Werewolf stood in front of a puddle.
Four inches deep. Maybe.
Werewolf looked away.
Stickers. Graffiti.
Flem’s Revenge Live Tonight!
The Nifty Nymphos April 24th.
Ballz Deep featuring **** Matikz and Tremaine The Truest.
I’m a long way from Cologne, he thought.
Werewolf knelt towards the puddle.
The wet filth smelled of hot blood.
Exceptionally hot blood, rather.
He spat in the puddle and turned.
One thousand drunk humans.
Ten thousand more, asleep, above.
Not misunderstood.
Cursed.
It’s a very different sadness.
Alexander’s Feast ended.
Rounding out his latest playlist -
Bashfully Baroque.
Werewolf checked the time.
Less than an hour.
He buzzed a buzzer.
I’m here for the Devil’s Cherries.
The What?
The, ahem, Devil’s Cherries.
He’s cool. Let him in.
And just like that, he was let out.
A line was forming for Flem’s Revenge.
While a bright moon reflected in Werewolf’s puddle.
Werewolf shouldered through.
Cursed.
Clutching his score.

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose life partner is beauty
Who makes more sense in a minute of listening
Then we do in a lifetime of talking
Who paints olive trees and cypresses
And now knows it's not called crazy
It's called pain, and it will pass

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who wakes up an hour before he falls asleep
And yet, never stops dreaming
Who rewrites morality with every fraction of information intake
And remixes truth until we're left bobbing our heads
With no other choice than to just feel it

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose children are freedom
Who walks in the rain while we plain get wet
Who wants nothing more than to want nothing more
Who only makes routine out of celebration
And love

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who ties masterpieces to rogue kites
And whispers nonsense into researcher's ears
Who knows that nobody is perfect
And takes the words "meant to be" very very seriously
Who exists
And is **** proud of that

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who revises his rewrites of morality
When information intake is remixed by reality
Until we're left shaking our heads
With no other choice than to think

Wait for me
And save me a glass

My old man used to take me to the track
Showed me how to key the top horse
Sprinkle in some long shots, he’d say
Oh, and son, it takes money to make money

He’d smoke his stoag’, pound his beers
Imploring me with his simple wisdom
Life is way too short not to...
Not to what dad? Just not to

He never played the favorites
Even money is like kissin’ your sister
And win bets?
Well those are for *******

My formula was simple
Name + color + number
Times the square root of lifetime wins
Divided by the odds, plus two

We studied the programs in silence
A father and son crack team
And usually not on purpose
We’d make the same ******* face

I was eleven when I hit my first big one
Trifecta box, because I wasn’t a *****
Paid almost two large
Never made dad more proud

Steak and lobster on my son!
We went to Ruth’s to celebrate
I tipped the waiter a hundred
And fell asleep on the drive home

It’s been over a decade since
And about a dozen girls
Always done after they go down twenty
Always win, place, and show

my type breathes ink
pressing said ink against sky
holds it, sticks it, stains it
each letter pushes
and stays

every mistake she makes is crinkled
and college-lined
freethrown in and around
an endless waste basket
later,
we'll call it her greatest work

because my type
type: writer
alphabet ingester
idea inventor
stainer of sky
believes in a world
where the world believes

she dots her eye-contact
and crosses her teachings

she sees old folks as encyclopedias
and children as ear to ear echoes
of all of this beautiful ****
that makes us shout
out loud

she sees fairytales
as tomorrow's scientific law
and travels this crazy world
via lopsided butterfly
whom by nature
always take the scenic route

because my type
type: writer
freelance flower grower
with watercolor wordplay
breathes, believes
and redrafts

breathes, believes

back in the day
when our heads were rocks
and our hearts were origami
we shot arrows through moleskins
and used wanderlust
as our compass
heatwaves
to sweat out
sadness and fuss
chest echoes
to drown out doubt
and reinforce it

today,
my boy downloaded manhood
through his contact lenses

Remind me, please
Write me one more letter
One like letters 16 through 53
The golden ages
Write the last paragraph
Like you don’t want it to end
Squeeze out the lines
You were planning on holding back
Like you did
For those 37
Teach me how to fall asleep before midnight
Again
Teach me how to wake up without hangovers
How to wake up with ideas
Show me everything
Like our poetry collections
Volumes 1 through 3
When we alternated days
And submissions
For 188 straight days
Minus the 14 days
We wrote four-letter poems
Remind me, please
When the bar was a date
And 1.75 liters was a dinner party
Not a Tuesday
Make me pay you back
The $65.00 in make-up
That I used to paint
“You’re too beautiful for make-up”
On the bedroom wall
Make me buy your little brother beer
For painting over it
Put 7,640 new songs on my itunes
Because these 7,640 are played out
Make sure we see every movie
Nominated for best picture
Before your cheesy award show party
It’s up to ten now, you know
Stay with me
For nine more minutes
While I hit snooze
Awake and right at it
Like ’04
Baby snores and blanket wars
Like ’05
Up before the alarm
Like ’06
Or at least in my dreams
Like ’07
And ’08
Rub it in my face
For the umpteenth time
By taking extra good care of me
When I’m sick
Even though
I never get sick
Pose for me
While I paint
And stare
Like that one time
When you were feeling so brave
Let’s spend our last $8.00
On yellow tail
Our last $18.00
On Sebastiani
Our last $38
On Veuve Cliquot
Because every day is a celebration
*******
Let’s reminisce on the 414 times
Our bodies became one
And the 671 times
They were at least in the same bed
Inspire me
Call attention to my capabilities
And caution to my chaos
Instigate that ******* in me
That made a jealous appearance or two
At christmas parties and night clubs
Hum me all 162 times I teared up in ’06
At the exact same time
Like a drumline
Of being lost
Because baby i’m lost
Point me
Point me in the right direction
Send me on the right path
You know, the one with you at the end of it

Shiiit

Maybe it’s just us

Maybe we’re not playing the game right

But every time we use the ouija board

It spells out

“everything is going to be ok”

And the spirits smile

And the weather aint that bad

These demons

These spirits

This darkness

I don’t know man

Lately our resilience

Seems to overshadow

The Shadows

See,

When it gets dark

We teach ourselves echo vision

And use our beating hearts for flashlights

Or, or

We reincarnate with night goggles

Perfect lighting

For messages in bottle rockets to the moon

When it gets dark

We dream under Zodiacal light

Writing sonnets

On supernovas

And shooting stars

On less inspired days

We wait for evil to combust…

Spontaneously

And light a torch

When it gets dark

When they toss us in black vines

And black flames

We’ll shoot out smoke signals

To our soul mates

When it gets dark

We turn on the **** lights

fragile cloud streaks
stroked by summer's dried brush
sunlight is September
sky - sauce unmixed
the damage that was
back in tornado alley
can not be fixed
but will always be missed

fragile cloud streaks
stroked by summer's dried brush
sunlight is September
sky - sauce unmixed
the damage that was
back in tornado alley
can not be fixed
but will always be missed

jigger blood
pumping neatly
only an ounce
and a quarter

the stillness is falling
stretching
window to window
beneath the frog leaps
innocence
at the end of the wick

children used to play here

choked down
and full of lonely
sent by cave paintings
and fallen priests
bleeding
perhaps breathing

my princess used to pretend

baptized in black oil
a haunting
a hidden roar
between our skin
handwritten
in the raw mixture

now, we listen for the howl