Get on feet
out of seats
with a firm, stretched palm,
maybe even stick a tongue out.
Get hysterical,
elated- get pumped.
Yell something trite,
That's what I'm talking about!
Get a rush
from the head to the Seoul,
get a fresh set of wings,
fly from the hardwood,
get elevated.
Full-court press be ******-
This goes beyond the laces,
the cheering,
the stoic referee winded-
travels hot fast and hard,
after the huddle, before the late whistle
and the fist-bump.
This is success at its most savage,
emotion at its rawest,
audiences at their most breathless
moment.
This, son, is the slam dunk.
Anything less would be a travesty
to the occasion.

I squeeze the juice from my favorite words
and store it inside a decorative vial.
The contents are potent and long since stirred.

The mixture's turned foul with stench and curds,
with shame it's developed a semblance of bile,
'Cause I've squeezed the juice from my favorite words.

In the days when epiphanies simply occurred-
the privalege of picking choice cuts from the pile-
the contents were potent and hadn't been stirred.

Now I'm frozen, unable to harvest when spurred.
There's a dangerous feeling I'm losing my style-
I squeeze more juice from my favorite words.

Enough lamentation; I'll focus on her-
she's my passion, my engine, my nature, my Nile-
her contents are potent and need not be stirred.

Alas! I'm inspired, unflagging, assured.
The momentum she gives lasts me infinite miles.
I squeeze the juice from her powerful words-
the contents are potent and need not be stirred.

Rabble, babble, babble
blinking buildings, ashen wood.
Good posture turns preposterous,
not feeling as I should.

Bare back no racks of social tax,
receipts below the hull;
A lack of lax amongst the facts
a tray of butts grown full.

Easy green tables
filled with clammy empty bottles-
This ain't the witching hour,
but strokes away from church bells.
Somewhwere between darts
and eternal lines for level velvet
I thought I heard a phone ringing
but I know it's just Pink Floyd
telling me the time.

It's 11:20am in OHare
and I'm here with Sam Adams'
cardboard cut-out,
sipping his hard work,
chasing my breakfast,
picking up where Starbucks left off.
But really, I'm avoiding the tired,
unenthusiastic bodies nesting at my gate,
with their dilapidated muzzles,
with their deadpan expressions,
with these head-and-shoulders of
malcontent- of brewing disappointment-
floating morosely above their respective
boarding passes, passports,
and food court receipts
clutched in cranky knuckles.

And so here I am, sitting at
Facade, raising a second glass
with cardboard Adams,
and I kinda have to ****
and I really have to ***,
but there's no way in hell
I'm joining the rest of my flight.

outside my veranda's heavy sliding glass
autumnal shades pop and flap
against the ever-grey-
that expansive distant bulb
glowing dumb and cool
in its own breezes,
and the neutral black
lines of power and telephone magic
sway as they run
indifferently through this
portrait of fall-
numb to its colors and smells,
in this perfect hour
of this rush of the seasons.

Had to hang up the lead foot
for a while, hopefully for good,
after a near crash the other week.
I was pushin the red line
vision smeared, thumbs angry,
voice sharp- wild like prairie wind.
So tonight it's just beer,
nothing that can cause combustion,
I've retired the horn,
and traded my brights
for a moon roof,
cause with her I like cruising-
and all I want is to enjoy the breeze,
drop her off safely, and remember
where I parked the beater.

You ever sat in a bar
on your second and last
beer,
just listening to music
through your headphones,
no girl with you
no game,
the only thing up your sleeve
is a tattoo of a purple
dancing bear?
Just wondering.
Have I?
Maybe.
Then again, I did leave with a poem.

The closest thing
to forcing creativity
is stumbling into a bar solo
and looking for a brawl-
it's never a good idea.
Instead you should play it safe
and just go to bed-
let it brew-
before you do something stupid,
before you get in over your head,
bark up the wrong tree.
Trust me,
you only feel unstoppable,
and a hot numb fist is no good
at a gun fight.
So forget it,
turn around- call it a night.
Otherwise you could lose
some precious blood,
your shoes,
or worse
your mind.

I used to ride this bike
on dirt roads
up and down
and up again.
Along the country's veins
in blessed Greencastle.
That bike with the basket-
the blue wonder
faster than the hills themselves.
I'd ride with chipped teeth
and skinned knees.
I would only stop
to help grasshoppers
off the road
or to throw mason jars
into the streams.
No watch,
no phone
no direction.
I never outgrew that marvel-
thank God for youth
and its sunny scars.

You sent me the sweetest thing
In that package, grinning
up at me on my step-
had my name on it and everything-
how thoughtful! What a surprise!

Ok, I lied-
no package,
but now you know a desire of mine,
and it didn't cost me anything-
not even a stamp.

When Light spreads her fingers
Darkness dares not linger,
there's treason within their collision.
Ink black can't mold bread
while the sun bares her head,
but both cloud each others vision.
So neither can figure
what causes the trigger,
there's little room left for precision.
They both wait and pray
that the other's delayed
'cause neither can make a decision.

I'm sitting here trying
to perfect a tint.
Gotta find a shade that
blocks the harsh gazes,
keeps me cool
and matches my tired wheels,
but not too dark-
I'm not trying to to hide
and I want her to see me-
need her to feel comfortable
climbing aboard,
feel welcome
shotgun
Guess I really don't want
just anybody
peeking in to see
exactly what I'm wearing
on the inside.
In the end it's up to them though-
all they gotta do
is pull the handle-
because anyone that knows me
knows I keep my doors
unlocked.

The hour's absurd
not one foreign word
can be heard through these paper-thin walls.
The mosquitoes all sleeping,
I imagine them creeping,
convincing my Skin 'till it crawls.

I often wake up shivering
under the thin excuse
of a tapestry
I use as a bed sheet.
My naked body curls
its bones in a weak
attempt to make heat
for itself
by itself.
As my sleepy brains
struggle to freeze the week,
to make the morning gape.
Eventually I lift myself
and stumble over to the
roaring ac unit
and turn its knobs
At ease!
only to wake up within the hour
smothered in my own sweat,
my feeble solitary sheet
now a cheese cloth
and once again I stumble
over to the *******
and turn its knobs over again.
I play this game often
here in my simple apartment
in the midst of monsoons
and torrential brain storms.
To keep score would drive
me mad- make a poor sport
out of me.
Nobody ever wins anyways.
it's worse when I am in my bed
and not alone,
but so is another game
I find myself playing.
Too often I play a game
I like to call  "just one more cigarette"
-this game has a definite loser
and it's always definitely me.
This game keeps score without me:
the first one to 20 loses.

Sometimes if I tilt my head
back, with closed eyes, and let
the breeze pat me down,
while my concealed eyes gaze
at the bright pink bulb
of the sun somewhere above me-
sometimes, I slip beneath a spell
and my fully awake brain
cozies-up in the very familiar
quilt of a dream-
a dream that is unlike those
of a night's sleep,
foreign to a bed or even
a park bench,
a dream that lies not within
the past or future
or the realms of absurd
surrealism-
but instead a dream about
what is around me
at that moment-
everything unseen in its place,
faces I don't know remain
belonging to complete strangers
and the bus screeching to a halt
inches from my sandals
honks in panic at no one else
but me.

Outside I hear a mad sound-
savage throats making waves.
I only imagine the scene,
safe on the 4th floor
it sounds like monstrous dogs.
dogs that bite children,
scare police, and chew dumpsters.
They're looking to dominate, to mark,
to catch, and they're ready to bleed
and if they can't do these things
then they'll haunt.
they'll haunt me as I'm trying
to grind words 'till their powder is pure.
They'll chase away all want and need-
they're no more dogs than I.

It's September: evening
and Bukowski stares at me,
******.
My phone rings
"Mhmm, ok, thank you."
wrong number and wrong language.

Pretty sure somebody was just stabbed outside
or got violently ill eating garbage.
I walk down there to have a cigarette
and avoid the stale smell
of the pizza box falling asleep on my bed.

After counting the number of cats I see-
stray as Satan's own- I head back inside
I glance at the bills in my mail jail
at the foot of these foreign stairs
(the building is Chinese, the city is Korean).

A hissing air brake laughs at my back
and the bus' transmission joins in- or farts-

by the time I get back up to the fourth floor
I want music, something that will help the
incense chase away mosquitoes.

And as I'm thinking of what to play
I glance at my bike, blankly,
and I'm reminded of how the rear
tire is ****** and how mean that hill was
and how road bikes belong on the road
not the sidewalk and I can't remember
when I last wore a helmet, so I try.

Half an hour later I finally get some
Stan Getz through my speakers
and don't mind that he invites
Joao Gilberto over.

I push my guitar and used clothes
out of my way so I can
sit on my bed with my
wonderfully cheap pizza box
desk, and my fancy leather pen
and just then she texts me.

Can I please just write?

Still, I can't help but smile
because I really just hope she dreams sweetly.

In times when the heart is lodged
somewhere between the brain and the throat
I try to force it back
down to its chambers, before I choke,
or before it strangles my head's precious, antagonized gland.

There's only one way to avoid
certain tragedy, and that's to look, feel, taste.
It's either make mental tracks-
run and jump- or drown.

It's at these moments when I start
playing tricks on my mind.
Doing this is easier than you may think.
Just stop all thought,
for the mind's constant churning
chafes the heart.

Now, allow your hungry eyes to sidle
to and fro- let them wander-
dare to wonder about what hasn't,
but don't idle even for a minute
on what has, or what couldn't.

As long as you can avoid relapse,
you might even venture into what could,
as long as it's new and fresh.
As long as it isn't some woeful inquiry
growing stale since last night.

Then once you find yourself daydreaming,
or better yet, DOING,
you are halfway there.
You've made it uphill
and only need to coast down-
down the lovely unkempt *****
of impulse without crashing.

Do something new,
preferrably silly- stay
away from dangerous-
go somewhere new,
talk to a stranger,
eat something expensive,
drink a little, burp loudly.

Go wild, steer away from crazy,
but cruise through hilarity.
Bombard yourself with creative juices,
**** your phone,
bury your watch,
put on your shoes and let yourself laugh.

Once you've had some laughs,
cue up some Planet Earth
-Kung Fu's good too-
roll a joint.
Smoke it.
Grab a pizza,
fall asleep with the television on
then wake up with a smile on your face.
Trust me, it won't come off in the shower,
and trust me your heart's ok.
You're gonna be just fine.

Send a prayer up for the families,
send a prayer up for the lost.
Send a prayer up for your enemies,
your friends, your crazy boss.
Send a prayer up for tomorrow,
for good weather and good health,
send a prayer up for all of these things
that go beyond yourself.

I want to speak with the director of my dreams,
ask him 'bout the plot twists
the cast, deleted scenes-
ask him why he shot it backwards
on a paper trampoline.
Then I'd ask him why I had no lines
and where the crew had been,
why the props were real,
how he made it it feel
so **** convincing.
Then I'd ask when next he thinks
he'll need me on the screen.

it's taking a breather
from fat wallets, damp denim,
and children's ***** feet.

I need a savior,
a real savior,
one- who when I need saving-
won't lazily toss me
a lifesaver made of razors
and call that **** a favor.

escorting you through the back alleys of Asia,
well it's kinda like
strutting into an interview drunk.
It's kinda like walking through airport security
with a baggie full of illicits in pocket 4
or is it pocket 5?

Hearing you speak Korean
with a shaking head
and a firm hand on my inner thigh,
well it's kinda like
asking a stranger to pay for my drinks.

Treating you to dinner and pitchers
when your heart's fighting your brain,
well it's kinda like
reassuring a child on his birthday
that he's getting presents later in the week.

And so receiving your words in the morning,
well it's kinda like
getting a kiss on a swollen cheek
right beneath a fresh black eye.

It's all kinda like it's dangerous
but I think I'm doin' an OK job
at acting like I know what I'm doin'.

I drowned it all tonight
in a tub of foolish advances
too hasty for rationale's sake-
washed her mouth out with soapy regret.

If she tells me she's dry
and that the taste was nothing,
I think I'll just wrinkle further.

'Cause the drain is choking
and the water's gone cold
and I'm left naked, shivering.

I've never heard a downpour stomp so loud
as the moisture above us incites rampage
droppin' bombs from celestial once neutral clouds.

the gods stamp their feet while the godesses pout;
eternal beings acting young for their age.
I've never heard a downpour stomp so loud.

With tents full of water and glasses full of stout,
my overdue almanac cries out to the mage
droppin' bombs from celestial once neutral clouds.

the drizzle it dropped but the encore soaked the crowd
the mud grew new flowers as hands mopped the stage.
I've never heard a downpour cheer so loud.

Drenched to the bone and wanderin' about
our level of wetness cannot be guaged,
droppin bombs from celestial once neutral clouds.

No refuge for masses sprawled under the spout;
bad acid, good music, free love makes us stay.
I've never heard a downpour stomp so loud
droppin' bombs from the celestial once neutral clouds.

Subtracting his half from the word together,
burning pictures and nicknames so they don't leave a trace,
he's pining in piles of unopened letters.

With a head full of pulp and a heart of wet leather
he spent every tear he had in his face
subtracting his half from the word together.

He'd given his best 'cause he thought she'd had better-
she starved for attention; he hated the taste,
pining in piles of unopened letters.

She flew from the nest in search of warm weather;
he blew out the flame, too numb to touch base,
subtracting his half from the word together.

When the weather grew cold she put on his sweater-
pitched a tent by her mailbox just in case-
while he's pining in piles of unopened letters.

One held on to their end while one cut the tether.
She licked 32 envelopes:  each went to waste.
Subtracting his half from the word together,
he's pining in piles of unopened letters.

he didn't wear any shoes
'got no place with a roof to spend the night
he could but he never had to

never owned a guitar but he played mean blues
claimed the powders and herbs helped dim the light
he didn't wear any shoes

quick as a whip but slow to argue
drank like a sailor but the last to fight
he could but he never had to

poorest man I ever knew
a wealth of wisdom, no room for things trite
he didn't wear any shoes

his stories wilder than he, so they had to be true
the whole bar agreed he should write
he could but he never had to

he downed a tall whiskey then slouched in his stool
it took us some time to realize he'd died.
he didn't wear any shoes,
he could but he never had to