Blue moon,
clinking in the six case.
Mexican scratch off addicts,
drinking a different flavored drink.
Spaced on my tablet,
kissed the liquid till it hits me.
Daisy barks at Tim,
and in the time machine of this bus I have learned
the value of a half hour pissed away with pleasure
In transit.
I caught that son of a bitch,
And each bottle I finish is a tribute
to kindness.
You might miss the point
if you miss the bus.
And you'll be left
huffing and cursing,
steam curling from your raised fist,
as you run behind the life you could have lived.
But on that stop you might just find yourself,
or someone else, who needs
the things you can supply,
And holds the things that rule your eye.

So you can kindly keep your car
because, I can't watch and drink and write
while I'm driving.

i did attempt to understand
your brain with math
and physics - days.

one night i had a dream
of a triangle spaced up in air,
and corners only three.

i didn't understand that all
the hight from ground
was bound to fall in line.

the line was marked where
all would stop,
and analyze shortly abrupt.

"i do the math because
i know just how to
calculate the dots beside.

i couldn't be a doctor,
because i couldn't
get enough on skulls to practice on. "

as three would make triangle-
a family of dots would spread,
but yet- together they would only form-
a shape.

to morning i would think
that shape- i couldn't understand-
might be all the creation
i'd never figure how to recreate.

the professor
name's John, I think
every day a goatee
a ponytail
and an honest smile
brings me flowers
sometimes.
pays in nickels
sometimes.
"have an easy day"
he says to me

man in the same brown
suit, mismatching
every day
coffee, hunched over
with something under
his arm
sometimes.
never seen him speak
just a scowl
and a solemn shuffle

the owner
of the bar next door
I think.
out for a cigarette
every 30 minutes or so
or move his car
he gets our mail
sometimes.
glasses on his forehead
never on his face
always a fleeting
noncommittal smile
pacing past the door
sly eyes.

there's the guy
stuck in the 70s.
every day
bell bottoms
a black bowl cut
it's a wig
I think.
a leather jacket
sometimes.
walks like he owns
the sidewalk
he doesn't.

the old man
the half-blind one
orders the same thing
always.
with his walker
his hands searching
haven't seen him
in a while

the big guy from
the burger place
across the street
no, not the famous one
the other place.
took his suggestion
got a burger
wasn't very good
but he's always so
cheery, gotta be nice

the one guy
blue shorts guy
stops by during his
run, to check
the selection.  back
an hour later in
pants and
a jacket now.
never buys a thing
wearing those blue shorts

the woman with
oddly spaced teeth
and hair
the short witchy kind
lots of shawls
and oversized tote bags
and cargo-capri's.
complained of
an allergic reaction
once
to god knows what.
keeps coming back though

a mother and son
mother, tired.
ten year old
private school boy
asks for too much
and too many questions
"did you make this?"
"are you really 20?"
"do you go to school?"
he asks so many questions
"yes, yes, no."
"why not?"
"well…"
mom saves me
distracts him away

the poor skinny one
the homeless man.
ill-fitting clothes
always.
women's
sometimes.
begging, cigarettes and money
has a tic, says
"hello! hi! hello!"
every few seconds
he's very persistent.
and very polite.
gracefully insane, I'd say

Your heels always hit the ground first and years later
thats how you learned how to run
you kicked up so much dirt that
the debris from your detour clings to your lashes
cradles your eyelids
you've become a whole new kind of transparency.
glazed and spaced, tell me when your shoes became the only thing
unlaced
tell me the next shade up in opaque and I'll superimpose you if it would make the slightest difference
in your distorted disposition
you're aware of your capacity of scarred composition but you say hey,
it's better than plain vacancy, well
I want to shake the coiled novas nestled between your temples so that the air
can be polluted with something beautiful for a change, I know that love
is just a futile prescription that you're immune to
but I still pray it's something
you'll get used to
I want your antics to stride past exposed bones so maybe I can pave
a fractured thought of my own
I want your second hand smoke
to inhale
a sweet exhale
of your mind, in the shape of O's that linger from tolks
this room is white like clean coke and
stained white with clean coke and
when I swallow so much shadow that I too
become a ghost, just know that I
am only malleable
but not the only thing you're able to
control

Enjoy a metaphysical state. I'll metaphorically slap you in the face with reality to date.

Update your plate with another helping of rape.

Some lie, steal, and murder; while I help, care, and create.

Feeling spaced, with your thoughts erased, as you're too scared to face the truth that takes shape.

Dig deep down to understand your fate. Separate that from FREEDOM of choice, mate!

Escape the confines of your box of a mind, and skate down that road we call LIFE you grind . It's a race.

You are all superior. Nobody's inferior. If you can relate, then great!

The black hole opens up
I have drunk from that cup many times before.
The fait accompli
doesn't worry me.
I have stood and I shall stand alone.
Man does not need a home
he needs a heart.
I parted from that years ago
I would like to know
why that still pains me so.

I cannot see
the darkness holds me tight but in spite of that
or because of that
I would like to be
liked by someone similar to me.

Not the same but not the opposite
don't want to attract
the false positive.
Is that negative?
Do I give a shit?
Give me a bit of advice
tell me that life's just a slice of the pie
walk on by if you must
shake the dust from your shoes
win or lose
it's the same
dark is the name
the black hole is the game
and I
lose.

the trees speak to me
and for all i can see
the wind the rain
their mourning pain
i mean it's all the same

but the trees speak to me
but not so that i can see
but so that i can feel real

the underground networked love
the shared canopy sunlight love
the spaced trunk LOVE
for me

the trees speak to me
but not so that i can see
or explain their voice
but so that i can enjoy my time in the woods :D

there's nothing quite like
        a spaced out bard with a lute
there's just that quiet hike
        in space-time-mass we salute

    we find our spaces
    we spend our times
    we blend with the masses
    and hope that it rhymes

Do you ever wonder what could be
If cold stones in the street
Brought you home to me?

Do you ever wonder why
Eyes burned down to be blind?
It's what brought me to lie.

Do you ever wonder how
We smiled and laughed?
My dear, it was just a show.

Do you ever wonder who?
Cursed with untitled emotion,
It was always you.

Do you ever wonder when?
When was the point
Where I'd not know where you'd been?

Do you ever wonder where I am?
Spaced between continents,
The love sale was a sham.

Yawning in the Morn

The graveyard staff, a Rutgers’s undergrad,
rises from the cluttered drawer of her bumpy skull
pressed against The New Yorker cartoons.
She marches across our hallway.
Crimson day
makes my impassioned red window fiercer.
Wolves murmur behind jagged edged corners.
Languor! My back arches forward
as if a lasso was lobbing high for the catch.
(This is the hole for the “corrupted snatch.”)

Does it matter to have this wealth of charm?
I wink at Kathryn, spaced out in her manner,
once a Columbia Head-Captain cheerleader
(if she were coordinated!),
still disgorging the bowels of a girl in her fantasy,
as she broods, a butch staff
with the talons of an owl
perched on her concrete crate,
which is strangely pallid from the Metropolitan plastering,
An outcast jelly caricature in a polka dot scrunchie,
Worn Fridays, Wednesdays,
She obsesses only of her reputation,
of bullying the quiet and the optimists —
more distant from clear sight than a fruit bat.

These are the routines that day unfurls in
the Northeast wing at McCarthy’s;
the blue polo counselors drag out “Hannah,”
Equestrian club’08
an understudy of Holly Golightly
without the look —
stuffy and posh-posh as a Queen Bee,
as she swaggers forth and back in her golden-black robe
and guffaws at the domesticated,
thinking she will ditch this dried comb.
These second-hand models of elegance; their fossilized angst.

During the gaps of a full schedule,
regret after regret roll right down pulled back hair
mixing with the repressed hypocritical feministic braggadocio
of the Fanatic Zodiac-Loving employees.
(There aren’t any superficial
phonies in the Constellation Club.)

After an undercooked Manhattan brunch,
I have no more appetite
for afternoon. Alpha of the herd,
I stroll in my long-sleeved Russell’s athletic fleece-tee
before the smudged bathroom mirror
and find the unstable reality stretch out looser
in the fragile, accordion personas
of these quintessential delinquent Madonna’s,
below my race and half my culture.
We are all teenyboppers,
each of us given the same lawyer.