a clean break of it all,
of all the Tuesdays
waiting for the light to change,
for the rustle of newspaper,
for the condensation to drown us all,

but instead we leave like bandits
who forgot to get off with
anything but the coffee
in our cups

If/Blink

If/Blink
by sam floT


(I’m disassociating
Mind place and person and)

I’m the figure you see
From a distance
On top of a hill
Next to a small cluster
Of small trees

Just a silhouette
Ambiguous and indirect inside

(If my eyes blink it changes)

And

I’m hurtling through
A tunnel dark
All arrows trying to see
Trying to understand
What my vehicle is

What’s taking me there?

(If my eyes blink it changes)

I’m back on
What feels like and looks like
A California rolling hillside
No trees but I’m in a forest
Of windmill turbines
Duplicated repetitions
Placed equidistant from or to
Each other

(If my eyes blink it changes)

And

I’m on the ocean now
Floating,
Not gently
As if down a placid river
But a constant rag doll
Thrown down and up and all around
By the sway of the inevitable
Ocean consistent

Always in conveyance of the metaphor
Up and down
Up an down
The sway of the inevitable ocean consistent

(If my eyes blink it changes)

I’m back on the hilltop
I’m back in the tunnel
I’m in a windmill forest
I’m floating, not gently on the Ocean

Bounced around and wondering
Bounced around and wondering

Hilltop
Tunnel
Windmill forest
Floating, not gently on the Ocean

Bounced around and wondering
Bounced around an wondering

4.6.oh-ate

Deliver the Sun

Deliver the Sun
by sam floT


I see the sun galloping on clouds
Beyond the neighbor’s mossy rain-stained rooftop
Breaking through the distance
Nowhere near me, but looming, I see the sun
I long to feel it’s warmth after a cold dreary day

Birds chirp despite it all and it will come
I know it will be here
As I anticipate its arrival
A lone bird flies across my view
Unable to wait, flying to the sun
I am jealous at his seeming insistence

Seek and find he says
Do not seek and still find, I say

It works both ways, he replied

Swan Reunion

In the process of moving a year ago, I had trouble eliminating stuff. My ex told me that I have a problem with letting go.

Yes, I'm a pack rat.
Yes, I'm nostalgic.

And when I listen to that damn awful Oasis album with the song, "Wonderwall" on it, I'm always gonna think of winter '96 with warm fuzzy feelings.

It's October now, and I'm gonna see you this weekend.

A year ago, we wanted to carve pumpkins, but we dressed up "mod" and ended up at a Halloween party drinkin' gin all night. We sang that awful 90's song driving home and vowed that it would never leave the car.

It never left the car, but I still remember.

And now here we are, doing our thing-

You, in PA
Me, in NJ

but I still kept you around.
And I'm gonna see you this weekend.

March 14, 1997

Saving pomp
A book

A memory
of pall
A memory
A cold memory

The Rutgers computer lab stinks on ice.

An Apology of Sorts

what I need from you
is a realization
that it's not all lies

I'm a hopeless romantic first
then
I'm a drunk
and afterwards
I write it all down

I need you
to sort through
the drunken rants
the embelishments
bullshit
and bold confessions

no one said
it was easy to know
a romantic drunk
a lieing writer

we are phantoms falling down
but we make great lovers

God is an Ant

I think about ants
going through their day
not bothering to
or even think about
explaining themselves to me
and to an ant
I am God
I am omnipitent
I am the creator
and
I am the destroyer

I like to think about
changing an ants life
taking him from his dull surroundings
and sending him on an adventure
on a leaf raft

I imagine him
cruising down the gutter
the cliffs of the curb on one side
and wide open
rocky desert on the other

it must be amazing

I guess
what I'm saying is
there is always
someone bigger than you
but
there is someone bigger than them

I am a God to an ant
I am an ant to a God
God is an ant to an ant

I like to think about ants

A Dream

Autumn is here
and I want to take you
on long walks
to watch leaves change
and fall off

later on
I could rub your arms
as you shiver
your teeth chattering
watching our breath
fog the air between us
and disappear

you can tell me
how crazy the world is
I'll reassure you
that people are terrible
we're all fucked
and we'll get through it
one perfect day at a time
in a shitty world

You Like Pizza

I poured it all over the table
these guts
this blood
these
whiskey fueled
barroom confessions
and you stayed
swayin' and strong
still playin' the game
showin' no cards
and keepin' the deck

all my words were poetry
taken from the bottom of the glass
but they were real
and it was all true

I just want to know you

you and me
we're a part of this
holy dance
that's been goin'
on and on
for centuries

your words
they don't cut
like razors
more like
teeth scrapin
across my skin

there are so many old timers
but only one stranger

I'm very excited on hitting the 2000 mark post on Walking English, it's like when yer car hits 200,000 miles

your right, waves do get smaller
but I didn't think of them as getting
smaller but just leveling out.
Leveling out to the point where
it reaches childrens ankles
except...they can still feel the pull
of the tide trying to bring them
back in. And then a new wave comes,
rises to a point and again levels out.
Without all that pulling back, and rising up,
and leveling out, without all that movement,
we'd only be lakes about to dry up if it wasn't
for the mountain springs that surround us.
Our celebrations are movements and the tide
is pulling back out leaving shells and rocks
that will be pulled out by other waves.

In elementary school there were two types of kids,
you were either a busser or you were a walker.
I was a busser.
I wanted to be a walker because they stayed late
after school and it wasn't till years later
that I found out it was only 10 or 15 minutes more
so the buses could have time to leave.

Review of The Idiom from the guy at the Racontour

I never actually read a copy of The Idiom
but I like what you do
so its one of those unconditional loves....I'm like your dog

When my sister sees people walking on the road
in all black at night
she gets angry wondering where
he's going, what brought him there
to the middle of nowhere in Jackson.
We're surrounded by cranberry bogs.
Perhaps he's picking cranberries
at 2:14 in the morning.
It made sense to me.
He may have been the youngest
writer for some well known
magazine for all I know,
ran for some government position
to mess with the numbers.
All I know was driving down
Cedars Bridge Road
at 2:17 in the morning
was that I really
wanted some cranberries.

Lines from "The Prelude"

When the Earth is all before me,
and all these beginnings and happenings take over

I look about and the guide I choose
be nothing more than a wandering cloud

And with that I am calm
Thank you, Wordsworth
Thank you, Milton

and with that I remember predictions of cowboys
walking into bars, because Mariachi bands

are so rare in these parts and all those miracles we create
known or unknown, seen or unseen are when we are the strongest

Yet, in weakness we create distinctions, then
deem that our puny boundaries are things

which we perceive, and not which we have made.
I love it when the Earth is all before me

poetry is easy.
it's all about when to keep writing
and when to go to sleep.

everything else is awful.

Alice told me I am a mirror for madmen
I was twenty years old,
eating and drinking,
growing and shrinking

I need you to leave me
Alice said so

from the middles of bridges
the city is finite,
infinite,
and still

from the insides of cities
the city is still
infinite

my insides keep asking for
another city

a different strife

Everythings literal even when critical
times call for metaphors and lines
of iambic pentameter

Kundera says that
seeing is limited
by two borders:
strong light,
which blinds,
and total darkness.
My shoes used to be dark
now they are light.
They are white
and bright, stand out
especially with khakis
and the red paint
at the tip can be seen
from gas stations
that shut down
from art tours.
It's a lot easier now
going from darkness
to the blinding light.

The Story of Where and When Time Met Space

The Story of Where and When
Time Met Space

by Sam Flot

He said:

This trail we’re taking is a circle
If we start at the end
We can reflect on the grove in the middle
We can see the coast near the beginning
Which is our end

She said:

If we start at a point
Unforgiving transporting
The real evidence we find
Is life is supporting and
Gives us no warning
No flags to indicate which way to go
Arrows point everywhere, but, ummmm…

Now I get it
It takes me a minute sometimes
We’ve been waiting for you
Where ya been?
You must be Time?
Welcome
So nice to meet you
Everyone ‘round here calls me Space

He said:

Subverted contorted
Fast down or slowed up

I’m waiting for no one
I’m on nobody’s side
I must say the pleasure’s all mine
This time

And
She said:

Contracted or reported
All close tight or spread out
My frontier is the air
And I like mine clear

Have we been here before?
Have we met?

Cause it seems to me
Déjà vu or fantasy, previously
We’ve had some sort of intersect

He said:

I am fastidious
Slow, not pretentious
I’m exacting and yet I forgive
My heart beats metronome rhythm

I heal all wounds
I’m wasting
I’m short
I’m money!

She said:

I am undefined and infinite
Instant and unknown
I provide taste in music
Emphasis on timing
Room to just breathe
Or to imagine
Unparalleled lands of promise
Not sands falling through a glass figure

He said:

Our meeting was sanctioned
The day they invented
Anything thought to be measured

She said:

They told me you’d be here
I’ve waited everywhere
Finally the moment is here

He said:

Space you’re so beautiful
So soulful and endless
So open and calm like a breeze

Space you surround me

I can’t find a place
Where I don’t want to be where you are

She said:

Time you keep talking
Ticking not stopping
Just stop for a minute and listen

Let’s stop all the thinking
And
React without shrinking
Away from this light we create

He said:

My heart is standing
On my head undemanding
Hoping you’ll give me some room

She said:

Step inside, Time
I’ve got nothing but room
For your vast and infinite mind

And

I think that we’ll find
The beginning was fine
Not yours, not mine

For right now
We may meet again Space

Somewhere in the very near future

6.22.oh-ate fLOT

The Math I Teach in English Class

Maybe it's not just the evolution and execution of things that I like
but perhaps some distance and time ratio that really matters.
I'm not talking about flux capacitors or my inabilities to balance
while hanging off guardrails, but wanting to be in the city
instead of watching it from a park.

I haven't been in a city for a few weeks and like camping
when I haven't been there for a while, I miss it and while
camping I want to be anywhere else but in the woods.

Although I do like the view of the city while driving
over bridges towards tunnels and that's a pretty complex
math equation. Something like the amount of time (T)
you are traveling towards a city
multiplied by the distance you are from the city (D)
equals the amount of pleasure you experience (P) while
viewing the skyline:

T x D = P

We didn't even consider all the factors that might affect
this equation: the traffic, the weather, (its always the weather)
the right song from the radio because you Ipod knows you so well
it knows what to play when put on random.

All these issues just to get some pleasure from a skyline
for a city I'll never get to because I'm stuck on this bridge
and the tunnel is all the way over there.

my nerves uproot me every day.
i am always starving.

sing to me
and keep me singing.

what we have to offer are
notebooks of sound
the strange ways we love and
the ways we love
the strange

we make light of day and
make the day
grave
we are faith

and proof
that, after having lost faith,
life continues

we soak up consequence, defy,
amble, and rail

we are invaluable

Reaching

I'm sorry I write this shit
I'm sorry you choose to read it
I never apologize
without real incentive
I'm ready to quit
When you're ready to tell me to
I have no problem giving up on dreams
I
have
no
reasons
there's no secret
as to what keeps me going
there's no spiritual fulfillment
in this asshole's motive
it's simply a nervous compulsion
to make somebody hear me

On Scott Street

Intense
as she walks shouting behind her
waving her left hand
conducting a sidewalk ghetto symphony
her high heels sound monstrous
ready to shatter the concrete
with her swift power steps
trampling childhood
trampling innocence
I think she's some kinda spanish
though it's dark
so I take hints from her motion
her choice of word
bilingual catty exclamation
I'm in the background
hoping she stays so bold
hoping it never breaks her
as her heels echo from the dark
and she's found something better

10/10/08

Tomorrow is 10/10.
You know what that means, kids.
Toms River Diner
10:10pm

Do it, kids!

do it, no fee

Poetry Chapbook CompetitionThe Center for Book Arts invites submissions for its annual Poetry Chapbook Competition. The winning manuscript will be chosen in April 2008 and will be awarded with the publication of a beautifully designed, letterpress-printed, limited-edition chapbook printed and bound by artists at the Center for Book Arts. The edition is limited to 100 signed and numbered copies, ten of which are reserved for the author and the remainder of which will be offered for sale through the Center. The winning poet will also receive a cash award of $500 and a $500 honorarium for a reading, to be held at The Center in the fall of 2008. Visit The Center For Book Arts for more information. www.centerforbookarts.org

Deadline: December 1

When bulldozers work, I watch from the hood of my car.
I also like the bones of a building, a mound of sand before
the shape. When I climb mountains all I see are more mountains.
I like earthquakes, I like tidal waves,the destruction and construction
of things. All that nostalgias for has been's and people
that can't forget but the rivers are flowing and eroding cliffs
and my friend Mike Rice is right, the one's that are never finished
are great because they

an entire age is
lost on you, and
so
am
i

you stand against cities
oblivious to beginnings

neal,
i saw yr ghost
as i slipped into coast
in neutral
down the back side
of the rockies
you were mad grin
tappin and howlin
in the jazz of truck tires
no engine noise
just the wanting eyes of gravity and mass

imagine a whole planet
pullin yr soul
to its heart

this woman
brazillian
and sitting outside
the jersey city PATH
will always be
last week's stripper
to old in the face
for the stage
and mixed blessing of neon

but still with hips
ready to dance
dollars
from my pockets
as she leaned
full into that poorly
placed mirrored column

and now that same woman
in my mind and brazillian
her face aged
perfect
for jersey city afternoon
has my thoughts
fishing
for the shape of her hips
and the cut of her lengerie
and my fingers' memory
for dollars from my pockets

my ex-girlfriend, Jessica use to tell me i was amazing
she was usually talking about my drinking

but i wanna be amazing

i wanna be the lyrics to the chorus
of Amazing fuckin Grace

Kerouac talked about his friends as saints
i want a halo
bright as the sun
pressure and heat
transforming into light
in black holy space
fusion fusion fusion

and i want to be ice cold
damn it Outcast
i want to be ice cold while i burn

i want to grow up to be
james dean's sideburns
the updraft in Marilyn's dress
form fitting and rugged Levis
Marlon Brando's Marlboro Reds
Chuck Berry's guitar riffs
and John Wayne's cowboy hat
all dusty from the trail

i want to be sepiatone, black and white, and technicolor
simultaneously broadcast on three screens

i want to be mother theresa's rosary full of grace
as she doubts in the night
ghandi's peace, hannibal's elephants, MacArthur's war

i wanna be john lennons sunglasses, and bob dylan's words

i
want
to
walk
on
water

while we all eat bread and fish
and drink wine
in the company of Lazarus

i want to sing, dance, and screw
like i breath
natural and out of necessity

i wanna be amazing

You drink of reds
and leave me

You drink of reds
leave earth

The wake of daydreams
consumes you

Circle your birth and
come back to me

Those songs are not yours
you are not an astronaut

You are not an astronaut

I read Whitman loud
at a festival
and i realize how beautiful
it is to be reading him outloud.
i want to practice this
in my basement,
perfect my impression
or at least what I feel my impression
of what Whitman sounded like
in long branch
soon i will sellout
and sound like an impression of my impression
of what Walt sounds like
but that maybe what poetry is all about.

I like girls who dance with trees
but they always seem
so illegally young

there is a power
in words
only because of that
simple and overused
concept of language

"I think over a matter of 30 or 40 years of writing the mask comes closer to looking like the face and the face comes closer to looking like the mask, so that finally the person you want to be isn't much different from the person you are"

Richard Hugo

Fuck yeah, Philippe Petit

Philippe Petits on the radio
talking about his high wire
stunt across the twin towers
and i regret calling it a stunt
after hearing him talk about
his art of trapeze.
He talks about learning it on
his own, not growing up in
the circus or even having
a trampoline in his yard

When asked 'why?' Phil
answers, explaining,
that it is the same reason
why a painter paints,
he does not know why
but wakes up in the morning
and must paint.

It seems the more entertaining
something is, the less artistic
it becomes and that's sad
because a man on an island
who draws a picture in the sand
is only doing it because he is lonely.

When Petite walked the clothesline
in his backyard it was for him
but when he climbed those towers
it was for everyone else
and that makes it something
more than therapy.

I forget a poem immediatley after reading
or hearing it
I can't help it
Even though I do like it

Poetry

Sometimes I don't know why I like it
Most don't read it
for the fear they may be
missing something
and most don't write it
for they fear someone
will miss something

Most times I don't understand it
Sometimes I only like the way
it sounds when read aloud
or the shape it makes
on the page from a distance
where i can't even see the words

just a line may move me
and the rest of the poem
may not even matter

I lost many a good lines
in the heat of a dryer vent
which is the downfal to
pockets

Those slam poets always trying
to shock and awe the other writers
a beginning writer I was like that too
but now I realize its better
to shock myself with a good line
that I never thought
would have come out of me

Nasa on the Ground and Astronauts in Space

The astronauts in space are jealous of those Nasa Guys in the control room for their mathematical and organized ways and vice-versa

Although Nasa knows exactly what's right in front of them, the Astronauts can see forever into space, both beings would collapse if in the other situation

Astronauts paint the Hubble Telescope every 2 years which improves our ability to see things clearer, Nasa writes down the correct amount of paint to use and figures out the exact time to paint otherwise the sun would melt the paint over the lens and everything would blur

The sun is Nasa's greatest enemy as is the moon to the astronauts. They both work really hard to conquer their enemies.

Astronauts list to very loud music in those helmets Nasa can sometimes hear it over their radios but choose to have no control over such matters

The weather is important everywhere but in space only meteor showers mean anything. Past conditions are studied in order to find out bad weather reports

Nasa confesses alot of things to the public: its mistakes, its achievements, its discoveries. Astronauts bask in their own Glory.

Without Astronauts, Nasa would just look at the stars. Without Nasa, Astronauts would never know how to get there

For all the Beards in Bars, Bookstores, and Diners

A beard is never just a beard for me
It always seemed to mean
a little more than just some facial hair.
People with beards know what they are doing.
Out of control beards or neatly trimmed both work for me
Beards in bars
Beards in Bookstores
Beards in Diners
have all changed my life.

aspects accomidate all of art.
portray the physical and emotional.
being of entertainment and pleasure.
I know no boundries, limitations, or rules.
I use the best of my abilities in any situation.
I am a casualty.

My disapoointment with camping
doesn't only come when nothing happens
but realizing that beforehand I expected
something to happen

The Real Things I Prayed For

On Sunday mornings I would creep into your room
moving the door slow enough to prevent it from creaking
and waking you up. I would crawl under the side of your bed
and flick the switch on the alarm clock to OFF knowing
you would then sleep late, so you couldn't drive me to CCD or church.
Unless it was a major turning point in our religious career
a confirmation or first communion, our teacher would discuss
the greater things in life to our all male class, like football or baseball
or any sport in which we relied heavily on God.
It was easier to convince you not to bring me to CCD if I were already late.
I'd wait quietly in my room, a good half hour after class already began.
I now think this may have been the beginning of my reading habit.
When the time seemed right and you couldn't possibly shower
in time for church, I'd begin watching cartoons loud enough
for you to wake up, panic over the time, and get me
some of those jelly donuts I loved so much every Sunday morning.

Richard Hugo will have to wait

Richard Hugo will have to wait till
at least my mid thirties
when he talks of trout and "eating
eggs of salmon
that run in the river of his ear"
I just don't get it
but damn it I know it sounds
good and i know something
is there
even if its
not here now

His letters are just that,
only letters
and his dreams
are just that
only dreams

Maybe after I drive to Seattle
to get his 2 cd set, they they will
be more than dreams
more than letters
cause like everyone
Hugo has something in his eyes
in his face
and will do
anything to live.

the eye, time,
light, age,
wring, hang, and stand
beneath them

speak.
weave air into
a home for me

ail as you will.
ramble

weigh aches and
dispatch them

I have no remorse.
This time may wring

and struggle, but
it is utterly essential,

this intermittent hand that
clambers and wanes

soon to be erased

monster in a theatre of disease if you please scrape the vomit from the corners and im climbing to the street
all i wanted was to see
never wanted it to be
never turning me to you
never turning you to me
youre so fucking perfect its disgusting
eating aphids under tree
arachnid call girl history
shes always once and never again the time i saw that face pretend it wasnt you and i was somewhere else

sure do miss the marks

televisions making threats again
its getting so you cant believe your self
in a cold afternoon, we'll be singing goodbye precious
buried alive, at least this time, but then again its getting harder to suspend
this little dream
you called again
to satisfy the urge
and push a litttle closer to the edge

im not alone in this she said
you've got the others in your head
we'll make it right we'll break your focus
just destroy the world and watch as no one still would notice
the room in flames just hear complaints
its getting so you can enjoy a decent cup of sorrow

no winds of change
or great demise
could keep the dogs from chasing
down the ones too quick to cry
with leather skin and colder eyes
i could have called you love
and smiled as i watch it die

untittled

faceless crowded nothing nowhere
making sense played on accordian
trumpets all go deaf with pleasure
i saw the blue balled matchstick maker
im here so long its feeding time
im sleeping through my dreams to find it
drowning in succession with my favorite piece of furniture

when you die im taking all your sounds
make an album of the resturant we burn in homage to the starving artists working in the back
thesres seagul shit outsite the penthouse at least thats what she said to me the grass is dying for a glass of empathetic proticol
recite the inverse telegram scream over the damn house of snooze band
history repeats another mistake when she finds you hollowed out

broken little finger

get a gun take a message
im in pieces on your floor
fall apart throw a fit
cast aspursions
i'll get use to it
im nothing if not everything
you'd kill your self to be
touch me taste me feel my cold
im inside your empty promises
a broken little finger

cut too deep and break my ash tray
fast asleep behind the wheel
my eyes make sense of no clear visions
i just hate to see it smile

untittled

left town one cigarette and whiskey belly south bound
tomorrows indecision breaks apart the mundane skyline
cant find an open window so i'll be sleeping on my feet again
prosthetic happiness and poems about the wasted kind

dont seem to mind the downfall
tragic smiles plastic memories
got a foot in doors
at least you cant take what i will not give
the glass that stretches on
four miles without an imperfection
lies to you in kind dear friend
theres nothing left to do but burn the skys

October, I love it.
The letters should be dripping and red.
The absolute best thing to do in October is to find a really spooky spot, somewhere the leaves are starting to drop, and remember all the ghosts.
Make it somewhere the trees are just starting to look like boney fingers that seem to claw desperate for the yellow moon.
Let your self get real scared, remembering all the ghosts.
The fear is still genuine even if the threat is imagined.

It’s just like masturbation.

Except you replace lust with fear and instead of an orgasm you receive adrenalin high, but really it’s just like masturbation.
I just like fear fucking my own ghosts,
So do you.

Modernity and its luxuries

I got up early to help with the children and drink coffee and bullshit with my sister.
Then I worked a day, a full day, but full of what I can’t really say.
It’s very average and very American
But it wasn’t bad because I feel alright about the weather,
And when I come home I have my own little place
Here in the world.
I’ve got a little place
And all the luxuries you would expect: beer, television, smoke, smokes.
It’s the same old thing
For sure,
But I would be greedy to want more, and delusional to think I deserve more.
All the luxuries you would expect: beer, television, smoke, smokes
And sometimes even time.

Modernity and its luxuries pt two

The time to drink the beer and watch the television,
Tonight is no different.
I watch comedy and enjoy it.
A well written and well acted sitcom, beautiful.
Good television is a luxury,
Choice is a luxury,
And I’m too tired from a work week to do much but enjoy the luxury.
Then there’s a science program about the beginning of the universe,
And there’s politics on the television too.

As I get drunker,
I get dumber
And I go from comedy to science and from science to politics,
And if someone was watching,
And no one ever does,
You could watch me, a human animal melt,
From the beauty and art of humor to chest beating punditry.
But all along I have that luxury.

Modernity and its luxuries pt three

All along I have the luxury
That amazing thing that comes after paved streets and plumbing.
When no one special,
Me,
Can have a moment to think,
Big grand thoughts,
And I do think them.
Those vast amazing thoughts
When you understand something that you’ve never understood before
And you get just big enough,
A little bigger than yourself.
For just a moment it’s all laid out before you
What’s illuminated in your puzzle and what’s not
What you know and what you don’t,
And in the darkest spots,
Well
That’s where it’s really at!
If only we had the time.

Chianti

Jenny likes to
smear red wine
across her lips
at birthdays
barbecues
friday nights
getting her world
out into yours
tellin you all about
the best pizza in town
or dirty jokes

she likes the way the world looks
all distorted
and green
or blue-ish
and a touch of red
through wine glasses and bottles

she likes to be elegant
loves to smile
through blood lips
and teeth
knows abuse
and love
and cocaine
the horrors
and the truths
of all three

Have You Seen Ugly Casanova?

as I'm wanderin Brownstone's holy interstate
crossin unnamed
bridges
rivers
lakes
and I'm wonderin bout a man
that stands seven feet tall
blood streaming down his arms
graceful
like rain
or a movie
and he's handing you
a stack of green papers
with drawings
words
diagrams
letters
you can hear his feet
grind and
twist
on the broken glass
and he staggers
to the shattered window
and out
giving one last look
before disappearing again
into the mad night

her soul is still her soul
my rib inside her
atrophies
my skin chokes

She ambles at dusk
beside the hours
She has one color,
they have nothing

She spins hours into lace
She rages and grays

she walks against panic
shoulders back

murmur of the earth
is hers

projectile joy
inertia and just forms

violence of hours
she fires and invites

she mangles sacrament
a perpetual beginning

"So I did sit down, and everywhere I looked I saw customers of every description being received with love. To the waitress everybody was "honeybunch" and "darling" and "dear." It was like an emergency ward after a great catastrophe. It did not matter what race or class the victims belonged to. They were all given the same miracle drug, which was coffee. The catastrophe in this case, of course, was that the sun had come up again."

- from Jailbird, Kurt Vonnegut

The Waitress

Tanya was folding napkins, preparing for the night's dinner rush at the little diner she was working at. She stopped for a moment to light a cigarette, watching the blue smoke dance with the light pouring through the large windows that lined the walls. She thought about a life in California. She thought about walking out of work tonight, getting in her car and just driving west until she saw the ocean.

Just then, the bell on the door rang as it swung open, snapping Tanya out of her half-dream. Roy walked in and sat at the counter.

"What can I get ya', Roy?"
"Coffee."
"Allright! How's everything, Roy?"

Tanya grabbed a cup, a saucer and the coffee pot. She placed the cup on the saucer in front of Roy and filled his cup. Then, she grabbed a handful of creamers and tossed them next to his cup. They fell sloppily across the counter.

"Ahh, not bad Tanya. Not great but not bad. Same ol' shit, ya' know?"
"I know."

Tanya put the coffee pot back on the burner and returned to her cigarette and napkin folding duties. She heard the double doors to the kitchen swing open behind her. A hand slid across her stomach from behind, down her side and then down to squeeze her ass. Mich whispered in her ear, "Hey, baby." She could feel his breath on her ear, his hand still resting on her ass. She slapped it away.

"Not now, Mich."

Mich walked back into the kitchen with a huff, like a little boy who hadn't gotten a cookie.

Tanya went about folding her napkins and smoking her cigarettes, refilling coffee cups and smacking away Mich's grabbing hands. At the end of her shift, she stopped at the gas station to fill up her tank.

"Going on vacation, Tanya?" Joe asked, pointing at the suitcases in her backseat.

Joe was always working when she stopped for gas. He was a sweet old man, always wearing the same, beat up, old cardigan; always smoking the same cigarette; the cherry always at the edge of his fingers, nearly at the filter, so close she didn't understand how his fingertips didn't get burned.

"Yeah, just takin' a little trip, Joe."
"Well, have a good time. See you in a few days."

She thought about Joe. Him walking into his house and kissing his wife's sleeping forehead at the end of the night. She'd like to have that some day.

"See you around, Joe."

She pulled out onto the road and rubbed a tear away from her eye. Everything was about to get better.

i've been thinkin bout
that moment
that stretches and bulges
as its seen through a water droplet

the one that didnt happen

the one where
you and i walk all night
down damp city streets, glistening
the flesh of our palms
pressing together
the slow strobe
of yr skin, the cheekbones
washing over with every
well placed street lamp

the moment where the city empties
and nothing ever happens
'cept footsteps
and syllables
and occassionally silence
in wet eyes and completely
comfortable

ive been thinkin bout
that moment

we sit
heavey in the fog
as laden tankers in morning
estuaries
watching
breaths mingle
make love
with all the infinite
atmospheres
so temporarily
textured

and the scene
has me thinkin
if my breath can be
the air and its moisture
and the fog can be hers
then John was right and
"i am she
and she is we
and we are all together"
tankers and estuaries
and breaths
and lovers
and dancing barefoot
toes mingling amongst
mud and themselves
and breaths

dark on the sheapshead bay

and the swans stand out
only as
holy question mark necks

he was singin Leadbelly
(the one Nirvana covered in the unplugged)
as the rain was commin down

and i never trusted brenden
still never will
except in that
moment of storm
cuz he sounded
like 100 recruits
all chanting
and infallable
in number

we are all fragments
of the One perfect thing
exploring the perfection
of itself

or

the universe sucks its thumb with wonderment

salvator

the tattoos crawl on his arms
and his hair draws back
in his eyes, a sleeping mad laugh

i think of Ernest
well lit in the bomb blast
and early mornin
wheelin his ambulance
around the corners
god crafted in the Alps
the dust and the blood
that shook from his boots
and the words that shook
from his tongue

the city is strange
and god damn fast
with all its horns
blaring and twisting
so god damn fast
the cars barely move
on the highway
crosswalks spillin out
every way
so fast

and a small dark skinned man
plays a flute
all still
on a patch of grass

i threw i ching coins
in delirium
to show you
that i wasn't evil
but the travelin stranger
and the mountain
always thought otherwise

and we tried soft kisses
for the first time
i can remember
in yr curling hair
but yr wrists ended up bruised
again by morning

so i guess thats just how we go

thinkin of the really important ones

maybe existance is not a prerequisite
for changing the world

the only songs worth singin
are the bad ones

eulogy for the midnight smooth

i named you
but then
you became mythic
catching cold sun
on the backside of the continental divide
in angelic coast
raw and brave
holding road
beside countless cliffes
all over
all over
AMERICA (a woman you loved fast)

unshakable
straight never mistaken
when i couldnt drive a true arrow
just 8 cylinder power
in jet black faith
against enemies arrayed
in battle
that hydrant, snow bank, mail box, chevy blazer
never stood a chance

against
yr detroit metal
or yr romantic soul

went out to the lot tonight
saw all the exhaust foggin
an' engines howlin love songs at the apathetic moon
headlights blurrin the world in halos
catchin water droplets suspended
in the air

now i been to college
an' these boys aint
an' they poor paychecks under car hoods
an' hours on the grease stained floors of
dim lit garages
till the oil gets in their poors and denim
mixin with their blood
thickenin

now i been to college
an' i dont know a god damn thing
bout ignition timing
cam shafts
drive trains
overhead cams
wheel wells
solenoids
fuel injection
turbo chargers...

but i aint never been able to lay ahand
on a metal body glistenin starlight
purrin heavy and feel it
finish myself

i saw you
fall in love last night
like aplot unravelling
with a strong jawed man

he was to drunk to dance
but thats okay
cuz so were you

and i love to let
my eyes catch things like that
the times that taste
of that first sip

of acclaimed red wine

natalie

the way you move
through barroom night
self conscious glass
with
craving eyes

but on beaches
free limbs
swingin
awkward smile
the greek letters runnin the length of yr side
that
"mean somethin to you"

early mornin and
baseball cap
everytime
worn and hiding
sleepless eyes

i prayed to the gods shining for a new set of imagery
my old one was worn and thready

jack kerouac is a god
no one understands
what its like to hop freight trains, lost in america
or go 40 days without food, tempted by satan
but his name is always riding lips

i want to write a great poem and walk on water
i want all of you to write a great poem
so nobody will understand our footsteps
and loaves and fishes and where it all came from
and why it goes
and no one will read
the 573 holy verses
but then
we will
never
die

only bodies whither

recurring dream

the long, narrow hallway
leads to small, crowded rooms
all with red walls
doors, wide open

516.0

our lives move
like perpendicular lines;
coming from different directions.
we meet, intersect,
make a point-
then move along,
going our separate ways.

i want to die owning nothing
but a smile
that i give away
freely