Life ******* heat, sweat dripping
from head to feet. trying my best to stay cool,
hoping I don't look like a fool
sitting here and starting to drool.
God bless America and the designer
of women's clothing everywear.
and yes that's wear with an E.A.R.
Stars and stripes forever, especially
when they cover so little skin.

Forgive me Father for I have sinned.
So much lust and not enough ******
I'm about to bust, don't think I can wait til' dusk.
That's when the real men busk, and they're
hoping to take home a little more than spare dollar bills.
Get your quills ready boys, cause nothing here is steady.

Hurtling across the horizon
inside the belly of a great ribbed
silver beast, barreling singlemindedly
down its prearranged tracks at speeds
previously unobtainable my mere mortal men.

Modern marvels of man-made comfort
surround us daily. So that we can exist without
need of fear or worry from our environment.
Our fight or flight responses are being systematically
removed, slowly, generation by generation.

Our dominance of the material world
and the animal kingdom is destroying the world
as we knew it. This world of ours that we now reside
within is entirely foreign to what existed before us.
We are the aliens of our own futures.

How do you know what time is right?
What is the appropriate time to let go,
to hold on, to linger. Leave the important
questions unasked, or go straight for the lips?

It's beginning to feel a whole lot easier
to live in my own skin. This place feels
like home, these friends just like family.

Shivers are still crawling down the trail
your finger took as you traced my flesh.
My body quivers, remembering the heat
of your breath as you whispered in my ear...

"I like your shirt", she said
"Where did You get it?"
Online I responded a one
day sale four weeks back
came in the mail today...
"cool", she said "I like it
a lot. Nice selections"
She held up my wine
and milk. "Thanks"
I said, "The milk is for
breakfast, the wine for
me and you, tonight.
You can't have one without
the other though." "Deal."
She muttered.

I am a poet, but you wouldn't know it
if you saw me on the street.You'd probably
see the backpack which I always carry around
and my torn up jeans with my graphic tee and think
college kid. Well you'd be right. That bag is not
filled with the things you'd think though. I have books
of course but not school books. I have novels, chap books,
magazines, and notebooks. You wouldn't think I was
a poet. Unless you saw me inspired, notebook in hand
pen to paper furiously scribbling, thoughts, capturing
moments, or maybe you'd know I'm a poet if you saw me
drunk on the T, gin in hand staring awestruck out the window,
pondering on what life has to offer.

It's 3AM and all of the streetlights are flashing,
Yellow, Yellow, YELLOW,
like they have the same fever I do.

I believe that streetlights are a subliminal form of messaging,
just letting me know, that all of the communist party members
of China are actually martians. But most nights they usually just
complain about how ***** they are. And as I pass underneath
I tap my accelerator in a sympathetic way, that says
I know man, I feel your pain, and I think,
he doesn't even have hands to help him out.

As the distance between us grows
I also long, for a companion to help
discharge my capacitor.

Sometimes I find myself on a train platform
not intending to go anyplace at all, but there
all the same, just because I need someplace
to think, alone, but surrounded by others.

I hate the smell of it, unless I am within
perfume scent distance of a beautiful girl.
But the sounds, the sounds are otherworldly.
The sound of cold steel thunder approaching.

Sometimes when trains approach from both sides,
I feel the earth shake, and I close my eyes imagining,
what the lightning would feel like.

With special thanks to George Ella Lyon*

I am from crumbling brick
(red, dusty, smelling of musk).
I am from aluminum siding
and triple-deckers,
tall, strong, unmovable.

Hailing from the city on about seventy hills.
From Grandfathers and photo albums,
cigar ash salad and pinecone wars.
From "use your imagination" and "go play in the street".

I am from a whirlwind of faith,
belief from non-believers.

From schoolyards, playgrounds, and crawlspaces
come these faces, and these memories
are worth more to me, than anything.

Come with me and sit upon our couch of stone.
Watch the sun set with me again, in the chasm.
We'll scale the crags scattered before us,
surrounded by the trees in our special place.

We can play in the dark, exploring,
this night, our personal playground.
We can spark a jay and laugh a bit,
it's been much too long my friend.

There's much to share about recent affairs,
so lets wander the woods and chat, to catch
up on it all. We can travel farther, you know
the place. We'll sit in our lifeguard chair and watch waves.

You bring the food, PB and J, as usual. I'll bring
the tunes, we can sing along to pop songs all night,
I won't tell. I've got a tank full of gas so we can drive
all night, it will be like the old days. When everything was simple.

for my friend with autoimmune disease*

Finally you are healthy,
for the time being. Won't you
pick up your guitar again
and play me a song. Sing
the world a lullaby.

So full of optimism, you,
make me believe, that you,
can conquer anything.
Except, relapse comes
and I'm crying. This world
can not afford to lose you.

This time turns out okay.
But I live in fear,
of unpredictable relapse.
While you, take advantage
of the health temporarily
granted to you. Each moment,
you deserve every moment.

You are unappreciative,
and the moon is sick of shining
for you. The stars are crying,
now. See what you've done?

Found, one bookbag filled with broken hearts,
additionals may have been added.
If you happen to be searching for these items
than I am sorry, a broken heart is nothing
to long for. The bag is fitting, no matter
what I do this is all I ever seem to end up
with, a bunch of broken hearts.

Lost, one remarkable love
I think it just walked off one day,
haven't seen it since. Its sudden
absence from my life has aided me
in filling my bookbag.

Any information on this missing item
will be greatly rewarded, with as many
hearts as you can fit inside your bookbag.
They may not be in the best of shape, but
they are yours for the taking. All I ask
is that you allow me to search through them
for the fragments on my own heart, I think
I can piece it back together, and that you
bring your own bookbag. I've grown fond
of this one, the zipper, is fantastic.

Head between your knees, put
your head between your knees.
Get under your desks and grab
your helmets. Fasten your safety
belts, and don't try to get up
until all of the warning lights
Stop flashing.

I'm a nuclear reactor with a thermal
detonator and you've brought me to
boiling, it's time for the fallout. Run
for cover, sprint to your shelters,
it's of no use. I will leave this land
barren, leave you for dead.

I will stand before you and ****
upon the grave sites of your
ancestors. There is nothing you
can do to stop me now. My blast
radius is growing exponentially
with each passing moment.

There are people fleeing in every
direction. They beg me to stop,
they pray for salvation, mercy,
they pray to a God who is no
longer listening. They have brought
this, upon themselves, today,
is judgement day, and I, am the beast.

I can feel your lifeblood pulsing beneath
my teeth. Beg me not to end your life.

I don't understand you, boy,
with your billy goat beard and
fishing pole. Munching on that raw ear
of corn, as if proud of that haul
of laundry, you just reeled in
at your feet. The trench coat you are
buttoning is making everyone nervous,
but I am more curious. How did you
find yourself in this city? On this
train? And how can you look, so
confident, when you are so, out
of place? I envy you, boy.

"Beautiful dog, Dachshund right?  It have a name?",
that is what I would have said to you
in hopes of sparking a conversation
in hopes of learning your name. I honestly
don't care about the dog's name at all, but
you have nice hair, and hips. They mesmerized
me while you walked, your dog, away
from me. I never said anything.

That's how long they say it takes to become an expert at something.
That is one hundred ninety-one years or seventy thousand days
if you take one hour per day, one day per week. Twenty-seven years
or ten thousand days if you take one hour per day every day of the week.

I have been living for one hundred eighty-five thousand nine hundred fifty-two hours
or seven thousand seven hundred forty-eight days,
and I am no expert at living. At the rate of twenty-four hours per day
every single day we all should be experts of living after four hundred sixteen days
or just over one year of life, but this is not the case.

All of this breathing, and I am no better at it then I once was.
Sure my body is efficient at all of the things a body should be
but that is not living. Living is waking up in the morning
with the smell of fresh dew and a lover's sweat lingering in your nose.
Living is that taste of freedom that creeps into your mouth whenever
you sense a chance to try something new. Living is holding
hands, and sprinting headlong into the horizon.

Living it being scared, but for all the right reasons and living is
being proud of the results. I am no expert at living. I have yet
to meet one, and we have people on this earth that are over one hundred
that is eight hundred seventy-six thousand five hundred seventy plus hours
of living and still no experts. Yet still I search for the ten thousandth hour.

My mother always used to say things, still does I just listen less.
Bits of advice, good stuff, that she is just a real bad example of,
"Don't bite your nails", while hers were bleeding. "Don't pick
your scabs" meanwhile she was covered in bug bite shaped scars
and generic band-aids, the don't stick kind.

I always had to have short hair, and be clean shaven
because she hates ****** hair and thinks that boys with long hair look queer.
To be honest, I like my hair short but I grow it out to **** her off
and I'm always scruffy but that's just because I'm lazy.

She always told me to "treat people the way you want to be treated",
meanwhile she was rude to the girl at the counter and talked **** behind everyone's
back. We had a talk about this issue one time, it involved a lot of screaming
and a line I half regret saying,  "Mom, I believe you're the one that
taught me "if you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all"
so why don't you take your own advice and shut the **** up".
Ever since then she has tried awfully hard to be nice,
both to peoples backs and to their face.

That is one thing I've always liked about my Mother, she tries real hard
and loves even harder. She says she is proud of me and glad that I took
her advice to heart. But there is one thing my Mother should have taught me
something she should have mentioned "do as I say not as I do",
guess I just had enough common sense for that one.

There is a place I can go to in my mind that makes no sense,
not a lick of it, not even to me. And I thought it.
Don't get me wrong, sometimes some sense is made
there's occasions.

It's like mental poetry in a way from free form to blank verse,
a ballad of ode to shakspearean haiku. There are so many
styles, types, and formats but all of them loose, or strict.
A rhyme scheme, or maybe not. There's occasions.

My mind is full of loose connections, detailed connections, high voltage
connections, synapses. A taste, that flavor, a smell, so enticing, and then
it all just ends because I got bored, Hey there's occasions.

On my first ever date with my very first girlfriend my Dad played a song
I do not remember the name of it but I remember the chorus, probably
because he sang along. It was the most embarrassing thing sitting in the
back seat, holding hands, and watching my Dad squirm around to the beat
singing "If you like my body and you think I'm ****, just reach out
and..." I wanted to die. She laughed and told me my Dad was funny.

That night taught me something, as embarrassing as my Dad can be,
and as irritating as he can get, even though I ignore his jokes 80 percent
of the time because I've heard them all a million times. My Dad is funny,
and I don't think I ever want to be with someone who can't see that.

Even though he is unable to see at all in the dark, has never quit smoking,
can't seem to correctly button a shirt and has worn loafers, for as long as I
can remember, he is a good guy. He has odd taste in music and he's a
morning person, but overall I wouldn't trade him in.

He's a quiet guy. My Dad opens up to me when we go on long car rides,
we sing stupid songs and tell each other jokes and we have conversations.
This is why my Dad is perfectly welcome on any of my dates.
Just to drop of us off, of course.

Dear, all other men who use public restrooms.

Why is it, that every time I go to use a stall in a public toilet
there is **** on the seat? Lets set aside the fact that there are urinals
on most every wall for those of you who only need to take a quick
leak and would like to do so in the upright position.
Let us also set aside the question of why you did not bother to
lift the seat into the upright position.

Let us instead talk about aim, now I am a man myself so
I can see this issue clearly.  Unlike a vast majority of you guys,
I don't think I have ever watched a full game of football, and
I am confident I could sleep through the entire baseball season
without batting an eye or asking the score.

Surprisingly, this does not hinder my aim
it is steady and true. Would a bullseye
at the bottom help the rest of you?

Now there are times, I know, that are more difficult
maybe you're drunk, or tired, or just having an off day
and you happen to miss. In these cases there is a simple
saying "If you sprinkle when you ****** please,
be neat and wipe the seat". The saying is juvenile
the meaning is not. For those of you who are now confused

There is this nifty paper keep on easily accessible dispensers
inside every public restroom. It usually even has perforated
edges, in order to help you tear it Hercules. Woman use it
always and you do too, when you ****, I hope. So now is the time
to grab a *** of that stuff and wipe away your insecurities,
for the rest of us.

Sincerely, a Fellow Man

How the **** am I supposed to know
what you are thinking? Speak up.
I can't hear you.

Dogs can't even hear the frequency that you talk at.
The human hearing range is from 20 Hz to 20,000Hz
and you my friend don't even register. No amount
of amplitude can make things better.

And here you are thinking you can tell me
what to do? Just who the **** do you think
you are? What's that? Speak up.
I can't hear you.

Here just take this ******* microphone
you need it more than I do anyways,
and just in case you were wondering
we are through here. Hear that?

My gut says I'm better
or maybe its just what's left of my ego
talking, but alot of what I do
is based upon what my gut has to say.

You sent him a text right in front of me, "who's that?"
I asked. "No one" was the reply while you quickly returned
your phone to the security of your pocket. Did you really think
I didn't know? I wanted to ****** your phone and snap it in two.
But good for you.

When you asked me what I wanted I had no answer.
Is it so wrong that I no longer know what I want,
I am jealous, I am angry, I am happy, I am hopeful,
I am lonely, and my hesitation lost what my heart
or was it my gut, desired. Everytime I see you
my mind fills with so many things to say.

Sometimes I wish I could say what I mean,
for you to see what I feel. Forgive me my gut has
a mind of its own, it puts pen to paper while my
mouth repeats "I'm so happy for you", "So proud",
"Good for you" over and over, and my heart races
headlong into disaster in its confusion.

When I am with you I try
so ****** hard to act cool
to pretend that I no longer care
to pretend that it does not hurt.
But when you leave my head spins.

I pretend for your sake, or so I
tell myself but inside I want to *****.
The floor rushes up to make contact with
my skull. The pain splits my vision in two.

A cacophony of noise invades my mind
screams of rage, "Say Something", Skilled
monkeys intoxicated on the trapeze, Clanging,
Clanging, Clanging, just a few simple word
could make it all stop. Make all the pain go away.
I tell myself I am being brave to keep it in
but really I am just too scared to say those words.
Afraid of the reaction, afraid of what will happen
when the clanging stops.

In a silent room filled with strangers
you are the only sound, 'sides an occasional cough
and the T.V. going off about... Wait. I have no idea.

Television drowned out in my thoughts, left behind
some other where some other when I relied upon it,
when I was afraid of what was in my mind.

Now, I. Am lost in thought, poetry, books, words, thoughts on paper
Inspiration. And you are distracting me television.
You were only left on as ambient noise because somebody thought
that we, a group of perfect strangers would be too afraid to talk to one
another, too afraid of silence even, and I am glad that we turned you off.
I am proud to say that we did not, that I do not, rely upon you.

I pity the people that rely upon you. I pity their minds. Locked up
in clean little cages with boundaries, standards, and goals, even
life ambitions created by a society that relies more upon
green slips of clothlike paper than it does human interaction.

How long before we have robots answering our doors
the way machines answer our phones? This madness
needs to, no it must stop. I demand that we reevaluate.
If you'd rather a sack of cash over the words and thoughts
that I have than so be it, but you, you are worth more to me than gold.
I want to sit in silence with your mind, and cherish it.

Down the road a sign is flashing
its neon glow the single spot of illumination
in this darkness. Flashing intermittently, unintelligibly
illegible to me from this distance. My eyes so weak
the night so powerful the sign so far away, so meek,
alone. Is it as lonely as I am?

But then it stops. Not slowly
all at once. One moment On, Off, On, Off,
Off, Off, Off... I wait.

My friend come back, come back
tell me why have you stopped flashing?
I was never able to get close to you
not even close enough to read the message
you sent into the night for me.

Did your owners turn you off?
are you asleep? are you hiding?
why? For what reason did you leave me
alone standing in the dark
no single spot of illumination without you
here, were you afraid of what was in my heart?

I never put away all of these socks,
there's just something so final about putting away
all the socks. When I close the drawer after putting away
the clothes, its like saying "remain here for awhile,
for I do not plan to wear you again for some time".

But putting away all of the socks
is like saying "stay here,
I'm not going anywhere". What if
something pops up though?
It gets cold, a friend calls
with exciting plans and I must say,
"No sorry, I just put away all of my socks"

Whats the point in putting them all away if I just
go right back and take some out? Might as well
leave a pair or two by the shoes, at the ready.

Plus whenever I put away all the socks
I find the stragglers, the lone socks, the swiss socks,
the worn out ones and then I have to make difficult
decisions. Weighing the severity of the tears against
how uncomfortable they'll be. Designating indoor only
socks and how many more wears a sock can receive before,
garbage. And every time I put on a sock like this I shed a tear
because socks don't receive burials. Socks are easily replaced.
It's just not worth the trouble to put away all these socks.

All the train cars are color coded
neat, orderly, organized, thought out and boring.
The lives of the cars lack excitement, carting ungrateful
impatient people around all day is just no fun.

The Color Coded Train Cars disengage from their
tracks, its time to do something. This is when
the Green line learns that it is not designed
for platforms, it can't see over the edge
and its stairs start much too low. The Red line
loves that nobody can board at Brookline Village,
Chestnut Hill and all the rest. The people just can't reach,
and the Blue line never makes it to Wonderland.

The City is confused, the City is frightened,
the City is Late. The City scolds the Color Coded
Train Cars for their mischief, and the cars themselves
are left unfulfilled.

The snapshot doesn't care how you feel,
its job is to capture a moment in time.
This it does with great efficiency. It does not have the time
to ask you how you feel. Instead the snapshot chooses to portray
the outward emotions shown in the moment. In order to lie
in a snapshot all you have to do is smile.

Looking back, years later you'll see your lie
and maybe, just maybe you'll remember in that moment
your mouth was filled with bile, your heart rage, your mind
confusion. But all anyone else will see is your lie, because that
is all the snapshot cared to capture.

"Why can't we be happy like this anymore?"
she'll say. You wonder, did she forget her smile
was a lie too? Or maybe, just maybe hers was not.
Maybe she is now. ******* snapshot. Why can't you
bother to gather the facts. "Smile, Say Cheese",
you look up and the camera winks.