so here's this preacher
runnin youth groups
and buildin skate parks
in new brunswick
i knew from carnival days
and sunrise surf sessions
he wandered just to
far from the path
found jesus in the mushrooms
let his hair and beard
grow long forgetting
the world doesn't like a savior
for the freedom and the fearlessness
a moral high ground affords
but women always will
and mary magdaline stares
from across the bar
from above a gin and soda
but that doesn't make
his father the broker
feel any better

and the preacher understands
his parents never wanted him
to do the right thing
they just wanted to teach him to
then get blown off

and the preacher and i
catch 4 ft glass a frames
once and a while
i ride a 9'6" single fin log
he rides a retro twinny fish

and there is only room
for one man and god
to pull into the pocket

as an orange sun brings the wind

candy was
dread headed land locked
and sleeping
in the heat of upstate new york
married

dreaming her and i were
on a massive ship to iceland
cutting the frigid atlantic
we saw a narwhale
and i tried to leap to its back
at the last momnt it reared
its horn comming upward
and she saved me
by leaping first
her arm becoming impailed
we both rode the narwhale away
through northern lights
and cold waters

the narwhale horn isn't
really a hon at all but
a rogue tooth with grand
desires who at an early
age turns upward and grows
through the top of the
creature's mouth and out it's face
and takes on the appearance
of a horn

early viking traders would
hunt and kill these aquatic
mammals cut off their
horns and sell them as
magical items to europeans
claiming they were unicorn horns
the europeans would sometimes
grind them into powder and
sell them at apothecaries

freud would obviously find
overwhelming phalic symbolism
in candy's flesh being pierced
by the narwhale's horn

so the dream of my married
ex-girlfriend is wrought with
sexual imagery influences of
capitalism undertones of deceit
and unfulfilled hopes

but its still the sweetest thing
anyone has ever told me

i write motion poetry
about characters
passing through
towns and time

but now i'm still
in a city that moves

and that is
to new
a concept
for me

jackson browne
sings like
the salt in the air
of an off season
shore town

the piano is grey sky
seagulls arcing against
ambiguous clouds

this girl
her name already evaporated
vibrant
she nannys and runs pharmaceutical
grade marijuanna
to pay rent in little italy
but is moving to china town
cuz she needs a
bathtub again

bought her first air conditioner
on the 28th of the month
a daring move
in the city

looked spot on irish
all freckled and red hair
but was
lithuanian
and sat on the hard wood floors
listening
to 40's jazz and blues
in the dying light

as a
calico cat
mover over
the furniture
backs

i like her best
after 3 pints
in the afternoon
when she looks just to long
with half buzzed eyes
says things are "fantastic"
and laughs
like she was youth
and it was spring
for
only
that
moment

i roll over
i am thirty

in the last ten years
i have danced
wildly

witgenstein
thought
most poetry was bad

but some captured the mystical

precisely by
avoiding it
all together

morning
red city
they all are at this hour
the sun
and brake lights
sleepy

she wakes up in bushwick,
gloriously hood

i commuting and uniformed
am lonely on crowded highways
buying coffee at bodegas
lose the point
in the bustle of

morning

red city

anthropologists
will tell you
that the specialization of labor
could only have occurred
in cities
built on the sweat
of post agrarian
society

but the hard asphalt streets
of new york city
kill artists
silently
as they're dazzled
by the lights
as they stare upward
at the impossible
buildings

all caught up in the surviving

the girl
in love with
airstream
motor homes

loves to show off
the city
to
anyone new

coulda been an actress
coulda been a dancer
coulda been a model

her feet fall softly
on wet
brooklyn
asphalt

the lonely
in brooklyn
ride single speed
bicycles
through early summer night
full of bridges
flirting hard
with fat red moons

to dinner parties
where everyone
helps
cook

saw a photo
saw myself
next to a giant
plastic
cactus
at south of the boarder
thought of yr sad smile
thought of every
girl and boy
i drove far away with
thought of america
in the rain

there was a feeling
on a highway
in the freedom
of the wind
between points on a map

northern brooklyn
sad rain balcony
afternoon
bleeds into evening

hipsters and mexican mechanics
drink beer inside
from glass bottles

they meticulously
disect
kafka as if he
had changed
into the roach
analyzing
lines and names and
word order
assembling
critical essays
or end notes

performing
a romance-ectomy
of academics
as they say everything
left
un
said

and reaffirm
the line between writer and critic

under a
fat enough
moon
the world's calm
is unifying

we are all specs
drifting
in the hopeless
currents of sky

moving with
the worldly weight
of an artist
on her
uniformed
shoulders

she reminds
that destiny
is a sarcasm

One star, bright lights
below all but drowned out,
fixed watchfully in place

The Vacation

I was in Ft. Lauderdale
drinking in a cheap motel bar
the fans had misters
spraying damp air at the clientele
trying to beat the humidity
the bartender was a gorgeous blond
older than she looked
and as the night was ending she eyed me
so I lit her a smoke
and asked her name
'Grenadine'

so fake names and bullshit stories
brought her to my suite
ten beers and some pot she smoked
got us on the floor
at the bed side
I laid down a quilted blanket
and we got to it
she was scratchy/rough and pleading
for bite marks
I facilitated all requests
she dug her heels into my back upon climax
and we smoked
hours with wine on the floor
and as she smiled and took my hand
I had a fisherman's blade
and I put it in her neck

her pupils went wide and she got serious
her hands spelled words and thoughts
I was sparking up my last menthol
as she clutched at the spewing wound
I looked and smiled
told her she was beautiful
and killed a corona bottle quickly
she was burping blood
it matched her lipstick magically
and as the wound's gush lessend
she was clutching at the sheets on the bed
graffitto-tagging them with bloody hand prints
and I pressed my smoke into the pillow

the morning came as I sat poolside
with the finest singapore sling
check out's nearing but I'm all packed
all I need is a real feeling
as I enter the room the cleaning crew's leaving
Luis grabs my arm
says, "your chica's on cycle"
I mouth a 'yes' and yawn
the quilted blanket from the floor
crumpled in my luggage
I grab a cab and fix my shades
an hour at the air port bar
then take off has me saved