I'm stuck
and my poetry
reflects it
life is getting
a little stagnant
and when you aren't
living well
you aren't
writing well
and it burns in my stomach
and aches in my head
because I know
how much there needs
to be said
how much I've got to
let out
before I lose it
and go mad
maybe already lost it
and its already gone
and this is only the
repercussion
only the consequence
I'm not sure
but I need
to figure out
a way to
create again
a way to
live again
before it's too late
and all of those
books
and poems
and *******
good for nothing
pages
go unread
and unwritten
and my name goes
unknown
sprinting headfirst
into the callous, crowded everything
of forever

the world spins
towards eternity
while you spin on stage
beautiful
pulsing with the lights and
the music
I lay in the crowd
making faces at shadows
hoping someone would notice
eyes like magnets
pulled in your direction
dancing
laughing
the world spins and spins
but seems still
while we make eye contact
I can't look away
I am riveted to your
eyes
magnets pulled to coin
but only for
moments before
you glance away and
lean close into
a luckier man
than me

the world never
stops spinning
no matter how
beautiful the
still life may be

Tied to the world
by the hands of grocery clerks,
by the blue aprons of baristas
and the fresh smells of cut bagels
in morning market stalls.
Tied to the world
by parked cars in parallel lines,
construction cranes climbing
back to life.

The moorings of a vast
and darkening ocean,
an anchor tied with twine
and small impersonal smiles
of welcome.

Tied to the world
by tall vines of ivy like scoliosis spines
rooting themselves upward in
the chipped bricks of
abandoned factory buildings.
Tied to the world by
small strings to hold us against ourselves,
small cracks in sidewalk pavements
where grass might one day grow again.

The earth spins at
a bearable speed when
the morning peeks through
curtained townhouse windows
on a quiet city block and the
birds make just enough
noise to be beautiful.

the women
come to **** me
softly
slowly
how are they
so beautiful?
it wouldn't
be an
unwelcome
death
and they try
try and try
but i've
been dead
for too long
to be killed
again
sharp smiles
and tongues
caressing hands
clench to fists
they are here
for blood
and they know it
for my soul
for my love
and anything else
they can grab
go ahead
take what you need
i've been
numb too
long to feel it
again

I remember the summer
of 2009. Before the world
turned itself inside out.
Before everything crashed
into everything else.
I remember the quaint
beach house my family
stayed at, with the pink
walls, and the room that
I snuck you into one night
before I left while everyone
else packed and slept for
the drive home. All the cute
shops down the street. The pier
where I would sneak beers
from the cooler of the vendor
selling them while you
distracted him. Bumming
cigarettes off of old men
for the two of us with the
wink of an eye.
You were beautiful.
You were everything
I’ve ever wanted in anyone
since. You kissed with a hint
of vanilla and tobacco and
heineken light that blended
so wonderfully I haven’t
tasted anything since.
You were beautiful.
I was sixteen.
Not much behind you,
but somehow worlds apart.
Now I am old. No longer sixteen.
No longer stealing beer
and cigarettes. I wonder
if you ever went back to
that beach. We were only
there for two weeks. Met
you four days late. Those ten
days were not enough. We would
sit under the pier at midnight,
you leaned against one of
the pilings, cigarette forgotten
in your hand, somehow always
touching mine. Oh, I remember
those two weeks, July, 2009.
Wonder if
you do,
too.

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

Where there was once
noisy trips to the beach—to sneak away
with each other in the surf and plant
kisses on the tops of each other's ears
—there is now only silence.

Where there was once
loud lines of poetry brought to life
in the screams of youth—in anger
and in sadness and in love
—there is now only silence.

Where there was once
dance floors and dresses—
the music of a million lovers
clasping hands and setting their
feet in steps against one other
—there is now…

The inventory is unpacked
and counted up from each of those
long hours I have carried since
those pale blue cottages on the beach,
since the barroom poetry readings
and the holiday dances.
The shell no longer sings the ocean.
The sounds that filled the vessel
have all but gone away
from us now.

With the absence
of Grace
or transcended
human morality
there is silence
so what do you believe
when almighty Jupiter lays
crucified in the caressing arms
of Vishnu
Christ bent
broken over the knees
of Mohammad
what do you believe in
Father?
what do you believe in
Mother?
when Absalom
ascends the throne
and Daniel suffocates
in the lion’s den
what faith holds you
speechless
and chaste
as the stories
twist and burn
to crash together
on the endless palette
of human belief

the needle’s worn the
groove too deep
now the record won't play
all we have to believe in
is silence

let the deity’s roll in
celestial graves
give me human interaction
the touch of lover’s hand
sacraments that bring more absolution
than sorrowed sermons
screaming out just to
break that silence

oh, la musique de nos collisions fabriquer
laissent peu pour la l'âme à faux

All of this is something it shouldn't be:
A scar across the stomach,
a sound heard in a silent place,
us seated here, unlucky / oblivious /
hopeful all the same that perhaps

you and I— how curious, fate!—
might be the solution
each and every one of us is
looking for,

even as another
tear pauses to rest, just ever slightly
for a moment, along the dark
skin above your jaw.

i give up
seems like
i've been using
that line more
and more recently
the fight is no fun
anymore
old bones don't move
like a butterfly no more
and it seems the bees keep
swarming
while i've run out of stings
too many blows
to the head and heart
severly concussed
and fading fast
there are
other young bulls
sneaking in the ring
where i wish to escape
let them breathe in
that spotlight
see how many fights
they can win before
they're out cold
wish them the best
i need out
i need out
but it aint easy
you live the ring for so long
you don't know the outside
anymore
where the women aren't
throwing jabs at my head
heart like a punching bag
as i grow older
grace is wasted on the graceful
now i'm nothing
but a beat up old man
with no wife and no lovers
out of the ring and into the freezing cold
a world i can't seem to remember

everything that
happens now
is pouring rain
banging fists on
window panes
elevated fear overcomes
excavated truths
atrophy is
a blessing
oh just to be weak
only a whimper
of jumping ship
to save yourself
with all the plans
just shot to hell

--the frying pan
is all we know
although the fire
looms below--

bones break as glass
shatters and collide
terrible secrets
drip out of pores
like sweat
and the rain still falls
weaker weaker
fists echo
noiselessly off of
transparent cages
another crack in
the glass
while the rain still falls

--from the fire
looking up
the frying pan doesn't
appear so rough--

glass is broken
bones are broken
and as the rain falls
I am weak at last
give in
that terrible weight
off of sunken shoulders
where did you go
you let me
get this bad
used to be strong
could handle
the world
can hardly stand
anymore
the glass is broken
yet freedom looms
far as ever
I would settle for peace
no chance
no chance
and the rain still falls

continues
all around
as you take a step
back
out of the frame
grab your drink
take a sip
sit down
slow down
the lights flash
the bass rattles
your jawline
everyone moving
and loving
and spinning
spitting breaking
shouting *******
--oh, the madness--
and you're struck out
sitting in the corner
as that madness
moves and loves and spins
spits breaks shouts *****
caresses and kills
you can't seem to
get into it anymore
not like you used to
these old legs can't
bear it like they used to
the old heart can't
take it like it used to
everything is all everywhere
while all you can do
is grab another ***** tonic
another one
one more
and just shut up
this is real life
if you're not with it
you're against it
so *******
and **** your poetry
you aren't special
you aren't anything
anyone will read
***** selfish *******
the blur cycles around
you don't want to step in
but i'm right
i'm always right
so step back in
that drink
is almost empty
anyways

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

When the war fell, it fell with no warning.
Machine gun fire cut through the schoolyards
and the shopping malls, the graveyards
filling up like the churches.

When the bombs fell, they burnt out the buildings
and the shells of old homes stood like jagged
testaments toward human fallibility.
Centuries of labor reduced to dust.

When the silence fell, it was full and complete
like a thick fog atop the cityscape.
The world, a museum of history,
burnt and scarred, forever in its silent fury.

When the war fell, it fell with no warning.
I took you in my arms and locked the window,
turning into you while the night fell around us,
waiting out the end of existence.

When the world awoke, like a sigh,
we were there, breathing it in.
The smoke and the dust and the ash
bursting in our lungs, sweet scented survival.

I don't know if
you remember
as vividly as I do
find it hard to believe
that you would
you're off in another
life
another world
and ******* the
grass
seems greener
over there

I don't know if you
remember any of it
but I do
--an ability that
has proved to be
as much curse as blessing--

I don't know if you remember
or just laugh and smile
and play along
when I bring up the past
a past that seems more and
more one-sided as the years
grow longer
a past where I believed in things
as vain or valiant as love
or war
or peace
we made the first two
on several occasions
--never could grasp the third--

I was young
you were smart
and I was exactly what you needed
for the time you needed me
that's that
everything after has been
ripples in the pond
growing smaller and further
from the initial splash
with every touch

I don't know if you remember
like I do
maybe you still think about it
sometimes
when he's gone
off on some trip
leaving you alone with
ghosts
maybe not
it's all a new world now
I'm not so young anymore
but you're still smarter
over there
in that new life

I swear that grass looks greener
everyday

They swore it would rain,
overcast and cold, the grey
permeating every dead blade
of grass, every bare bough,
staggering in the wind,
and every soul beneath,
staggering for other reason
toward some unknown eternity.

The forecast told of rain,
but it is only the terrible,
everywhere grey and the
cold of low clouds and
wind that blows in deprecation
through and above everything,
those buildings leaning in the mist
weighed down by their steel frames,
and myself, inundated beneath it all.

They swore on rain
but there is nothing.
Nothing but the grey
and the cold and
the hangover death
of the soul that exists in
this Spring pre-bloom morning

A man can fall in love
under any circumstance.
A little attention; a soft smile,
a touch of skin like the
brushing of thighs
or the tips of fingers.

All it is might be a look
across the bar.
There she is; legs crossed,
leaning hesitantly against
the finished oak countertop.
There she is; and it is love
in her brown eyes, glancing
downward after a moment
into her gin and tonic.

A man can fall in love
under any circumstance.
It happens in the little things;
the lock of dark hair she curls
behind her ear but never
quite seems to stay there.

It happens in the little things;
the soft smile, the small touch,
making love without a word.

into the trees
the grass
the whole world
around us

you could see it
if you cared to look
though I don't suppose
you do

love is a poisonous
thing
I understand your
hesitation

it is killing off the flowers
and the
animals are all off
away in hiding
I understand your hesitation

but it bleeds out
now
faster now than ever
before

flowing freely
into the leaves
of the trees
and the blades
of the grass

the reds and the browns
the oranges and the yellows
screaming out against the green
fighting and flailing to stay afloat
as weather sweeps it all away
shouting into the nothingness
of the coming winter that

I am falling in love

you could see it
if you cared to look

either way
the love is bleeding out

and autumn has arrived

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 was an old woman
who stood waiting
for her husband
of 52 years to pick her up
by the bus stop that I used
close to where I lived
in Philadelphia
she worked as a teacher at
the elementary school
a few blocks away
we would chat as
I waited for the 3:35 bus
even if it rained she would
stand their with her
blue umbrella and
her blue rain boots
and she had this wonderful
smile
the ones reserved for old ladies
who saw everyone younger
as grandchildren of their own
and the husband would meander
up the road in his '97 Lincoln
as I'd be getting on the bus
and I would watch him kiss her
on the cheek like he'd done
for 52 years and
she would smile as
I rode away

one rainy day
I came down
but the old lady
must have been picked
up by her loving husband
already because I didn't see
her by the stop
I got on the bus
and there she was
sitting

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
Two pillows underneath your blanket
of soft brown hair.
Your hair is what I admired
most of you.
The way it would waterfall
about your frame,
silhouetting your features in
chocolate cascades.

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
With your newest RM Drake,
and his short sweet eurekas.
You loved to read him aloud to me.
You would smile slightly in a
smile saved for when you
read one that particularly
struck you the way that
only good literature can.

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
Even though you never could
stomach what I read.
And I would get angry
because of the world's that
I wanted to show you
but knew that I couldn't.
You never shook hands with
Hem or Buk the way I wished
and wished that you would.
Sometimes your reading
was more honest.
Sometimes your emotion
was more true.

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
I would sit across from you,
analyze and seek to
emulate every word
while you would read
and only feel it,
in a way I never could.

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
Now that I have lost you
it helps me to do it.
I still have the word and
I still have books and the
world's I was left to travel alone

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
I only hope one day
you may read this and
smile slightly in that way
that only you do.

when the sun might set forever
and the anywhere of where you are
might just be the right place at that
moment to be, so long as you
take a long pause—maybe waiting
on the crosswalk while that last car
swings past right at the red, or
maybe watching the elevator
ping to ground level and letting
the old woman step out first
with her bags—and use that
silent moment to see the Sun again
and notice it there even now,
this late in the game, and if it
can hang as heavy as a thousand
earths a thousand times over
up there in that big stretch
of sky and space then so can you,
right there
wherever you are.

don't look them too close in the eye
don't attract their attentions
to excite them is to excite Death
and as He comes, meandering
up the stairs toward you,
so do they, as if one and the same.
don't feed them
don't allow them any emotion
for they slink down hallways
and bars, long tendrils like
glimpses of hope
and passion at those
fingertips
--keep the leash tight!--
don't let them touch you
He finds victims by touch
as do they, the killer
is in the contact
and a beautiful
tragic Death
but Death all the same
and they reap like the harvest
as He comes crawling up
the stairs quick behind
for He knows that as they go
so must He
don't look them too close in the eye
don't attract their attentions
don't fall in love
they strike with quick precision
and then slip quietly out the window
into bars and bedrooms of others
waiting to be reaped
and He meanders up the stairs
toward you

I'm gonna take you for a ride
on a big jet plane when we're done
with all this. With wings as
big as dinosaurs, and it's
gonna fly so fast you
won't believe it!
Pretzels? No, no no,
there will be pizza and
ice cream on this flight.
All the soda you can drink.
Oh man, we're going to have
a blast, buddy. Close your eyes.
Can't you see it? Imagine, you
and me, flying that big ol' plane.
Don't tell your mother, but I talked
to the pilot, he said he would even
let you fly it! Isn't that something, buddy?
Isn't that something. Go ahead, close your
eyes, think about pizza and ice cream, and
fast big huge jet planes, and soda, and --there you go,
nice and tight-- and how fast we're gonna fly,
and we're gonna do flips and dips it's gonna be the
best time ever. Keep 'em closed, buddy, keep 'em
closed and keep smiling, I'll be right here
the whole time, buddy, I'll be
right here waiting when you wake up.
Just know daddy loves you, so much.
Don't ever forget that.

Her man had left for California.
Left her with nothing but the dog
to fight the emptiness of her apartment.
She told me she couldn't sleep anymore,
told me she couldn't eat anymore.
She got sick,
so sick— swore that it was
tuberculosis, malaria, typhoid fever—
My experience led me to my own diagnosis;
another case of a love long lost.

I didn't have the heart to tell her.
Instead I slept with her,
despite the risk of sickness.
She was afraid it was contagious.
I laughed, told her I would
take the risk.

I stayed there two weeks, laughing.
She could eat again,
she could smile again,
she made up love late into the night.

It seemed like this
quarantine was paradise.
Till up one night there was a
knock on the door.
It seemed like her bags
were already packed.
It seemed like she was gone
within the few moments it took to see
who it was behind the door.
Told me to lock up the
apartment, leave the key under the
*** of wilted hydrangeas.
He was back from California.
It seemed like she was cured—
of her malaria, her yellow fever, her cholera—
Just like that, a clean bill of health.
A modern day
miracle.

It seemed to have been
contagious,
after all.

Memory tilts the senses,
like a bad night, or a good drink.
The places we go change around us,
forming consistently thickening walls
of cognitive remembrance.
At the bar there is the table where
I sat the first time, with people I just met,
and faces I soon forgot. They are there still,
at the bar, as am I, painted in landscape,
watercolors across canvas.

I danced with you there, same bar,
and you looked up at me with wet,
sparkling eyes and laughed as I made a fool
out of myself for you. We are there as real
as I feel anything, still tainted with the emotion
of that moment.

Drunk, we fought, and the cold taste of that
***** water as it cascaded down my face
is as painful then as it is laughable now.
My friends were shocked and they clowned
me as you stormed off. I didn’t chase you
though I should have.

Memory tilts the senses.
Altering the perception and
introducing bias to the most
casual of environments.
I cannot walk the town in which
I have lived without seeing you.
It cannot be good for the soul to
live in one place too long.
Inevitably, experiences blur together
until there is no place safe from recognition.
It isn’t good. The walls of memory close in and the
prison cell shrinks around us, suffocating us,
forcing us to walk the long way home just to
avoid the restaurant where we went on
our first date.

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 doctor places all the pills
close atop the medical bills
she always drinks the juice

death comes every morning
three quick knocks for warning
she ponders on her youth

family comes and then family goes
blurred in the window from winter snows
she understands the truth

death comes every morning
three quick knocks for warning
she didn't touch the juice


       knock.
              knock.
                     knock.
  

I've never seen such a sad
smile in my life

The problem with poetry
and it's iterations within our
generation is that we have
grown soft as writers.
We are so worried about
if she thinks about us, or
whether he really loved us.
Or if our hearts will ever be
fixed again. It is disgusting.
Have some spine, comrades!
**** yourself a ****** on the
floor of the cheap motel.
Drink the bourbon out the bottle
until you puke your mother's
homemade meatloaf into
the kitchen sink. Hell, do
whatever needs to be done,
let's just stop with the
dramatic, self righteous ****.
She ****** someone else
because he was better, he
doesn't love you because
he doesn't have to. Your
heart was never broken.
Have a drink with me and
let's go out, give ourselves
something real to write about.

There is something in her
youthful capriciousness.
An eager vitality pushing out,
but each movement steeped
in a tender pride;
forced awake in sudden
flares of anger.

To see those brushstroke fingers,
long and carved like talons
as they paint themselves white
in clenched frustration.

To see those dark eyes;
ripping towards and
through you in
sharpened rage.

There is something in that
youthful capriciousness.
Love comes quick as hate;
anger and happiness
lined shoulder to shoulder.

To see those cautious hands,
soft and stubborn,
pulling waves across
your skin.

To see those endless eyes;
telling you everything
she never could quite
find words to say.

the first rays
bleed through
our old quartered
window panes
--slightly yellowed with
old age and neglect--
it casts a golden light
across the room
falling on top of the bed
as we once did
young lovers eclipsed in
passion too strong to control
muscles tensed with love
as shadows roar like lions
in back arched ecstasy
across the canvas wall
there's no passion
anymore
only the golden
light from
the window
as it falls
on an old man
alone with his shadow

I was on the train and two
little boys were playing a
board game with these
little trinkets
they would roll the dice
and scream and scream
peals of laughter that
dashed and echoed
up and down the
cars of the train

I didn't mind the little kids
laughing and laughing
it had a nice sound as
I lost my thought out the window
into the wilderness
I didn't mind them
even though their father
--seated in the row
behind--
smacked them upside the
head a few times
nice and good
after that they were
quiet for awhile
and I saw a small
path cutting away
through the trees
and wondered where it led

then the kids started
telling secrets into
each others ears
and my vision zoomed
back in from the immensity
of the universe back
to the train car
where they'd lean in and
whisper profound
equations to life and
happiness and secrets of
an upmost importance
told strictly in the highest confidence
then scream and scream with laughter
only to stifle it hurriedly
with a quick glance to the
row behind them

he only shook his head
and smiled

you can jump from
swing to swing
when you know the
safety net is there
all bottled up
in highways and
happy hours
long drives through
painted lines
and exit signs
long nights spent
swinging out
as far as you can
above that safety net
picking poison
from a stainless
steel spoon
and long mornings
spent picking up the
shards of a life
that longed to be
left behind
on the road
mile markers like handholds
climbing you farther and
farther up the mountain
closed eyes keep you far from home
rolled back in escape
those painted lines
those six lanes
seventy five miles
an hour toward everything
another spoonful
another baggie
another mile
keep me from thinking
keep me from feeling
keep me from the truth
all these safety nets
saving me from myself
another night
another fight
working futiliy to
keep that hand
tighter and tighter
around my throat

I was knee deep
in the trenches
with a good girl
a beautiful girl
smile that struck
like lightning
right to the bone
--you know the ones
I know you do--
the ones that
walk light on
their feet
as if all of
life was a choreography
some beautiful dance
--you know
the ones--
the ones that
look at you
with eyes that
tell more than
any sentence

when she hit me
she hit me hard
I fell in too far
before I could
stop myself

I was knee
deep in the trenches
and this girl was
dancing and
smiling her way
right through me
what is a man
supposed to do?
faced with
a love like that
faced with a threat
like that
to my safety
to my sanity
what is a man supposed
to do?
when a girl can hit like that
when a girl can break
you open
steal your soul
eat you alive
without a word

I was knee deep
in the trenches
with a good girl
fighting off friends
and foes alike
keeping my head low
away from the open
praying to get out
of there alive
but even the mortars
can't hit
like that

the sound of my name
whispered in passion
feel of a new woman
a new world to explore
scent of ***
****** and real
these are truths
I understand
my quantum physics
exists in that woman
lounging on the mattress
confident and cruel
these realities
are tangible
I care not
for einstein
and his descendants
all ******* and spitting
trying to simplify
what is already basic
I care not for
relativities
let space
**** and shimmy
its way
into oblivion
as it
would
unwatched
and let me have my women
angry as forever
as the door opens and closes
come and go
they fight
and they ****
and they flee
and they come again
different names and
faces
but the same truths
I don't need
the higgs *****
or an explanation
of space-time
to figure out
my reality
we gild
our pile of ****
and see it as gold
no thank you
let them rot
in their lab coat
caves
and let me in mine
angry women
and blank pages
all waiting to be filled
a sick
carnal and
unsophisticated
truth

broke my promise
the one I made
sitting there
on that park bench freezing
sharing coffee
conversation
naive and smiling
you looked at me
up from two weeks
of abuse
I could never understand you
how you laughed at my jokes
how you flashed eye contact
as you poured a second sugar
I could never understand you
it was cold
and you had a white scarf
tucked over your jacket
good god I loved
how you looked and
you told me how
proud you were
how we were in this together
and how
your acting was going well
I did my best to listen
I was in cold sweat
and shivering
and you talked on your
audition the next day
some part
some play
I can't remember
--good god why can't
I remember--
all I do is remember anymore
the way you would walk
the way you would talk
how you would just go
on and on
and the world would seem bright
again if
only for seconds
and somewhere
deep inside
under the cold
something frozen
would thaw in me
and I can still see that smile
why did I ever let you
leave that park bench
we could have sat there forever
hands folded and freezing
you in that white scarf
and that white smile
good god I loved
the way you looked

you talked and talked
marvelous things
you were going to be an actress
and I was going to stop drinking
we'd buy an apartment
on the east end of town
maybe
a house with a yard
maybe
a boat on the sea
you could paint that picture
so nice
and we'd sit there and imagine

oh
just to have you
on that park bench
again

sick to
your stomach
early morning
outside some
bagel shop
watching the sun
rise over
the houses
and she never called
you were out late again
and it
only gets worse
and worse
these women
they want your soul
want your heart
they stop for
nothing
how do you resist?
every ounce of dignity
filtered away
through the drinks
and the tongue and the
teeth and the temptation
how do you resist?
until next thing you know
you're sick
outside some bagel
shop
hoping no one sees
waiting for her to
call
because those other women
they come for your soul
they come for your heart
but they won't find it
they won't find it
it's a thousand
miles
to the north
and you want to
hear her voice
just one more time
but she still
won't call

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

She was behind the bar, and her long,
trim fingers managed the glasses with
a dignified grace. There were
burns in her forearms from cigarettes
and her hair was choked into a bun.
Some of the hair didn't stay and instead
hung low over her face.
She was pale, but not unattractively so.
She blushed easily and her face was always
slightly tinged with a reddish complexion.
The skin around her eyes crinkled
when she truly laughed, but
more often than not the smile never
reached her eyes. I came to the conclusion
that she was terribly unhappy, and it hurt
me to think of it.
Many of the men in the town
considered her beautiful and made passes
at her with whims and wits to
subjugate her to their intentions. She paid
them no mind, however.
She had a man. He was
stationed in the war, but she wore
his coat in the winter when it
was cold. I came to know her through the bar, and our conversation
grew friendly over the months passed since
I had moved to the town.
Her man was killed from the war that spring and not long after
she left the bar. I heard
she had moved away from the city
and soon I had moved as well.
It is years later now, and I never told her as much, but like
the one woman from a movie
you saw as a kid and dreamed about, I
don't believe I've ever been as in love
as I was with her there; in that terrible city,
behind that terrible bar, smiling without her eyes.

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

stayed with a woman
and her sister
for a few weeks
up by the chesapeake
on a little river
with a dock
that audienced
the most beautiful
sunsets
a man could witness
she was a good woman
widowed
quick to think of others
before herself
never got drunk before noon
worked hard and long
for the money she earned
and I appreciated her
and her hospitality

her sister
smoked ****
and drank expensive wine
on that dock
during the earliest hours
of the day
looking upwards
all the way till that
beautiful sunset
I would join her
while her sister was hard
at work

I appreciated my woman
for her work habit
for the *** and the
hospitality she gave so
willingly and passionately
however I also appreciated
her sister
in many of the same ways
which is why I was asked
loudly and violently to
cut my visit short
after only two
quick weeks

I still miss
those sunsets

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

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.

I have this vision.
It is of myself, pretentious enough,
in a lone clay-brick mesa out amongst
the red, plateaued deserts of Babylon.
The air is burnt and stale with heat,
and there is a nonexistent breeze that
barely cuts through that
open wound of a window upon which
hangs from itself one white, translucent curtain.

There is a typewriter in the corner,
by the window. Also a chair.
Upon this of which I sit, looking outwards.
The scalding oppression of the heat,
the smacking taste of dust in the
dregs of late summer,
burning holes in my senses as they
numb themselves from the climate.
One cannot think of anything else
when the body is under such complete
submission by the force of nature.

So I write, in that chair there by the window,
with its lone, white shade almost
shimmering in the air.
I write about the dust,
and the heat,
and the endless plains of ochre,
simply because nothing else can
exist amongst the total
subjugation of the senses.

I had been in recluse for a time.
First due to sickness of the body,
then the inevitable sickness of spirit that tends to follow.
I wanted to see no one.
I was happy to be alone
in silent isolation.
For days I lay, refusing call
from friend and foe alike,
the latter mostly being the women.
They were the ones who
pulled at me the most,
but the sickness was strong
and I remained apart from them.
When it was over I found
the friends gone and
the women gone and
the loneliness dragged in me
where it been freeing before.

What is one to do?

I walked to the park
and saw a man and his dog,
running with clutched
frisbee in mouth.
I saw a young couple
walking hand in hand
in that sacred paradise of two.
I saw pigeons peck at
scattered seed and
trees looming in dark shade
over various occupants of
the shadow,
and the sun above peering,
like me,
through wide-eyed gaze
at the all of it.
I had not known how cruelly
I had missed it,
and atop that,
I had not known how cruelly
I had not been missed.

How curious that life continues.

Paint ourselves a picture:
cold, white winds up against
winter coats and puffs of breath
in dotted lines leaving cursive lips.
Two pink hands held without
gloves, fingers twisted together
despite the cold.

Oils and pastels that blend bright
blue smiles and sharp white-teeth
fences, shaping toward the gilded
hues of a forever sunset that is
never quite ready to go yet.

Colors huddle in thick pools
of a future sketched out in long
ochre strokes on canvas—
a million shades of purple and
orange tell a life that
skipped its ‘if’ and moved
headlong into ‘when.’

A million colors, a million shades.
A sunset, an oak tree turned to autumn,
a crayon drawing on a refrigerator:
two big ones and three little ones,
a slanted red pentagon house,
a yellow scribble of fur.

Paint ourselves a picture: jagged dark lines. Sleepless ink that sits and thinks and can’t quite seem to get through to itself. Dreamless ink that runs down pages in opaque streams and gets nowhere. Thick, blackened tar that covers everything with shadows, covers everything with long stretches of black, a stain:
Hands held in the cold,
Red houses on a hill.

The touch of the woman is
the only thing that brings
you down from the cliff.
Hopped up on junk
or bummed out on bars,
or in them,
but, boy oh boy,
here she come round the corner.
And soon you're
seeing fields of
flowers --all swanky in
the wind-- see those hips
shake and dance?
see those lips twist and curl?
There she is.
And your mouth is dry and wide.
And your hands are
sweaty and shaking
And your eyes are static and cold.
And you're seeing gold
for the first time in weeks.
God, isn't she a sight for sore eyes
and a feel for your blistered hands.

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.

you come home
drunk
from some business
event where
that waitress ate up
every word you said
--and best believe she had
a body that could ****--
but no
you made sure to make
it home
some things are more
important than that urge
that thirst that threatens
to take control
no
some things are more important
so you came home
drunk
but alone
and there she is
that beautiful
wonderful woman
the one that you
flipped off mother nature
and denied temptation
for
there she is
god you love her
she is everything you
think you need
but you're drunk so
what do you know
anyways
should've took the advice
your friends gave you
and brought that waitress
home instead
instead your drunk
and you think you're
in love
but what do
you know
anyways

how do you tell
someone you regret breaking
their heart
when you actively
participated in the breaking
there's no nuances
or loopholes you can deflect to
you merely ruined
everything you had and could have had
and you're sitting on
a Thursday morning at three in the morning
breaking holes in walls because this
woman is crying herself to sleep
but soon she is gonna get up
soon she is going to get out
--if not already--
and there are so many men better than you
and there are so many men better for her than you
and you had your shot
you got lucky, punk
but how dare you throw that away
how dare you flip off fate
he gave you a break
and look at you
have the nerve to think you'll be ok
but you don't know
you've eaten the forbidden fruit
savored that impeccable truth
and now everything else
is just a miserable shadow
of the love you tossed out with
the morning trash