I named my dog Diego
and every time, without fail,
my best friend, when he sees him,
says “I want that baby”
and if you get the joke,
good for you.
If you don’t get the joke well,
You’re part of the joke too.

There is a burning sensation right behind the optic nerves of my eyeballs
I have reached 52th and Amsterdam, I am still blocks away from the Cathedral
I told the woman not to wear heels, impractical as they are,
I hope God is noticing the bleeding callouses on her feet.
I can’t walk inside the Cathedral,
for me I am already in it,
this city as an honest temple of man,
in all it’s raw scarring and beauty.
    
  Months go by.
I am nowhere near the apartment off 70th and Amsterdam
There is still a burning behind the optic nerves of my eyeballs
It is frustrating. I have
been recording a song for hours
trying to replicate the static of the waves near the ocean bay
trying to somehow enunciate my words
while still being the right pitch

it is hard
and I am pleasing no one.
And so now I write a poem about it,
listing away all the curious mundanity
of all of it.

waiting outside of the recording studio
near the train tracks and the tall buildings
running out of time.
an old gypsy woman
wearing magenta rubber boots
and riding a  stained crimson fixed gear
passes me, trains come and go billowing
their impatient whistles
as I take double exposures of them and the sky
with my lomo 35mm.
Ate nothing but six shots
of espresso
and a pack of cigarettes last night, with
a side of liquor which
reminded me too much of memories too good
to be worth remembered .

Best advice I've read in three months;
wear sunscreen, and realize that
good advice is wasted on the young,
advice is also a form of nostalgia,
the givers of it reach out to the dirtier parts
of their memories, clean it up into something
hopefully worth salvaging.
another train passes and I start to grow
impatient myself, a long day of work
ahead of me.

(writing this right now)
Because I do not have a writing program on this computer
my notebooks are far away in my car
and because I had this thought which at the moment
amuses me
but i am half asleep
it is late at night so forgive
the rambling of all of this everything.
I will make a confession;
I am bad at hugs
I do not know how to do them

I can hug precisely one person right
and that person holds a very secular place in my heart.
I cannot give or receive complicated handshakes that everyone else gets
My hand just gets confused and flaccid faster
than losing a ***** after an untimely image of your lewd grandmother
hit’s your mind.

I have kissed maybe five girls in my life
Only one I have seen naked (with permission at least)
ha ha that’s a joke
Well. half of that,
Anyway.

Point is, you may not call me the most
lovable person
or the most affectionate
but somewhere
it is there
like the famous light leaks of an old Russian film camera
my love bleeds through if
you look hard enough.

One day soon
I will  voyeuristically
jot down one of our conversations in my
notebook, even if it is only
a droll one, I want a real one.

I can’t make up conversations
when I write
getting that balance between
intelligence and good ole fashion
human mistakes and awkwardness in there
is something I can’t do.

And this poem kind of *****
so I’ll just write a poem about
the conversation I will write down
tomorrow.

It seems to me
that there is a recurring pattern.
it is no secret,
good art of all kinds,
are usually brought forth by
an inner turmoil,
a demon clawing its way out of the body
and often the only way to tame this
thing,
to temporarily salve the wound,
is to create.

For these artist, if they could not do what
they do, they would cease to exist
as we know it,

maybe they would commit suicide
or be lost in the void of their own mind,
who knows,
I just know that they would not last long.

To do art, one must cannot possibly imagine a life
not doing it.
Lately I have found myself extremely
happy and busy,
and poetry has become hard for me.
I try to write one everyday
but while I have many ideas and inspirations
during the day, I get here and they fade.

I am worried. I
have to admit,
I almost miss those
demons.

It seems as if
I have no time
for time.
I do not make enough time
to read all the books I have bought or
learn something genuinely new on guitar.
my short efforts on learning the ukelele
violin and piano have failed.
Not enough time to study and understand
philosophy, or read
over history
Not enough time to dedicate to both school and art,
Not enough ardency for my job.
I have fallen into mediocrity
I resent it. I resent it so.
My album that I am recording is not good enough.
My reading habits are almost nonexistent
My photos are starting to look the same
I used to be above the rest but
they have caught up and are now excelling pass me.
Where am I then?
Am I just the typical hipster philosopher musician
Who’s greatest work will only be seen through
the narrow window of a tumblr poem?
And oh look, another aggravated, angsty poem
on tumblr, how special.
Frankly, I do not know how to balance it all.
And deep down I know even if I found a way,
I might cease to care.
And however many years from now, even if
my album is on the top charts
I have read dozens of books
And learned and experienced so much
I think I will always believe
That I do not know, or do
enough.