Looking out the glass
down over damp streets
spread like boundaries;
streetlights and stop signs
to keep everything in, or out.

This city is a prison.

Your heartbeat is steady
next to me, slow.
Beneath that slight frame,
veins pump the blood that
gives you life.
The same blood that
allows you to cry at your
worst mistakes, or mine.

This room is a prison.

There is a rotating light,
the spotlight overseeing these
midnight prison grounds.
It burns from green to orange,
back to green again.

Your chest heaves, hitches,
I can feel it as the sobs
whisper out like a jury sentence.
The prison is here in white sheets,
where sighed whispers of
blame echo out.
Aside from that, it is silent,
the window holds out
noises of another world.

I wonder, glowing orange
to somber green,
what crimes I have committed
that hold me here.

I wonder, trapped by these
barbed wire streets,
what repentance I must seek out
to find sleep.

You wouldn't believe
the difference
a year makes.
Old faces stare back
with strange smiles,
trying to
fill holes that you
don't remember being there.

Everyone knows you,
you're no stranger,
--though it sure as
hell feels like it--
It's high time for
a new town,
high time for
new faces,
ones that don't
dare stare back
or smile at all.
Ones that can't
see scars.
At least pretend
not to notice.

A new town
with a good view.
Lots of taxi cabs
and tree tops
to watch,
leaning through
and above the traffic.
A nice pretty picture
to paint,
out the window
of a hotel room
as the people pass,
looking like flowers
at last.

Such beautiful flowers
through the glass.

the mesa is scalding
with summer morning heat
draped like a shawl
across the shoulders
of the hueco
I get up slowly
gingerly
careful of that mess
of a hostel floor
I couldn't live here
such a heat
dries out the bones
--and the soul
parched and cracking--
then the dust comes
through pores
and lungs
to fill the holes

grab a half
smoked cigar from
the ash
don't bother to step
outside
onto the caked,
blooded clay
simply
match flame to tobacco
and inhale
that starched, bitter
smoke
there's dirt on the floor
one room casita
pale green shades
pale green blanket
lemon wallpaper
around a one pane
window
where I can
sit and smoke
and type
watching nonchalantly
all the men
trying to break that
invisible line
across the Rio Grande
they move fast
and quietly
huddling their children
close on the small canoe
with one man at the oar
he only nods
as he rows toward the shore
he has seen many
and many more to come
before his arm can no
longer row
or perhaps his heart
will give way
what a sight
--glorious and true--
skin caked
like the clay
by the sun
the cigar is burnt out
I stomp it to ashes
across the tiled floor
I can't truly see them
that man in the canoe
and those he carries
but imagine
how green that grass
must seem
how green
amongst all
the clay and blood
must be a hell of a thing
to behold
whilst all I try to do
is get away
from it all
as fast and quietly
as possible
and so it seems
all there
is to do is
to keep rowing

You were drawn to me
because I was a writer.
You didn't understand
that I write well
simply because I lie well.
Such is the art of storytelling.
I'm honestly sorry you had
to realize that
The hard way.

Here we are again,
in the same places–
kneeled over–
staring down at the
very knife that gutted us.

The blood is gone,
wiped clean from the blade;
shining and clear and gleaming
now like it is brand new
in the dim light.

How many times must we
impale ourselves
before understanding sets in,
before we realize we are
bleeding out again
beside the bed.

the lions lay in tall grass
and I was trying to be good
but *******
they get what they want
always
I was trying to be good
but good is never good enough
and close is never close enough
and full is never full enough
they are here and they are now
the lions don't wait
they don't ask permission
strike at will
pulling at my insides
gnawing away
for a quick meal
how can I survive?
with the heart so red
and satisfying to the palate
can't continue to have them breaking
it like bread for their fill
they are like god to disciple
they command and you
can only obey
how can one survive

you see
it only takes one taste
to spark the beast inside
I was trying to be good
but the hunger overflows
and it is eat or be eaten
in this existence
the lions lay in tall grass
but they only move
on my command now
I'm sorry it happened this way
it is **** or be killed
and I am not ready to
fall in love
so I am the new god
and these lions now
whimper when I pass
unless I call for them
and I am so hungry
oh I am so ravenous
I tried to be good
but its tempt or be tempted
and they turn from predator
to prey at the touch
and they are mine
they are mine
and they are delicious

She was putting
on makeup in the mirror
while I lay on the bed.
It was late
and she was going out,
had on these heels
that made her
tall as me
when she stood.
--and so much
more dangerous--

She sat there
putting on makeup,
and every so often she'd
look through the mirror
in my direction and
shake her head;
a mix of disbelief
and resentment.

She sat there
putting on makeup
in silence for
eternities before she
suddenly stood up.
Told me she couldn't
take it anymore.
Told me she
had a friend
who'd let her sleep out
on her couch as long
as she needed.
Told me this friend said
she would have
left a long time ago,
if it had been her.

When I didn't respond
she called me a *******
*******,
called me all of these
terrible names.
She listed out all of my
terrible sins,
--with surprising
accuracy in detail--
and told me I was lucky to have
her as long as I did.
I told her I agreed and
she stormed
out the door,
leaving me in awe
there on the bed.

I haven't heard from her since,
but sometimes late
at night, when
it gets quiet and lonely,
I can hear
those ******* heels
click-clacking down
the stairs.

Piercing my heart with
each step out
towards the night.

there's a carnival
of all white
where the white
band plays
white noise
that soothes white ears
and white elephants
play small white trumpets
and eat small white peanuts
to the applause of a happy
white crowd
with bright white lights shining
down over us all
a young boy wins a white stuffed
animal from a game where white
rings are tossed on white bottles
--it appears to be
harder than it looks--
and a white wife tells a white lie
to her white husband
and white snow
carpets the white ground
and white footprints
from white shoes
and white hooves
make white tracks
like an amazing white
calligraphy across a white
easel
but if you
look closely at that
caked white snow
that falls
and carpets that white ground
you see stains of something
something not white
a snow tinged red
but you blink and it's gone
back to white
just illusions of color
spilled from some
war a long time ago
perhaps
and if you look hard you might see it
but no one looks hard
anymore
and why should they
those white elephants are so funny
with their white trunks and white ears
everything is great
everything is dandy
and everything is white
here at this white carnival
but for some reason
the snow
still seems a little
pink
to me

you lay in bed next to me
with an anger uncontainable
you look into my eyes
with a hatred
inconcealable
you smile in my direction
but the dimples in your cheeks
never crease
like they used to
they called it love
they called it beautiful
all the things I grew up
waiting for
evolved to this
you were the culmination
of my childhood dreams
all the chapter books
with the hero and the princess
all the movies with the two
misguided kids finding
each other
you were the culmination
of everything I needed
all the one night stands
with women who never
got it the way you did
never saw me
the way you did
you were the trojan horse
that brought the walls to shambles
and left me crashing down
in the middle
of it all
an amazing fall
but we both know
the ground
hurts
and we both know
that movies are just
actors with a script
and books are
edited and rewritten
I thought I saw it
in those dimples
in those eyes
but now
you lay in bed next to me
and the sorrow
is unimaginable

prendi quello che ti ami
e bruciarlo basso

take what you love
and burn it down

lost at war
on linoleum floors
erratic and awake
convulsing
begging
sweet relief
licking the inside
of your thighs
sparks of existence
spiraling up your spine
into explosions of neural
activity
the irresistible pain
that corrodes you
writhing with an insect agony
as the flames creep
up your arms
she is a cruel mistress
but she is fair
hollowing out your veins
falling to the side
a hand strikes at the counter
in an effort to catch
blood leaks out of your forehead
with the linoleum tasteless
and apathetic
cheek pressed and aching
you're naked in
a bathroom
groping at skin
you can touch but
slowly begin to not feel
fingers fall off
and turn to dust
in the blur
of burning buildings
and the troops are
storming up the steps
fire shoots up your neck
stiff with involuntary
spasms of ecstasy
flickers of love
flutter across the
screen of your mind
subliminal messages
scar holes into your
brain tissue
you blink in and out
as two realities merge
and the troops
barge in with two bullets
to the skull
and one in the gut
the linoleum is cruel
warmed by the ether
slipping out of you
finding channels in the grooves
painting square lines
away from you
two of them grab
at your corpse
harsh calloused hands
hold limp flesh
and the human touch stings
in ******* revulsion
the linoleum is gone
lines dragged into your
cheek as your teeth
raindrop onto the fleeing floor
pitter patter pitter patter
then its pitch black sensations
touch feel taste
everything numb
cold

eyes open to reality
naked and cold
blurred lines in the tile
lost at war
on linoleum floors
as you roll over
and lose yourself
into the open toilet

I don't know if you ever are awake
late enough to hear it:
the world before it opens it eyes.
If you are able to catch the yawning
echoes of the crickets from
the windowsill where you listen.
There, it is serenity laying in wait.
The silence of nature is never
truly silent.
It hums with the burn
of the not yet risen sun,
shy behind her clouded vision.

I don't know if you ever are awake
late enough to taste it:
the world before it opens its mouth.
Before the morning showers.
That delicate smell, just before rain.
That scent of grass alive in the
shimmer of the morning dew,
alight with the purity of creation.

I don't know if you have
ever witnessed these things.
This beautiful magnificence
creeping in before the
alarm clocks.
I don't believe so,
or else there might be
understanding between us.

That sound of morning.
That smell of rain.
The taste and touch
and sight of a world
we don't know, in the
moment untampered by
the one that we do.

Burn it all.

To allow me sleep one more
morning with your hair
careless on my cheek
and the covers handily
in your possession
as I wrap my arm
around you,

burn it all.

I've had the same view
here in the city
for awhile now
the banks of the schuylkill
the art museum
rocky balboa himself
its been 6 months
the same window
the same view
so many lights
always on
occasional cars
I can hardly see
last nights snow
littering the ground
7 stories downward
one hell of a fall
the glass is too thick
don't worry
no cleanup today
only me
watching the snow melt
and the cars pass
and the life
of everything
drudging slowly onwards
as it has for six months now
here on the banks
of the schuylkill
the tempo is all off
a terrible pace
in a terrible place
Kerouac did a year
up in New York
6 months more
then maybe I'm out
of here
on the road
to mexico
cheap liquor
and cheaper love
the heart beats
quicker there
stooped up in
some backwards
bordello
paying dime a dollar
for another round
then off to san francisco
where the beat stomps
and stutters under that
spotlight
or maybe the blood red mesas
of el paso
where the young broads
dark as honey
can taste just as sweet
but only just a while
its that thrill
you long to have
one more time
breaking a sweat in
the backyards
sneaking love
under fences
and desert floors
just to be anywhere else
where the beat is quicker
than here
I'm growing deaf to it
here in the doldrums
here in the city
of brotherly love
on the banks of the schuylkill
watching the same view
from the same window
as rocky balboa stands tall
moving faster than me in
that forever celebration

there was a while
when I was afraid
of myself
I wasn't sure
how I would
act or
react
in certain
situations
afraid to even try

drugs were
that icebreaker
or the buffer
that kept me
cool
kept me calm
we were young
careless
you were right there
with me for
awhile
with me till that last second
speeding through
that ******* red
light

I grew up
real fast
real soon
after that
and every year
I hope you know
I still go and
I look
at your
beautiful tombstone

"6/14/1992 -
5/8/2010"

place a flower
say a prayer
every year
and thank you
for everything
you taught me
that I couldn't
teach myself
how to live
how to learn
how to smile
as if everything
matters
you were a brother
and you were a friend

thank you

The world spins in its own shadow.
Dusk settles across a landscape
that lifts its head forever
upward in prayer.

Existence echoes
along an ageless frame:
a bomb explodes; a child is born
to smiling strangers while an
old man gasps
back toward blackness,

a street light blinks red to green–
back again.

In small rooms, lovers
hurry to make what little
love there is left to make.

Back in the old
neighborhood:
rusted fence gates
swinging open,
very macabre.

To be back is
a little unsettling.
There's a wave
of vertigo,
unease.
Where am I?
Where have I been
since I left?

The old oak tree
is right here
where I left it.
Old man Vic,
still here too,
his old chevy
in the driveway.

I heard his wife
passed away,
so sorry to hear that,
too many funerals
nowadays.

It's a shame
Jenna never got clean.
She used to be
so beautiful.
--you know we
******?--
She was my first.
Yeah, yeah, I swear.

Crazy right?

On the couch
at her dad's place,
he came home too,
after it was done.
I was in the bathroom,
**** near had
a heart attack,
and he was
out for blood,
breaking down that door
while I ran down that street,
that one right there,
half a mile all
the way home.

Theres the backyard
you and I first
smoked,
wide eyed and trying
to cover up our laughter
and the coughing
so the neighbors wouldn't hear,
still so wet
behind the ears.

And look,
the house
where the cops came
New Years Eve and
busted in with
those flashlights.
You jumped over
that back wall right into
the neighbors pool,
remember?
We laughed for days.

******* shame
about Jenna though,
she was so **** beautiful.
This is the first time
I've been back
since the funeral.

I wonder if her dad
recognized me.

That punk
who drank and smoked
with his daughter,
the same drink
that killed her.
Maybe he should've
killed me too,
that day in the bathroom,
lord knows he tried,
lord knows he tried,
but we were just 15,
how were we supposed
to know?

And ******* was
she beautiful.

It is love bug season again in Florida,
where they flock to the windshields
of the world to die by the dozens.
I wince at each small pop,
cringe at the light going out
as life comes and goes
so quickly, again again again...

Love like life is fickle,
love like life is cold--
even here in warm Florida summers--
Even here, where the bugs flock
at ninety miles an hour
down this dark stretch of I-75.
Coming to love, coming to live,
sweeping out into the street,
pop, pop, pop.
wrong place, wrong time.
again again again...

walking under streetlights
**** drunk and
alone
worried about looks
self
aware
self
conscious
      who am i?

i am young
yet feel old
i am tall
yet feel short
        so it goes

i am old
yet feel young
life is long
then it's not
       so it goes

walking under streetlights
**** drunk and
alone
human interaction
blurred and erratic
kicked
out of bars
****
out of luck
       who am i?

i am an animal
yet feel human
i see god
yet feel nothing
       so it goes

walking under streetlights
debating individualism
and the self
old dean moriarty
that father they never found
wonder
oh what wonders
have we missed
we can't
even know

                                       so it goes

The neighbors are having a party.
Young women are seduced by young men
and the cycle of life has evolved into this
degradation of humanity in the 21st century.
I have taken a large part myself.
Now, however, I sit a room away
with this keyboard, a case of beer
and this pack of cigarettes,
bullying this keyboard as I
punch words out of thin air.

I would take my party over theirs any day.

There is a vague
sense of clarity in
the feeling that
one can be sad at the
passing of something
while simultaneously
sighing in relief
for the silence that
comes in it's absence.

poetry is dead
in the venues we
are accustomed
there is no
beat
sitting on stage
preaching
the madness
no
romantics
in stony silence
as the pages turn
we have no
present day
poets
that still
believe in
the written word
and the effect
a
line
break
can
have
on a reader
no
no more
no one wants
to settle behind
the scenes
rockstar lifestyles
don't present themselves
to the typists
beating their keyboards
as they do
their wives
but that's how it goes
these are for me
anyways
not you
this is the purging
of every sinful thought
I create
you don't know the
half of it
probably none
at all
but that's how it goes
these lines
all this poetry
isn't made
for kindles
and smart phones
no more
typewriters
or weekly readings
only me
dark in my room
poisoning
the text box
and shivering
guiltily as i
write
one
more
line

I drink in order to write
and, often times,
I write to be able to to drink
without the fallout
that surely would
accompany it
otherwise.

There is a madness,
an itch in the back of the throat,
hoarse from screaming,
broken now and caught
on the knowledge
that no one has heard,
let alone understood,
again and again and…

The fire was stolen.
It was never truly meant
to be ours, though we relished
in the flame. We sat close as
heat rippled off into our chests
and into our souls. You sat
closer than I. The fire was never
meant to be stolen. I couldn’t hide
my inability to contain it. Soon forests
were ablaze with such ferocity you could
barely even cry. I never wanted it.
I thought it would secure us energy
for an eternity of life. It managed us
a cross to bear.

Once caught, I stood awaiting trial
as Jesus of Nazareth,
quiet, unyielding. I apologized to you
but I never can take back what I have
wrought, be it this life or another.
There is little apology to be found here.
There is only guilt, for a flaw that
has held me here, trapped against
the rocks, for centuries. The vulture
pulls at my flesh, night after night
as I strain against the chains.
I thought you might be the
one to break them.
I thought, perhaps love is all that is
necessary. I was proven wrong.
The vultures feed at my flesh
even now, as we squabble over
who shall be
burnt under the fires yet.

I am done with the vulture
eating at insides every night.
I am done with the vulture
casting blame on good intention,
like spilled blood on clean sheets.

This is Prometheus broken free.
Chains cast a hold no longer,
and the flame that once brought
freedom now stifles and chokes
deep within my throat.

winter is coming again
feel it in the bones
as you light another cigarette
******* you should kick the habit
******* you should settle down
focus on your studies
and not on the vultures
that fly in and around you
trying to get warm in this cold air
can you see them circling now?
if only they weren't so tantalizing
if only they weren't so persistent
so keen on the feast
all bundled up in those cute
scarves and jackets and boots
how do you resist?
how do you resist these
eyes like razorblades
and talons
and teeth?
you don't
you let them tear
you apart with
every glance
with every smile
winter is coming
and everyone feels it
all you do is light
another cigarette
and try not to look up

cutting off blood circulation
--inflammation--
hand is turning
black to blue
poor fool's face
must've been
made of steel

typing with one hand
on a late morning
3rd cup of coffee
finally getting that heart
pumping

wondering what he's doing

hope the *******'s face
fell off

there's a sort of
primal urge
that rips through
the body
and you can't stop
blow after blow
until someone pulls
you away
bones shattered
up and down your hand
can't even tell
till you wake up
one late morning
and you're typing
with one hand
wondering
if that *******
had as much trouble
brushing his teeth
as you did

we ate dinner together once
if you could call it that
we hardly ate anything
I was sick to my stomach
and you were bored
tap. tap. tap.
and I'm sure there
were plenty of places
and plenty of people
you would have
rather been doing
but no
you were there with me
eating some **** dinner
that we got for cheap
in the back corner
of some **** diner
terrible lighting
to say the least
but the company was nice
I remember you had these
skinny fingers
always elaborately painted nails
and you would run them through
my hair at night
and talk to me about
how crazy we all are
and were and
always would be
but that was long before
this last supper
now all those nails
did was tap
tap. tap. tap.
on the glossed
red plastic table
as you grew more
bored and more apathetic

I was pulling at air
took all I had not
to lose my cool
--already lost
my appetite--
the complex
emotions of the
fairer ***
continued and continue
to be a source of
frustration
your eyes found mine
tap. tap. tap.
and they seemed unfamiliar
the deep brown I had once
discovered seemed hardened
cold
but we both already knew
what the eyes couldn't hide
and eventually
I paid the bill
and you were gone
gone. gone. gone.
my imagination ripe
with your destination
some lucky *******
I couldn't muster
the energy to
get up
from that booth
the kind old
waitress came over
eventually
smiling cautiously
but without words as she
refilled my water in silence
we both knew
it was going to be
a long night

in the backroom bars of barcelona
broken bottles
blind old *******
with their blistered burdens
in their borrowed brilliance, basking
I sit; watch
reflect everything and nothing
a young boy brings jugs of water and ice
to our table
thinking on the bloodied realists
slumped in their stone thrones
condemning wild romance
with secret affairs
in the lost woods of aesthetic absolution
where ignorance has ascended bliss
up to the scorned eyes of thomas
that great protector of paradise

paradise
women and widows
and daughters and wives
sisters and sinners
slumped into sorrowful silence
stinging at the senses
where *** plagues the sacred
stolen sips from the chalice
wicked wine in the form of futility
reality and humanity
frail fruit forbidden from the fingernails
and the tongues and the tastes
and the tryst
between thinking and feeling
soldiers of thought
and solitude
march in their crooked lines
toward inevitable absolution
against the caressed canopies
of sensation
and surface level distraction

I never wanted it to go this way,
though it was my actions
that catalyzed the death and
the following internment of our love.

I never meant for it to be like this.
We have our prides and our
angers and our unbearable
emotions.

My finger still won’t bend from
that parking kiosk. I was so mad.
I don’t know if I would’ve jumped but
*******, it was a toss up.

I am sorry you saw that side of me.

The demons that normally vent out
through the line breaks of the poems
as they line the walls of my computer
numbering the thousands.

You should read them
all some day. Perhaps gain
a little perspective into
how I am who I am.

I never meant for it to be like this.
This broken record of arguments
and excuses and tears that never
seem to fully stop.

You’ve put your guard up.
Distance is a distinct enemy
of love, so is pride/anger/regret.
—Insert the adjective you wish—

I hate myself for you.
Most likely more than you do,
though you would tell me that
it isn’t possible.

Your anger is beautiful
to me, even though it
is the loaded gun barrel
lodged between my teeth.

Your passion for us was
something I have grown to
envy, even seek to emulate,
now that I understand it.

I never showed you how
I felt, never let myself believe it.
Now I am begging for a
second/third/fourth, chance.

Perhaps the boy has cried
wolf one too many times,
and now must face the inevitable
jaws of a love now lost.

I never meant for it to be like this.
Stuck in this terrible place,
this awkward stalemate
between loving and letting go.

My father used to call them
stitches in the ground.
He said they were
just like mine,
only bigger.

Big metal tacks of red-iron,
breaking through the brush
on planks of driftwood,
placed methodically
by his grandfather—
a patriarch I will never meet.

Miles of them,
pacing the landscape,
allowing direction for us to walk.
I asked how the ground
cut itself so bad.
He said it was an accident
just like mine,
only bigger.

I imagined an old man
drubbing stretches of metal
between wood and dirt;
green earth-blood stemmed
by scarred, titian hues.

My father used to call them
stitches in the ground.
He said it after I cut my arm open
so I could feel better about it.

My son is in the hospital
with new stitches.
My father is dead—
a patriarch he will never meet.
The tracks sit stolid
and indifferent;
red and brown between the
buried remnants of timber
stifling the undergrowth.

Now that the world is
As small as it has become
The more you travel
The more you realize
Everyone and everything
Is the same
There's a sweet
Universiality
We share
All of us huddled
Under the face
Of that green encircled
Goddess
That harbinger of
A caffeinated fix
Altars to drink from that
Holy ambrosia
Stationed at economically
Strategic locations
Throughout the world

And of course
The holiest of
Universal symbols
The one found
In the succulent
Attraction of a
Woman's curves
Out of reach
Nothing more natural
And intrinsically
Understood

And that's all we've
Come to
In this glorious 21st
Century
From Moscow to
Miami
It's all **** and venti
Mocha latte's these days

He never told you much
about the drugs, or
the kid who got out
the easy way.
He never really told you
how ****** up he'd been,
between highs and lows,
the arrests or the fights,
how he limped his life--
splitting out by
the seams--
into somewhere far away
where he could
stitch it all together
and ignore the scars.

He never told you how badly
his heart got pummeled.
He never told you how he didn't
stop that ******* kid from getting
into that driver's seat.
He never told you how hard
that hit him.
He never told you that it all
came at the wrong time.
He never told you about
the medicine cabinets.
He never told you about
the vultures.

He never told you why
he doesn't get too drunk,
why he's afraid of himself,
the way you are
but for different reasons.
How scared of falling apart he is,
especially now with you around.
Why he puts on that mask;
that face you've grown to hate.
He never told you how
stupid he was,
or how scared he is of you
because the power you hold.

He didn't tell you
a lot of it
because he thought
it seemed too trivial,
seemed too inane,
to give voice to.
He only sat there,
finally far away from home,
sewing and stitching
and smiling,
laughing off any questions.
And now he seems back together,
but still only by thin stitching.
It breaks on occasion,
so he's so glad to have you,
because you see the stitches
and see the scars,
unfortunately,
but don't seem to mind too much,
and he may not say it a lot
but god it was nice to
just be loved,
even if only for a short time.

So thank you, for
sticking around as
long as you did.
Thank you,
on his behalf.

breaks my heart to think
that under this
beautiful skin
that I gently caress
--sending shivers up
your spine--
there are these
******
organs
contracting and expanding
pulsating
just to keep you together

it's a terrible thing
modern anatomy
hard to believe
that your beautiful carcass
is host to such horrible
biological expletives
the way you come together
so immaculately
all those pieces placed in
co-operation
what a magnificent whole
they create
although sometimes these
pieces let you get sick more
than I would like
and your heart beats too slow
rhythmic and calm
even now
as we lay here
it's a smooth harmony that
keeps you next to me

you lay there
unaware
and gorgeous
smiling at me as you
slowly stir
and get up to use
the bathroom

biology is a terrible thing

I watched her get
in the car
with another man
laughing at the noise
emerging through his
tongue and mouth
and teeth
while I cursed my
own tongue and
mouth
and teeth
for every
dreadful sound
they collaborated
and collided
to create

you lay there
coming up with
excuses
everything that
went wrong
all the reasons
this ship was
going under
everything that
led us up to
where we are now
--which is
nowhere--
you talked about
how I was working
late and
how you'd been sick
so often
how I'd been drinking
so much
you said it wasn't any
one's fault
just mostly mine
and you didn't
blame me for it
you just hated me for it
but you still loved me
you made sure to
clarify that point
so you kept looking
for the iceberg
kept justifying
excuse after excuse
for why this ship
was sinking
you didn't realize
I put the holes
there myself
this was no titanic
there was no iceberg
no sum of
quantitative and
rational excuses
I
just
didn't
love you

The articulation of her body
holds a dialect of grace
as it twists and turns in eager
pleasure.
The music courses over her
like a shower head and the
silence is overwhelming;
when I look into her eyes
all is quiet,
dimmed in timid respect,
to the beauty and the depth
hidden deep beneath the caramel.

Her laugh dims the lights
and stops the band as I realize
I am the benefactor of such
grace, born from the breast
of a woman to whom I walk
always slightly behind. Her eyes
meet mine and only mine and
there is something there on
that dance floor, something
divine in the touch
of a hand.

Now, retrospect has glazed these
memories, adding
a golden hue
to that beautiful skin,
and that silver dress,
draped from her like
garland from the body
of almighty Aphrodite.
And that was love,
that was love,
there on that dance floor;
love in my eyes and love in
my heart and love in
every step we took
swinging in the Sinatra breeze
with old men like tigers
waiting for a misstep
--here you are old men!
here is my mistake
look what I have done!--

And the articulation of her body
dips and curves in beautiful
cursive away from me,
as I lay in the same place,
seeing her waltz into the night,
but am further and further apart.
That was love there on that
dance floor,
and the old men watched,
in awe and agony, waiting.
--Old men look how your
patience has paid off! Look
how she dances away even now!-
But there was love on that
dance floor, so even as
your articulation turns
sweet movements
harsh and jagged,
even as you climb
above and away from me
with every breath,
you cannot deny me that.

Cutting off blood circulation,
inflammation,
hand is turning
black to blue.
Poor fool's face
must've been
made of steel.
Typing with one hand
on a late morning,
3rd cup of coffee
finally getting the heart
pumping,
wondering what he's doing.

Hope the *******'s face
fell off.

There's a
primal urge
that rips through
the body
and you cannot stop;
blow after ****** blow.
Until someone pulls
you off,
bones shattered
all across your hand.
You can't even tell.

Till you wake up
late one morning
and you're typing
with one hand,
wondering
if that *******
had as much trouble
brushing his teeth
as you did.

cold night in palo fierro

they say the world is ending
and it's twenty past
at home on the east coast
but i'm tucked away on the pacific
taking a quick walk
down the street
afraid to stay in the cold
too long
too cold
while that clock keeps ticking
i see something in the brush
a cat perhaps
a coyote
lord death himself
but he's gone before
i will ever know
and the breath hangs
in front of my face
before it disappears
as well
and the brake lights
of some passing
nissan altima
disappear
and so it seems it
all disappears
the world is ending they say
hope it's by fire
could really use it
in this binding cold
out on the west coast
time tick ticking toward some
inevitability
always stepping forward
to meet us
whether tomorrow
or two million tomorrows
what does it matter
they say the world is ending
not with a bang but
with a whimper
not with a bang but
with a whimper
the devils sang while
the angels whispered
the bodies hang while
the souls flickered
not with a bang but
with a whimper

that end won't come
quick enough

he could hardly move
and the young men
like snakes
hissed and laughed
as they passed
he would keep his head down
and still they hissed
walking down
sidewalks ripe of life
youth and ignorance
everyone toward
everything
he could hardly move
and when he wasn't
laughed at
he was ignored
see the arthritis had got him bad
and the war had got him worse
he was cold with the sickness
and the snow
and the laughter of young men
or snakes
delirious and shaking
the race whirled
around him
everyone toward
everything
I saw him on that
sidewalk
for a few weeks
when I first moved to the city
I would go to pick up
groceries and he'd be there
and we would chat
briefly
he was not one for words
but was grateful
to see a snake
that wouldn't hiss
I told him I admired him
of course he laughed
but to me he was
a stone in the river
fighting a current
that didn't know he was there
except to hiss and laugh
I lived in that city
for almost a year
and after the first
two or three weeks
he had moved
off to greener pastures
perhaps
and he was the
smartest of us all
getting out of that city
of everyone toward
everything
but maybe the river caught up with
him and swept him away
--those that fight
normally don't last
very long--
but I'd like to think of him
silent on a beach
somewhere
without the arthritis
without the war
the snakes
the cold
without the everyone
toward the everything
just an old man with
no need to move
anymore

she is getting married
I had no idea
tying the knot
while I can hardly
tie my shoes without
falling over anymore
think back on the nights
I'd lay in her bed
naked and young
while her parents slept
through a thin wall
we would wait
wait wait wait
until we heard the snoring
and then make love
--with serious concern
for the noise level--
always shushing
and snickering
our bitter and dark secret
continuing long after
we had ended
there were times I would
fly into town
and her groom to be
would be out at work
and we would move
to and in her room again
new now
more mature
grown up
picture frames and feng shui
not the pink and black
blankets and posters
that used to surround us
and we would make that
silent love
waiting for the garage door
and then I'd sneak out her window
careful to cover the trigger that
set off her alarm
I know that window
like my own front door
cutting through her
and the neighbor's
yards to where my
car was conveniently
parked
four houses down
I never met the man
he worked all day
always brought
her home something
sweet
--a true class act
i'm sure--
I was the down and out
the one that you don't
bring home to daddy

she is getting married
and I didn't even know
some other man some other problem
oh how things
grow and fall apart
just to grow together again
she'll walk down the aisle
while her daddy and my
missed opportunities
hand her off to a
better man
and I'll come in town
a few years from now perhaps
and make sure
I'm quiet
as to not wake the kids
before fleeing
--quickly and quietly--
out that window
once again

the dress is red
or black or off
and the eyes are
blue or green or brown

the hair is auburn
or blonde
some mix between
and the face is
tired or bored
or apathetic

the liquor is cheap
and strong and
does the job
and the love is
stale or bitter
or gone

the motel reeks
of something rotten
and her name is Jen
or Ashley or
anything
anything else

the ***
is old or used
or quick
but always
no good
and the bed squeaks
and the walls are thin
so the renter next door
feels every pulse

the goodbye
is laughable or sad
or about time
and the girl is
too old or too young
too beat up
but she always,
always comes
again

new dress new
*** new face
new love
but she always, always
comes again

there's nothing left
there's no other side
there's no next time
there's only this 20 years
past
and the next 20 years
and hopefully the
next
*******
what have I done
this life burns
in the saddle
I can feel it
but the horse
won't stop
won't turn around
and people say
you're young
you're whole life
is ahead of you
but that horse
won't stop
won't turn around
get me out of the saddle
please
******* please
someone help
I can't do this anymore
get me out of here
you're young
till you're old
till you're dead
and then you're
nothing
but fodder for
the worms
this horse won't
stop
won't turn around
hell he won't even
slow down
he's a stubborn *******
and soon
fodder for the worms
and those flowers
that bloom every
spring
for this 20
and the next
and the next

Wax drips out from gently
smiling jaws. Teeth melt.
Tongue unfurls, colliding
out of a gunshot-wound
mouth. Lips slack and empty.
Molars bend, bend, break at the touch,
all brittle and slipping down
a tunneled throat towards
the epiglottis.
Stop the breath
in the lungs, burn the
esophagus, choke down
saliva out of distended glands.
Everything breaking and bursting and
everything falling apart and
The realization that you just
can't say 'I love you'
anymore.

He sees you around
every corner he turns.
There's the back of a head,
and the brown hair parts
the way yours does,
or your olive winter coat
with the fur-lined hood
breaks across his vision
for a split second.
Then the angle changes
and the heavens close
and the reflection is gone,
it is another woman,
another pitiful replacement,
another worthless excuse
for something he'll never own up to.

Turn left and there
you are again.
It's the laugh this time,
a slightly throaty trill
echoing in a happiness
that never covered the whole
range of sound.
Keep walking, and there ,
yes right over there,
are the eyes that brought down
the walls of Troy,
or the smile that murdered
God in his slumber.
There you are,
again and again,
again and again and again,
but he hasn't seen you in weeks.

what a magnificent dance we dance
around around around
always close but never touching
you in that dark red dress
--the one you
know that I love--
auburn hair flowing elegantly as
you turn and spin around me
and I
graceless
try my best to avoid
feet and eye contact
struggling only to keep up
blurs of red
sting at my vision
the corners of my eye
never stopping
never slowing down
spinning and twirling
around around around
enough to make a man dizzy
and you know it

who knows when
the song will end
or what will come on
in its absence
all I see
is these tinges of dark red
in my vision
an elegance I'm
not sure I've witnessed
in a long time
the dance continues
around around around
so agonizingly close
until you spin away from me
once again

You had a tiny, little heart
that let you down.
One that beat to its own rhythm,
slightly off,
tucked away in your chest
as it was.

You had a tiny, little heart
that let you down.
I remember it as you
lay asleep across me,
never slowing.

You had a tiny, little heart
that let you down.
It burnt bright
and then quickly out;
quiet now upon the hospital bed.

You had a tiny, little heart
that let you down.

The rest of you was perfect.

War is necessary every
other decade or so.
In order to avoid the jails
from filling up
with murderers.
In order to keep them
killing others in holy justification.
War is necessary
every other decade or so,
more than ever.
Used to be, once
or twice a century would do.
The world is filling up with
murderers more and more,
these days. I believe it is
genetics.
Breeding of those
who win the wars
over those who die
losing them.

Most of you
don’t even know it
until that barrel points at you
and they are seeing red
in the heat of every wiring
they have been programmed
with. You don’t know what
they are doing, or what you
are doing, or what anyone
is doing, but it is quick,
so fast you barely remember,
and the blood clouds and
slinks lazily through your
callouses and simian crease
and drips unhurriedly
to the tile floor.

You are human
like the rest of us,
even him, there on
the ground in
front of you.

They tell you to quit smoking.
They tell you to quit drinking.
To quit laughing,
quit loving,
Living.
Because it shortens your life,
they tell you.
Because it's bad for your health,
they tell you.
Have a drink, friend,
have a smoke,
that's what's good for the soul.
Long walks at two in the morning
skipping stones over concrete oceans,
that's what's good for the soul.
Pretty women with pretty
legs, that say all sorts of
pretty things, but never too
loud, or too often, that's
what's good for the soul.
Watching as those pretty legs storm
out of the hotel room after
you said the wrong thing again. Fixing
up that last glass of
whiskey and enjoying it
alone instead. Fighting in
the back of bars over
spilled drinks or spilled
words or someone who slept
with someone else. That's
what's good for the soul.
To take a hit and to hit.
To love and to hate.
To live.
That's what's good for the soul.

Look at you
standing there;
fumbling at the clasp
of your bra,
stripping down
to the core,
hoping I see you,
hoping I save you,
as if I'm the
cure for
who you've become.
You plead with me
--breath of a cheap,
distilled liquor--
to let you stay.
You ask me if I
think you're pretty.
Sure, I respond,
sure you're pretty.
Hell I haven't met
many naked women
standing in my
bedroom who aren't.
But I can't save you.
I'm not the one who
will keep you honest.
I'm not the one to kiss
you on the head
and tell you goodnight.
Sure you're pretty, and
sure I'll *******, baby,
but I'm not sure
if I can fix you.

The women often leave quietly
and without a fuss.
They have a right to
come and go at their leisure.
There are times, however,
that they leave and
they are loud.
They are louder than
a man can imagine,
or possibly stand,
and they throw their
shoes or their bottles
or their broken hearts
with reckless abandon
towards you.

Those of the last sort
are what hurt
the most, it seems
—although the other objects
do damage, quite the same—
I only smile, smile
with a terrible sadness,
What else is there to do?

The door slams and
the curses echo off
of the thin, plaster
walls of this emptied
apartment, and I am
left to pick up the shards
of glass, broken picture frames,
and pieces of the love
they carelessly
left behind,
smiling, always smiling.
What else is there to do?

where did this come from
knew you were going to go
crazy eventually
but it seems like
that ship is long sailed
pressure builds from
all sides
family falling apart
thousand miles away
stuck in a place
you can't stand
four more years
it seems
if you can make it
--shut up
it's just youth
it's just growing up--
tell yourself these things
like your father would say
--don't be a *****
man up--
and you did
you never used to be so
**** crazy
but all dams break
eventually
so it seems
just unfortunately taking
it out on
all the wrong people

you spend your whole life
being the tough guy
holding that water back
but crack after crack
now it's an onslaught
of new problems and
old memories you thought
you'd forgotten
unfortunately taking it out on all
the wrong people
arguments and frustration
could really just use a
shoulder to lean on
you're getting older
and what can you show for it
a lot of words you cleverly
break up on the page
to assume some sort of plan
but there's no plan
there's only you
and apparently
you're going crazy
can't do things right
anymore
stuck questioning and
second guessing
who do you turn to?
you're new to this
you're trying to hold tight
but it still
manages to all **** up

it's driving you crazy

easy now easy now
take it slow
we've got a long road
no need to be so **** excited
its all coming together
all together
entiendes?
si si
you're a smart kid
eres inteligente, si
you'll catch on
sooner than I did
maybe not soon enough
you know?
what're you doing
hanging around
an old fool
like me huh?
can't teach you nothing
you don't already know
except how to eat a bullet
I don't want that and
neither do you
no, no, don't want to taste
that last supper
get outta here
why do you stick around?
you should have some broad
somewhere
ain't she gonna miss you?
she already does
I can feel it
I can feel it
get outta here
let a old man walk
in peace
before I'm in pieces
can't no king's horses
can't no king's men
put this old man
back together again
tienes hambre?
I'm hungry
how 'bout some breakfast
don't worry kid
I'll pay
don't want to go too far
rough night
you understand?
yeah. you understand
now get outta here
I'm tired and
I got a long long road and
it's all coming together
you understand?
do you?

paraíso me espera en el otro lado del camino
¿entiendes?