was it the Maker's Mark?
was it the wine?
they say you shouldn't mix,
but i don't listen.
i never listen.
was it the air?
raw, Philly air
or the way the city lights shined
on the icy pavement
or the way my trench coat draped
over my body?
it certainly wasn't her fuzzy hat
i drunkenly threw over my head,
hiding my wild, jet black hair-
that would be silly.
was it the drunk flush in my
cheeks
or the way i bragged about
all the books i read
to an uninterested guy
on the couch;
the same couch i later fell into?
maybe
it was when you looked
straight into my dark eyes.

i just don't know.

i do know there was a moment-

when the wind blew cold
and your fingers ran through my hair
your wine stained lips
touched mine

and nothing else really mattered.

The Beats Never Liked Being Called Beats

It’s not an ego thing,

but I do like to be reminded

that the things we do matter;

That maybe our thoughts

do hold water;

And that words

can shape the world

(for better or for worse).

It’s corny

but the pen may really be mightier;

and that makes us

one of 300 strong.

Us/Canada Border, 23 October 2010, Approx. 7:30pm

He asks me if I’m a writer,

as he searches the contents

of my backseat,

and I’m unsure of what to say.

“Yeah. I try to be.

Poetry, mostly. Some short fiction, though.

Been working on trying to do more short fiction.”

His response:

“seems like it.”

A conversation to

pass the time

ensues

something about

Cormac McCarthy

and I’m sitting there

not really listening

settling into the idea

of actually being

a writer.

A Time Remembered and Imagined

I can see that vast expanse of land

to the North,

walking to your favorite spot on the lake,

bottle of Macallan in hand,

two glasses,

and a dog with no leash.

I can taste the nights out and

the trouble we might get into.

I can feel my heart

beat hard in my chest

when I think about

all that holy, wide-open,

horizon,

skyline,

and highway.

I can see your eyes

shining at me in the dark.

I can feel them on me

when I’m half asleep.

I notice the way they change,

somewhat greener at night;

but sunlight bringing out

the baby blue below

when under cloudless skies.

I can smell the coffee,

the restaurants,

all the clean air;

and I can see for miles,

all the potential

there

waiting for us

to come ‘round

and pick up

where left off.

Chuck is the Way (what was supposed to be a reminder to write a poem that became the poem)

Something about Bukowski being right

about how the Drinks toll

comes for every man

and how that relates to me

that’s what I was supposed to write in this space

and maybe I will

or maybe I’ll just take the time

I would have spent

re-writing this reminder

I’ve left for myself

as a poem,

maybe I’ll take that

TIME

to run to the liquor store

or go to the bar

and get a drink

and think about writing more

poems

The Seasons in Me

There's a night I was looking for
I don't think this is it
It could be here anyday
If maybe you'd bring it
Yesterday was summer
today fell into fall
I keep beating against the mornings
I keep sleeping through my dreams
There's a taste of death with breakfast
and a hint of peace with supper
I love you when you hate it
I hate you when you move
but I'll get by
I'll set myself a proper pace
and collect my bleeding head
When tomorrow is winter
and you still feel like spring

To Craig Voss

sometimes
in the tense trepidation of the hours of the night
laying awake in the throws of insomnia
I ask myself
"where is Craig Voss"
the 1974 Springsteen look-alike
discovered for me in Punxatawney
all too many years passed
I hear he's getting married
not sure if there's a kid
but I can be absolute in the observation
that his life has been void
of a Joshua Fink
for some time
so world, or looming ethers,
or perhaps a benevolent presence
deliver me my tattered friend

Just like yesterday

I can remember waking up in Connecticut
Like the back end of a dream
Drunk and on a southbound train
In a winter wonderland setting
Warm light flickers off the snow falling

I remember being lost in Boston
The cold ripping through my clothes
Waiting for your call
Stumbling Cambridge roads
And yer voice when it finally came
through a painful tone
dead drunk and even more
lost than I was alone

I remember shaking your mothers hand
In the hall of the house you grew up in
And all the letters we exchanged planning
the whole thing, just to keep us sane
the sun on the snow on the windowsill
Sparkling still
the roads you drove, you knew well
they haven't changed
You hadn't changed

But I don't remember why you brought me there
And I can't remember why I came
Cause I couldn't leave you in the cold
Like you have me time and time again
The easy way wasn't in
falling for a charade
Made it that much harder
to look back then walk away

Still there I was in Boston
there on that southbound train
Finding time to fill the spaces
Where you should be instead

If you'd ask me now
I might think twice
Sratch a head
filled with questions
running restless
Hold my breath
Heart beating out my chest
just like before
I'd fall right back in
like it never happened
like you never came
like I never left

Left unfinished on purpose

Chasing cheap wine with whiskey
Ashes with sand

A rattle snake sleeping on a bed of nails
Looking for some form of home

Leaving well enough alone
Thinkin I'm already gone
On a chain of cigarette smoke
Pulled out an open window

Runnin from the devils
Nipping at my ankles

The night like a nightmare
Caught you in a deep stare

And we end in a beginning
The only one left dreaming
You brought it back to me
Without even knowing

It's a windchime
A whistel blowing
A stopped watch
Time slowing
just enough to catch yer eyes
with mine

plotting from the backseat
fingering strings
Leaning into me
high on traveling
Wild restless
Confessionless
Your light touch
left miles between us....

Lucid in the Meantime

You kissed me as the door spun
While I tried goloshes on
And through the turnstiles
Wet and wreckless miles
Once or twice on subway trains
Then again before heading 
seprate ways in the Brookyln rain
And back again
After long nights spent
Wandering
In our heads and out
In cars and not
You kissed me as you dropped me off
Looking at you I thought
It's best you keep the sunrise
hold steady down the eastside
While I fly back west 
To catch the sunset
We can't be too close you see
the dream becomes reality
reality turns into history
history, a mystery
and admit I must
i like it best 
where our subconcious meet
Kissing eachother in our sleep


 

Ryan Adams,
Autumn air,
Raw throat,
Steam seeping out of the
Coffee cup

untitled

Last night I went to the bottom of the ocean

& laid in the sand with my love.

The way we bid our time near an old, dilapidated ferris wheel

& OH! The way he held me

It was purely magnificent.

Where dreams & reality collide,

that's where you'll find me.

The Poison Dream

If I'm to dine on the fruit of your vines
you'll be the sweetest poison in me
the brave flavor on a cynical tongue
to savor as my body falls victim
as I wake with you and turn your cheek
to see the newest tear
I know you come from killing clouds
I know you're here for seasons
these portals we dream through
keep us mortal in the ever night
and corner us in normal boundries
seeming formal to the sleepy eye

Noontime Chores

I was digging up a dog today
Hoping he’d still be meat
The sweat and heat beat me
So I took a needed seat

I snatched up my bottle
And took a dramatic swig
Bleeding from my cuticles
As I spelled your name in twigs

My over-alls were dusty
As I pulled off the covering clay
I was discovering the beauty of things
Hovering just above decay

Looking down on this mongrel
Wriggling with hungry worms
I thought of your indecency
When you laid out your brutal terms

I figure now that oversight
Had rigged me sick and vexed
When you’d triggered in a bigger love
Perhaps I’ll dig you up next

Grayson Bartlett

blowout

fist pump your way to the lime light, climb the 15 minute ladder to the champagne room and find you're ghetto repunzel at the top of her ivory tower giving hand jobs for shots shots shots...and come september some how theres more trash heading up the parkway than they left in the sand.

got a cousin in hell, an uncle on his way to join him. president says bring the boys back home and he aint even left yet. you got friends in the desert taking bullets over oil? you got family in the ground paying another mans dues? fox news balancing out what's fair and jon stewart keeps us all in stiches while we sweat it out at home waiting to lose our best and brightest. its ugly, heart wrenching and pointless defending the american way, cheeseburgers and amstel light, fighting for cable television and the right to shop for trinkets from your living room. we built this city onbullshit and send strangers to die to procure more. thanks for the courage fellas, i hope when you save some for when we actually need it

What Counts

Eventually you'll take her home
Forgetting your allergies
You'll walk through backrooms stinking of cigarettes and whiskey
She's spinning now, stumbling even
slurring words, thoughts unfinished
You help yourself to milk crates stacked outside the corner flower store
as you try to convince her
her best option is to vomit
She doesn't disagree,
but insists it's not time yet

Your house is far
Hers further
Together you conclude that the wisest move is to drive once
(although very drunk)
to the closest destination only
You need to let out the dog anyway
She agrees
You toss the milk crates in the back seat

Home now she brushes her teeth
what little she did eat
Still remains in her stomach
(it's not time yet)
You send some drunk emails
to some cute online girls
Knock your new computer off yer desk
by accident
She's in bed sewing, eyes bearly opened,
She comes out running
Together you fix it and climb back into bed

You roll around a bit
She's unusually silent until she let's slip her fears about a very sick friend
how she loves him
He's family
You think, she's really drunk tonight
And she knows it
You ask gentle questions
she needs to get this off her chest
She let's you see her cry
You make her laugh
Together you laugh hard and long
And as if on que, one of her favorite, your favorite albums comes on
By track three you're both asleep
She doesn't dream

When you wake up you kiss her
She smiles, her head hurts
The night before may be all a blur
But you spent it together,
as friends would,
and that's what matters

sometimes
cover bands
break into
a set of
rage against the machine
and a bar full of collard shirts
full of top shelf drinks
full of twenty something college kids
throws its fists in the air
and chants

fuck you, i won't do what you tell me

and they will all pay their taxes

she's been on the corner
of bedford and north 8th
for years i heard
selling whatever trinkets
costume jewelry and wall hangings
sometimes numbers come to her
in the bustlin city
she plays them later
in her british accent
she'll tell the story of
her WWII vet husband
and repeat "war is hell"
with a feeling in her voice
that only comes from
living through old wars
living through honest wars
and she'll sit on the corner
and sell trinkets and age
and tell the story and
disdainfully speak of
the new neighborhood
waiting is hell
war is hell

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