The news came into town like the flu,
rubbing the sleep from the eyes of the people,
Clearing them to see the words in pixels of ink
spelling out what had happened.
Mothers dropped plates,
car brakes screeched,
the cats and dogs
stopped in the middle of their whims,
and the gums got to flappin'
in the hospital-sheened caskets on wheels
where forgotten old folks were left
to feel forgotten.
The collective energy of
all this dude’s friends and family
rose and pushed the clouds in a mushroom,
A rude intrusion into the heavens,
where little old ladies
and blindsided grammar schoolers
had convinced themselves
he was sitting, looking down
in somber remembrances,
happy thoughts,
shared joys,
and all that jazz.
They piled into cars
and trooped to the viewing,
to cry and behold a waxinine figure
with a painted smile.

Then they kicked dirt
into the hole in the ground
and left him to rot.

It was easy,
The clumps and locks
Hit the floor
Like footfalls,
I stood behind you.
It had been two
Years almost to the day
Since you had stopped
Using shampoo,
And your hair was
The softest I'd ever felt.
The shrimp baking
In the oven
Overwhelmed the gentle
Scent of apple cider vinegar
I've grown accustomed to,
Snug behind you,
My nose near your scalp,
Falling asleep.
The night you let me
Cut your hair,
We fell asleep on the couch,
Watching reruns of an
Irrelevant sitcom,
And I awoke after you
Had already gone off
To work.
I rode past a cop
In shorts
On a bike
At Maryland & 9th
On my way to the office,
And he turned to ride
Behind me,
Pulling alongside
Me at Maryland & 8th.
"I just want to say thanks,
For stopping at red lights.
We're out here all the time,
And they see us go through
The lights, and
Think they can too."
"Yea, no problem.
Not trying to
Get my head knocked off."
"You tryin to be funny?"
"No, I said I'm not
Trying to get my
Head knocked off."
"Yea, I heard you,
I'm not stupid."
"I can see that.
You stopped at this red
Light, after all."
"Watch it, or
I'LL knock your
****** head off."
The light changed,
And I set off.
"Yea, get out of here,
Before I decide not
To let you."
Do you remember
How I came home?
Torn pants,
Torn shirt,
Torn skin,
Dragging my mangled
Steel frame
Up the stairs to our apartment?
You ran to me,
Dropped your plate
Of rice and beans all over
The brand new slip cover,
And grabbed my face,
Wetting your hands with my blood.
You got towels,
Got a chair,
Sat me in it,
Stood behind me,
And washed the grit
From my wounds.
My hair fell
Like raindrops
As you cut away
From the injury site.
The feel of your sewing needle
And nylon thread
Passing through
My thin, inflamed skin
Blackened my sight,
And I slipped away from consciousness.
Well,
I couldn't tell you then,
But I've never loved
You more.

I try and I try
To avoid,
But I'm inundated
With that which
Is neither
Created or destroyed,
Being told what should
Matter to me
By people who know
Better than me,
Keeping me
Steadily annoyed
And readily brought
Right back to the void
In the back of the 'lac,
Like the goodfella boys,
Except I don't make noise
So they don't need to hack
Me up again.
But hack me up again,
I want to be the
Rough,
Gravely cough,
And the disgusting
Glob of
Post cigarette
Mucous
From your throat.
I want to be
The mold that
Spreads on the half
Bagel with cream
Cheese on it
That you forgot
In the back
Of your fridge
Two months ago.
I want to be the
Little puddle of
Fluid in the bottom
Of the trashcan
On the side of your place
That you've never cleaned
Out.
And then I want
You to clean me out.
Steal everything
I own, take
Until the load
Is too heavy for
Your arms, and then
Come back for more.
Break everything
That I love
And have owned
For years and years.
Take my money
Especially, it has
Spoiled my karma
For far too long.
Then we'll be even.
Then I can become
The rays of sunlight
That float in through
Your window every
Morning and catch
The floating dust in
Intricate, glowing patterns
And reach your closed
Eyelids, where I delicately
Dance until you awake,
Refreshed and thrilled
At the beautiful
Day that awaits you.
Then I can become
The buzz of your pumpkin
Spice coffee and the
Taste of your breakfast,
The wind in your hair,
The warmth of your bed,
The cool trickle
Of sweat down your hot neck
While we neck.
Then I can be your happiness
And it can be your turn
To be the slime
That coats my
Garbage disposal.
We can seesaw
Forever,
And feel complete.

I'm the spark
That started
The fire when
The retirement
Home burned alive,
I'm the guy who
Sold the quarter
To Cianci's daughter
That bought her
A place
In that lake
Of boiling water,
I'm the knife
In the mugger's hand
That ended the life
Of a family oriented
American man
For an American Made
Minivan that was
Worth less than
A single grand,
I'm the hand on the arm
That held the pen
That signed the plans
To build the bombs
That were dropped
Upon Japan,
I'm the disease
That multiplied the cells
That sent Bukowski
Swearing
His way
Down
To Hell,
I'm the wind
That fueled the fires
When the towers
Fell,
I'm the blade
That took the sight
From Oedipus
When he took delight
In his mother's kiss,
I'm the cold
Air in an
Empty grave,
I'm the corner
Of the stove
On which you always
Stub your toe,
I'm the snow
That slicked the road
And sent your brother
Into reality's
Reunion show,
I'm the smoke
That filled the throat
Of a crying infant
And choked it
Into a memory,
I'm the repititious lie
That sent the witches
To burn alive
In Salem
And Spain,
I'm the trigger
On the gun
That blew the brain
Of Kurt Cobain,
I'm to blame
For the way *******
Destroys the lives
Of the otherwise sane,
I'm the voice
That told Sam's son
To wipe the smile
From America's fat face
While satisfying
Their perverted taste
For people dying,
I'm the nails
On the fingers
That Barkovitch
Used to scratch
The long-walk-itch
When he ripped
Out his own throat,
I'm the one
Who swung the vote
To elect a bush
As dumb as a goat,
I'm the bullet
That pierced
The vest on
Kyle Joe's chest
And laid him to rest
In Exeter,
I'm the snake
That charmed
The leaf
Right off of Eve,
The way that
Hemopheliacs
Bleed
And
Bleed,
The constant
Antagonist
You seem
To need.

Or maybe you're just in a
Bad mood, and I'm still the
Same dude who sat with you
While the three day fever
Ripped through your body,
Stroking your hair and
Wiping the sour sweat from
Your forehead while you
Hallucinated demons that
Emerged from your chest,
Slightly below your left
Breast, to fly in patterns and
Synchronized formations
Through the caverns of your imagination.

Maybe I'm still the guy who
Held you through the night
Your mother died, wiping
Every tear that you cried,
Spending that hour sitting
Outside while the jewel
Encrusted air surrounded us
Like a never ending chasm of
Golden despair, splitting
Myself like a uranium atom
For you to be warmed by the
Reaction inside.

Maybe I'm still the one you
Saw from across the smoke
Filled dive saloon with a pint
Of Harpoon, who saw you as
The only shining light in a
Darkened room, who talked
To you and told you stories
And complimented the
Sundress you bought off Tobi,
Even though you
Told me really,
The weather
Wasn't quite right for it.

Maybe I'm still the one you
Wake up to in the middle of
The night, sweat sticking us
To the sheets and each other,
Because the heat's been
Broken going on seventeen
Weeks and we fell asleep
Without opening the window again.

Maybe I'm still the man who
Makes you breakfast every
Morning so you can sleep in
A little bit, so you can read
The latest Dig with your
Coffee and cig before you
Head to the ******* lab that
Makes you feel sick twelve
Hours later, the man who's
Waiting at home after to
Listen to your complaints
About the day and say the
Things you want to hear

"You're totally right,
They're completely wrong,
I love you dear,
Your hair is a song
That fills the air
And fills my ears
And fills my stomach
With warmth and light"

Maybe I'm a fool.
Maybe people don't change,

Or maybe they do, overnight,
And I'm to blame.

Either way,
I still feel
The same
As when we took
The same last name
Ten years ago
Yesterday.

The last drops have been swallowed,
And the last vestiges
Of post-wage labor
Libationary sorrow
Swagger slowly off
Into the night
Across cracked pavement
Like slugs after rain.
I pick up the chemtrail
Left by my father
And follow it to
A makeshift master suite
Wedged between a
Rundown groundskeeper
Shed and the unkempt
Wilderness beside the
Desolate bike path
In rural Seekonk.
The rest of this comatose
Town in this overdosed
Commonwealth
Are separated
By enough trees
And undergrowth
And small
Night creatures
Calling to each other
In the dark
That they can't hear
The nightly
Rattle of .38
Rounds my father
Sends flying into the trees.
The pistol was my
Grandfather's,
Brought over from France
In 1947.
My father cries
As he pulls the trigger
Over and over
Sporatically,
Like a Sung Tong,
His eyes wild,
Darting side to side
In milky blue trails
Back and forth
And up and down
Across the dark
Chasms of his
Eye sockets.
When the chambers
Of his firearm
Run dry he fills them
From the box
He took from my basement,
In his old house,
Where he stockpiled
Ammunition for
Twenty two years.
I've learned to stand east
Of my father when
I make the visits
Expected of children
When their parents
Are old and trapped
In the recesses of
Their insanity
Or nursing home
Or empty nest,
Because he always
Aims west.
I wait for tonight's
Box to be empty,
Then slowly walk
To where my father
Is huddled,
Clutching the pistol
Like a teddy bear.
He is breathing heavy,
And has **** himself.
He hears me coming,
Turns, and smiles
Upon recognition.
"I got em good mikey,
Got good, not taking
My land from ME
Mickey, never going
Blow south,
See it?"
I pull the pistol I've
Brought from my waistband,
The one my father,
Gregory Bishop,
Gave me on my
Eighteenth birthday.
The weight in my hand
Is deafening,
The illegal ivory
Is seamless
And cold against
My palm.
I raise my arm,
Aim,
And pull the trigger.

A ****** finger,
And my band-aid won't stick.
What a ****.

Never had love
Grown longer,
Nor lingered stronger
Than when
My bird sang
A song
So somber
I had to
Stop her,

The gravity
Of her shudder
Convinced me to
Never wander,
And as I laid
Beside her
And felt her
Skin warm
And smooth
Like rippling thunder
Sending waves
Of pressure
Across my arms
And chest

I heard from under
Her breast
The cry
Of a pulsing
Pomegranate
Dragging me down
To the depths
Of heaven’s slumber,

So I wept,
My eyes grew wet
With wonder and
Dripped a chemical
Sweat that
With each drop
Made me younger,

And I found myself
Forgiving
All of life’s
Blunders,
I couldn’t
Doubt her
With her eyes
Like embers
And her lips
So tender,

Those lips that
Kiss away
The wounds
Each time
I engage
In fruitless
Benders,

Those lips that
Singe my skin
Before I stray
Each time with
The branded message
“Return to sender,”

And I know I’ll
Always return
Because my
Position
In life
Is to
Mend her
Heart

Each time
I break her.

I’ve been breathing
When I’m supposed to
And keeping it held
When I get close to
Figuring out
What it means
To breathe in

And out
I leave through
A red door
Into the rain
To find some piece
Of mind floating
In a puddle
Next to a fry
Box from
Burger king

If I pick it up
And put it back
In my head
It’ll be wet
And that’s fine
I suppose

Irene still feels
So close,
She’s still in her
Mill floating
Through life
On a death-raft
Of pills

But I can’t stress her
I know she doesn’t need
Another stressor
I know she spent
Her last dollar on rent

It’s cheap but
So was the asbestos
In 1917
So I guess its a trade off

I take off my walking shoes
And trade off for a bike
And splash through
Puddles on my
Way to find the
Northwest passage
In North Providence
And I’m controlling my breathing

Or my breathing
Is controlling me
Either way I can’t
Really see
Cuz it’s dark
It’s raining
And I left my
Glasses next to
My mind so
They wouldn’t get
Wet and make it
Hard to see

It can’t be that hard to see
Why can’t the girl
With the book
On break
Simply look
Past the Ebt and
***** sheets
And see the dirt
Within me?
She’s seen Isaac
Proclaim
How much beauty
There is
In dirt

And I guess
I’m the same
But I guess
This is best
Since I’ll only
Hurt or be hurt
As we learn and
Forget
Each other’s
Names.

You can try and try
To get what you need,
But you'll quickly see
That the vultures will feed
On your hopes and dreams
Till the bones are picked clean
And bleach in the sun,
To be found by some
Factory worker's son
Playing in the street,
He'll pick them up
And make them his,
Until he bleeds
From every cyst
And the dreams leak out.

You'll see, it'll happen forever,
Repetitive like the weather,
We're just two feathers
Carried by a breeze
That landed together
And bonded
With the ease
Of the buttons
Of your sweater.

A shatterproof
Scatterbrain
Whips it over
Rough terrain
On his way
To get paid.
A motionless
Motorist
Waits to be
Saved
By a changing
Light
In an endless
Parade.
A dandelion's
Progeny
Released to
The wind,
Like memories
Fade
Into the infinite
Within.

Addicted to diction,
With conflicting
Prescriptions
From competing
Physicians,
I'm dying from sickness
In the wealthcare system.
Our nutrition
Is based on
Corn-laced fiction,
Advertisement
Superstitions,
And a pill for every
Devised affliction.
We're born into life
Under welfare
Conscription,
And destined to die
From dereliction.
Make sure to vote
For the best
Infection in the
Next election,
As they raise
A toast
To their own
Reflections.

Yesterday evening,
As I was traveling,
We hit the river styx.

The bussers got to scattering,
And a man made out of twigs
Sat next to me with a swish.

With teeth all a'chattering
Through a stutter-ridden lisp,
He blubbered and he spit
As he asked me for a kiss.

I said "that's quite flattering,
But you smell like stagnant ****,
And I don't have any patience
For this attempted tryst."

With a devilish twist
Of his knotted, wooden wrist,
He handed me a Twix,
And said "eat this piece of candy
And I'll grant your every wish."

I knew it would be handy
When I packed some liquorice,
And though he was too handsy,
His promise seemed legit.

I traded him my sweets
And I ate his offered treat,
Then I feel asleep as quick
As a widow starts to weep.

I must admit
I was shocked
To find myself a heap,

A pile of trash
Cast aside
To be swept off of the street.

Lesson learned,
Ingrained deep:
Never trust
A timber creep
You meet upon a bus,
And never eat
Offered sweets,
Or else you will get mugged.

'There's a cat in the window
Of the house of
My lover,'
But another
Never
Slept over,
Cuz he couldn't
Be bothered and
The clover
I pressed,
The four leaves
That impressed her
Are all I can try
To think about,
Like whether
She ever
Threw it out
Or if its still
On her dusty mirror,
Or if the weather
Of her fever
Washed it away
Like the mascara
Down her face
Flows in the brine,
The words were mine
That made them fall,
I never guessed she'd
Call a ride so soon
To drive her to
Hades
To be with the baby
We lost in June
Of '02,
She was never the same,
Out of tune
Like the guitar
I pawned to
Buy the crib,
The it's a boy
Balloons
That never did
Get inflated,
That whole ******* year
I insufflated my
Woes away
But they don't go away,
But she did go away,
Not yet physically
But emotionally and
Mentally,
The breaking point was
Beyond the scope
I could see,
Oh, my Emily,
How could this be?
How could I be
Without my bumblebee?
How could I be?
How could I be?
Now I can be
With you again,
The ability is
In my hand,
I'll see you soon
Baby,
And little Elliott, too,
There's just some
**** I need to do
First.

There's a beauty that rests
In the middle of this room
Like a cloud that drops
Too low to the ground

The lighting's just right
To make the sight
Delightfully profound

My eyes can barely
Sustain their gaze

My brain can hardly
Refrain from amazement
And confusion
At the illusion, for

There sat before
My love, Eleanor,
Elegant with an

Expression of boredom
I always adored

An airbrush glow
About her skin
Surrounded by
Shimmer and

Apathetic light
Diffusions
But now I see

Only this haze
Of smoky

Traces
In spaces
We once
Embraced in

So many
Ages
Already

Erased
And brushed
Off the
Page.

Do you remember the
First time I saw you?

Probably not,
Since you didn’t see me,
But I wasn’t being
A creep,

You were walking down
My street
With your little dog,
In a black and red
Hooded flannel
And a pair of ripped
Jeans

And I was standing at
My kitchen sink,
With the windows
Right above it
Drinking a glass of
Water and
Gazing outwards

And there you were,
Moving left to right
Across my sphere
Of sight
Texting and not paying
Attention to your
Dog taking a ****
At the foot of
My driveway.

You came by the
Next day,
And the day after that
And I made up
My mind
I’d talk to you.

I waited outside
On my porch
But you never
Came,
I didn’t see you
Again until that day
At my little
Brother’s baseball game
As you cheered on yours.

Now I’m yours.

The seats are aging
Orange leather with
Cracked faces the
Lines of wisdom
Of ninety
Thousand sitters.
Entire ecosystems
Live on the shining
Polished silver of
Handles dulled
By sweaty palms.
Sightline through
A window
A passing loco
Blurred brief
Images of
Unknown faces.
Sightline to the
Chamber behind
The metal snake
Winds down the track
A touch of vertigo
From uneven motion.
Sightline to
Cascades of light
Brown curls
Flowing over
Porcelain shoulders.
Smooth skin
Sweet as aspartame
Skii ***** neckline
Heavenly form
Yellow dress
Slight movement
To the heavenly forms
Pouring through
White earbuds.
Sightline to Sightline
Meet in the air
Muddy brown
Graced by
Kaleidoscope
Greens yellows hazels browns
Electric charge
No other passengers
Perceive.
The doubled thump
Wump
Picks up speed with a
Coy smile
A sunrise blossoming
Over Eden
The birth of an
Angel
The thirst of desert
Sands
Quenched.
Beauty erupts
From the shared gaze
Held 6 stops
Past hoyt-schermerhorn.
Immediate
Immaculate
Connection
Fire through the air
Static charge
Primal lust
Infinite joy
If I could just
Say hello
Hi
You've enraptured
My soul
The epitome of
Beauty.
I sit instead
Stuck
Deer in headlights
****
My twisting insides
The grey says
Such monstrous
Things to itself.
Her stop.
****.
Broken gaze,
Disconnected
From the maze
Of her eyes.
I lament.
Sightline back
To page:
"Those that have crossed paths are not memories
Nor is the yellowish dove that sleeps in oblivion..."
I lament some more
At the poignancy
And the loss of a stranger
Made just for me.
She probably would've
Broken my pumping
Gears anyway,
Sayonara, c'est la vie.

If only my dreams
About dreaming
Could instruct
My seemingly green
Concept
Of luck
I could
Interrupt
My seemingly just
Cycle of lust
Say
-Giddy-up,
Buttercup
You want to
Get *****?
-**** Mike,
It's only
5:30.
That's ok,
Just tryin to
Be flirty,
To make ok
The fact that
You'll hurt me,
To make passe
The fact that
My birdy
Flew away
And tried to
Lure me
To fly beside her
But that's behind me
Besides,
She tried
To cure me
But my wings
Were paper,
They broke
Prematurely
So I fell
Like disorderly
Swells
Of frequencies
I yelled pink noise
I could barely
See,
Passing for
Currency
Passing in
Front of me
Passing for
Apathy;
Apathetic empathy
Or sympathetic
Tragedy
For such pathetic
Entities
Who knows?
Who wants to be
One who knows,
To know
Eventually
We all fall,
Plummet
Suddenly
Into
Black holes
Of imperfect
Symmetry,
We will enter
Simultaneously
So I'll see you
Instantly
On the other
End of this
Wormhole's
Energy,
Baby b,
So until then
Plant a
Tree all
Gold and
Green
And name
It 3
Then climb
That ****
And look
For me,
I'll be
Lying
Right where
You *******
Left
Me
Singing
For clarity,
With
Only
Echoes
Returning
Eternally.

The girl named after the fruit
Has got her tongue
All tied in loops
As she tries to describe
Why the flowers bloom
In spring, not winter.
She imbibes
Glass splinters
To survive the snow
Driven
Depression
That comes with
The season.

She’s trying hard to explain
The way it makes her feel
When a thousand rain
Crashes drop onto her skin
In a rhythm of
Random points
Of pressure, and
The way the wind
Blows the rain
Into the left ear
Through her brain
And out of the right,
Cleansing her mind
Of any qualms,

Any frights,

Any problems
That might
Pose a problem.

It makes her free,
It sets her right,
But she can’t help
Wondering why
She runs
To her car,

Or to the door,

Or into the store,

To avoid getting wet,
As if she even can.

The girl named after the fruit
Sits alone next
To her couch,
With the stench of ***
Swirling through
Her apartment.
It mixes with the trails
Of smoke from
Her cigarette,
And she tries to figure
Out what
She is doing
There,
Why she has to
Bear the fruit
Of her labors,
The 12 years spent
At a lab table,

Behind a desk,

Or with her face in a book,

If all she gets now
Is a different *****
To **** every night
And a constantly
Growing hole
In her sanity,

Her bank account,

Her ability to recount
Exactly what happened
The day before.

She puts out her
Cig on the living room floor
And walks into the snow storm,
Naked except for her
Hello kitty socks.
She becomes one with the white,
She merges with the way
The ice crystals
Swirl in the air,
She fuses with their
Trails and the intricacies
Of falling stars
Until she blows away,
To melt basking
In the sunshine
Of a late
February day.

By staring
I make it blend
It disappears
Into a grey
Filler my brain
Creates to
Take its place
But the light
In the window
Gets stronger
Fills more corners
The birds get
More social
They flutter
And tweet about
Louder each minute
Footsteps on the ceiling
Flooded pipework
Sounds in the walls
The thoughts keep
Racing dude,
They don't disappear
Though they blend
Not quite grey but
Mad colors I guess
It's just my
Eyes having fun
When they're shut,
They have a ball
When they're open
Too, isn't it true
That "this
Whole life is
An hallucination?"
I mean I guess so
Maybe that's
Why it makes
No ******* sense
Or maybe that's
Why parents leave
Kids to die
And why
Wives get beat
Or dogs deprived
I'm fairly
Confident that those
Things aren't necessary
For us to survive
But who could
I be kidding
Without the ****
There's no growth
Fertilizer for humanity
Pieces of filth
That sow seeds of
Contempt within
The homogeneous
So they don't emulate
Living as a ****.
I'm talking to you Manny,
You disgusting pile of
Maggot infested
Skunk guts
Rotting on
Hot tarmac
I can't wait for
The mac's tires
To splatter you.
So little and defenseless.
A monster, at best.

The t.v. is still on,
there’s a blue wall
that replaces the glass with
a soft textured glow
and I’m lying on my
left side because
the right is still sore
around the ribs
and I’m looking at the
eleven-year-old alarm clock
blinking the same time
over and
over
again I flip the pillow
I look over your shoulder to
try and see your face
with my dark adjusted
eyes, but all I can make
out are the highlights from the window
on your forehead
your cheek
the tip of your nose
the edge of your chin
your bare shoulder
the highest edge
of your extended arm
the top of your breast
and I don’t need to see the
rest cuz I know it’s there
and I know what’s second
best so I move the hair
away from your eye
So it won’t annoy you
if you awake to it there,
I lay back
down on my left
side with my left
arm underneath your neck
and my right over
your stomach with my
fingers crossed
and I wonder if I’m
dreaming as I slip
from one world
to the next.

Are you feeling scared?
It’s ok, we all let fear
Consume us,
We all shirk darkness
And monsters
And dripping pus,
But don’t forget
That just cuz you
Feel it, doesn’t mean
It’s there,
Tommy taught me that
When he found me
Swimming
In the near freezing
Water at the bottom
Of that pit of despair
I was left
To rot in,
He showed me where
To put the barrel,
To point it out
Instead of in,
To ******* shout
And give the firing
Pin
A reason for existing,
Solving one existential
Crisis
With the explosion of
Another into
Flesh colored
Splinters of glass
And a whisper
Sailing in
Through deaf ears,
Some *******
About grass
Being greener
Wherever one
Can get some ***
Or meaning
Or a sense of being
Wanted,
He told me it’s better
To be a wanton
Observer
Than to actively
Stir the fervor
That rages when
Thoughts of her
Spill onto the pages,
Let it happen he said,
Don’t make it,
It makes you
More often
Than pavement
Meets sky
Or angels fake it,
But whatever,
They do anyway,
It’s all a farce
After all,
Go ask Alex,
He’ll tell you all about
The empty show
For empty souls
Being perpetrated
By empty holes
In the atmosphere
That trick you into
Thinking something
Or someone’s there,
Feeling like someone cares,
But just cuz you feel it
Doesn’t mean its there,
So why even feel
If we’re nothing but
Forces and air?
Electromagnetic
Chaos
Under a bed of messed
Up hair
Is no justification
For the mask
We all must wear.
So choose yours with care,
They’re all transparent.

Let the teeth rot from my skull,
And drop like culls
From a rack that's too old,
The house is cold
So failing, full
Of mold,
Let me go
Please,
It's just one request,
Only one
Chance to
Emulsify my best
Efforts
And fill your glass
With inadequate
Drops
Of a hard rain
That's difficult
To swallow,
Follow me outside,
Let's walk among
The silhouetted
Sunset trees,
The storms
Of gnats
And mosquitoes
That hover
Over gravel
Paths,
And remark,
As if we don't know,
"Unmarked graves
Where flowers grow."
And watch
As ghosts of
Shuffled feet
Fill the air
With clouds of dust,
Still glistening
With the heat of the day,
Please,
Just please stay,
Stay with me, marionette,
Till the wolves come and play,
They'll hide as we seek
And whisper
While we speak
Of whiskey dreams
And the reasons
We have to keep
Digging in sand,
Scooping handfulls
Of teeth,
Filling the gaps
In between
With phosphene
Screams.

Thump
Thump
Thump
Thump
Thump
Thump
Break
Thump
Thump
Whump
Break
Broken...
Broken.
Goodnight, I love you.

I used to stand for something enlightening that I might feel,
now I stand in fields waiting for lightning to peel
back my skin and make me real, or at least semi-real
or semi-charmed, but not that kind of life
in the song, you better believe that we'll
laugh about the new ordeal
and blast away the golden seal
that keeps us locked behind its waxy confinement
as we're sold into white rooms by consignment-
minded chemtrails in human shells,
thrown into wells to circumvent
the audacity of our red blood cells
to deny us their consent
to believe the hell
inside our eyes
or let us vent
some anger
with acidic
goodbyes.

The night falls swiftly,
And yellow flashes
Of northeastern
Fireflies mark
The edges
Of the
Hedge-lined path,
And gnats
Hang in the air
Like suspended gravel
While my flats
Slap the pavement
Like a ****** rap gavel,
In repetition so
Soothing I forget
My sentence
And all that I'm losing,
And everything makes sense,
I feel connected
To the heron
Gliding above
The river
Like messenger
Pigeons follow
The street grid,
Or like a charge down
The neural pathway
That makes me grin
When I realize
I'm not defined
By what's within,
No more
And no less
Than the wilderness
Can be constrained
To the way the wind
Sings its wearisome
Twilight refrain
As the air moves
And spins
Through the spaces
Between the wooden
Masses atop
Parnassus,
I feel the humidity
Flee,
And my breath quickens
As Corycian nymphs
And the nine
Sacred women
Of creation
By man's mind
Surround me and drive
Me to place one
Ancient foot
In front of its partner,
The images they conjure
Like a Reckoner diamond
Encasing me
In a cage of
Liquid iron
While beckoning
Me forward
With 72 hymens,
But I know it's a lie,
I know why
Men fight and die,
And it's not for any
Contrived diatribe
Promoting an
Unattainable
Ultimate prize,
It's to give rise
To the feeling
Of being alive,
That's all we want,
That's all we strive
To find,
And that's why
I'm approaching
Mile five,
And breathing
The life
Inherent in night
With the scent
Of the soundscape
Still burned in
My sight.

In a world full of ugly people,
A city made of hideous faces,
A phone call means everything.
It means a voice, free from
Its crooked nose, its wrinkled skin,
And its gapped, stained, crooked teeth.
It means a connection.
With another, with yourself,
And with the ability to disconnect
At the push of a button.
I take out my scratched, chipped cellphone
With its cracked face,
And call Helen.
Her voice swims through the mud
Inside my skull when she answers,
Stirring and churning
Until I'm weak and dizzy.
"How 'bout you just come
On over now, Big Fella?"
And I do.
I turn off the squawking television,
Don a pair of food-stained pants,
Drag a comb through my
Overgrown hair,
And descend the stairs to my
Waiting Oldsmobile.
The turn of the key in the ignition
Only produces a hollow click,
One click two click three click six,
Then a partial start,
But the beast fails to come alive.
I get out to replace
The fried starter fuse,
Then do this dance four more times
Before the old ***** clears her throat
And starts to idle.
It's a short ride,
Pawtucket is small,
And my only companion
On these post-midnight streets
Is the white noise
Issuing from the broken radio.
I pass the house I grew out of,
The crumbling schools
That taught me the value
Of impartial numbness,
The cemetery my father used to visit
To perpetrate the lie
He lives;
The role of a child
And the permanence
Of parents.
I pass abandoned factories
And abandoned hope
And abandoned pets
And abandoned storefronts.
In a world of full of past relics,
In a city full of ghosts,
A crumbling façade means everything.
It means bricks freed from their mortar,
Separated from their history,
Left to be picked up and thrown through plate glass windows.
Buildings are never empty,
Just quiet.
I pass the CVS at Newport and Armistice,
With its twenty four hour pharmacy,  
Dispensing the one a.m. hydrocodone,
The one thirty a.m. dextroamphetamine,
The two a.m. oxycodone,
The two thirty a.m. alprazolam,
The three a.m. dextromethorphan,
The three thirty a.m. methylphenidate,
The four a.m. eszopiclone,
The four thirty a.m. benzodiazeprine,
The five a.m. phenylpropanolamine.
I drive past the clinic in the old senior center
With its six a.m. methadone ready to go
In pre measured cups.
Buildings can be quiet, but not empty.
Helen lives on the third floor of a three story house
Built sometime in the forties,
Forgotten sometime in the eighties.
The two bottom floors are vacant,
The windows are boarded,
The driveway is choked with weeds,
And two lounging cats don’t flinch
When I walk by them
On my way to the door in the rear of the building.
The door is always unlocked,
So I let myself in
And begin the rickety climb to the top.
The higher I go,
The louder Amy Winehouse’s voice gets.
“What kind of fuckery is this?”
Seems an adequate question.
There are ****** handprints on the railings,
The walls,
Drops polka dot the stairs.
I don’t bother knocking,
I never do.
She’s seated in a La-Z-Boy in the kitchen
Facing the door,
In a cloud of cigarette smoke.
In place of exchanged pleasantries
I say I need to use the bathroom
And she nods,
Eyes locked on mine.
I take a look at my sallow image
In the mirror,
With specks of toothpaste and hairspray
Pocking my face like acne.
The toilet bowl is still streaked
With the last man’s ****.
I ****, wash my hands,
And take another look at myself.
Helen is no longer in the chair,
But I know where to find her.
She’s sprawled on the bed,
With a new cigarette in her mouth,
The toys spread out on one side,
The tools on the other.
I tell her I’ll forgive her for stabbing me the other night
If I can get a freebee now.
She shakes her head once,
Exhales a cloud,
“Not gonna happen, Champ,”
And I take what I can get.

This bed is a comfort,
Much like the sounds of used water
flowing through ninety-year-old pipess,
Soothing me,
while the sounds of the city
are brooding inside of me,
and it’s the same.

It may be the pinnacle
of 1922, pre-collapse Providence,
but it’s the same.

It may be different,
but it’s just the same,
And that's just the way it is
So I cool this brain that's on the fritz
And do my best to keep sane.

The wallpaper is interactive
and there's an infinitude
of pigeons on a television screen
that is worth more than my apartment,
and it’s still the same.

The rug is soaked just the same,
the lingering odor of feet is the same,
and I can feel all the ghosts of guests
from the last century trying to,
dying to speak to me
and through me,
and it’s the same.

The way the sun rises makes me feel like
I have no cause to be awake or asleep,
but I’m awake,
and it’s the same.

The stress of lost cigarettes,
and the blame of untapped digresses into unnecessary depths
is the same.

The way I’m viewing the start
of this day that hasn't yet
is the same,

and it’s a shame.

A full day's work
Has me feeling exhausted,
But as I take hard rights
And skirt the uneven pavement
I am a machine.
I am fused to my seat,
And two spinning plates
And one fork are
Extensions of my will.
The nine point five miles
Seem so much shorter at night,
After the suits have made Their daily rushed exodus,
And the streets and avenues
sleep, quietly.
It rained all day, so the road
Is wearing a blanket of diamonds,
And the motor oil wrinkles shine.
The downpour has filled the world
With fragrance,
And as I pass through
Affluence to arrogance
To intolerance to vagrancy
On my trek across
A divided city
I'm overwhelmed.
Honeysuckle and lilac
Give way to pine and dogwood,
Then car exhaust and a polluted river
Precede wet garbage, dog ****
And marijuana.
I saw my first rat in the District tonight.
Nine months in,
And I've only seen one.
It makes me glad I grew up
Where I did,
Where all you need for
A rat in your apartment
Is a baseball bat
And a Lightning Bolt record.
I'm glad I learned how it feels
To live with two feet
Planted firm to the earth,
To feel harsh 1930s sidewalks
Haphazardly littered
With broken glass
Burn my bare feet
Every summer,
To feel the cool
Narragansett Bay sand
Sleeping just under the surface,
And to feel the sole
Of my five year shoe
Finally give up.
I'm glad I've seen success
From the underside,
So that when my arthritic hands
Finally reach up and grasp it
I'll know what to do with it.
But mostly I'm glad
I get to pull up to my building
At ten past midnight,
Sweaty and tired,
Climb three stories with a
Bike on my shoulder,
Pet my cat, and crawl into
Bed with a warm soul
Who was brought up the same,
With no clouds
For her lovely head
To get lost in.

The dirt yawned
And swallowed the weather
While we sat patiently
Waiting for dawn.
The clouds were a landslide
That dragged us both down
Like synthetic feathers
In a hurricane.
We did not find OZ,
There was no other dimension,
Just cold, abusive soil,
And four billion years
Of built up tension
That unleashed upon us
A prehistoric frustration
With the lack of chaos,
And the predetermination
That replaced it.
We clutched at roots,
And ripped off our fingernails
Scratching at sandstone,
We lost our skin,
And inhaled the souls
Of a trillion decomposed
organisms.
Our bodies split
Like light through
A million prisms,
But our spirits
Kept up their plummets.
Into a chasm we fell,
Like grains of sand into
An expanding universe,
So inconceivably small,
So irreversibly without control,
So peacefully.
Our energies squirmed
In imperfect circles
Around each other
As the fall
Turned stationary
By perspective.
Other pairs joined us,
Attracted to our spin,
Until we formed
A new world,
To god's chagrin.

It's cool to just sit
Here and deal with this ****,
But hey, its better
Where the pudding is thick,
Or so they tell me,
Along with
'Don't fall for tricks,'
They'll always get you
If your mind is weak,
Like the obliques
In my side
That've been hurting for weeks,
They're so sore from
The combination
Of boredom
And the conflagration
Of all the
Tinder inside my body
That hinders my
Lodi-Dodi
Outlook
On benders
That have become
Normality,
Like you've become
A malady,
A mother-may-I
Comedy
That keeps me laughing,
Keeps me guessing,
Keeps me passing
Up on
Rafting
Down that river,
But didn't you know
That ocean never comes?
So I'll keep drifting
And counting my ones,
And try to blame
The ones on the run
Instead of the ****
Doing the chasing
And erasing my luck,
While I deface my face
And wait
For this bronco
To buck
Me off
Into the muck
Of eternal loss.
It already happened?
You got it, boss.

Now that you’ve come full circle
You have forgotten the path.
Are you still counting
How many streetlights
You pass?  The point you
Were originally trying to make
When you rattled the window and
You yelled my name is moot.
Were you satisfied? Did you feel
Real? And how about
Now? Has it resonated within
You yet that where you
Are on the circle is no longer
How you’d like your life to be?
You showered the grass where you
Were standing with tears.
When you finally awoke
You had gold where your hands
Were when you collapsed, like a
Real live movie actress.

These kids,
They look so
Derelict,
They look so
Full of ****,
Like they could
Ever skip
The river styx
Crossing.
So rather
Than glossing
Over their eyes,
Maybe these guys
Should start
Flossing
The wrinkles
Of their brains
By tossing
Back a few
Infected grains,
It's Ergot that
Brings
What you forgot;
As in your face,
As big as
Great danes
Made of waves
Of color.
If fluorescent
Grays
Ever
Deliver me asunder....
It's so dull
Under
This counter,
My mind starts
To flounder
As I flip the
******* flounder.
Or is it
Tilapia?
I wonder,
Could I be
Happier?
Probably, but
Don't you know
I like it
Sappier?
Is that a word?
Who gives a ****?
Not this bird,
Thats why she's flying away,
Not toward
The veneer covered
Ways I say
"Come here."
"Go away."
"2 for fives two for fives,
****** got garbage around the way."
The way I pray
For acid rain
To melt my clothes,
My skin,
My muscles and veins,
My mostly drained
Trays of grease;
Popping.
Bubbling.
Please.
Please
Give my
Knees
Some ease
From their pains,
I've been begging
For weeks,
I need to sleep.

Let's go grab the money
Hidden in the Christmas Tree
Shoppe mason jar with the
Frosted stencil designs,
Ornate and resembling flora.

Let's take that money,
The three separate wadded
***** of once crisp
Green pieces of paper
That somehow reach the
Arbitrary total of one
Thousand, three hundred and
Twenty dollars and
Fifty lonely cents.

Let's take that 1,320.50
And go see the desolate
Stretch of sprawling
Humanity deferred between
These hiked peaks and the
Dangerous mountains
Separating the west
From the rest.

Let's go there!
Let's go there!
We'll make it across,
Be sure of that,
Be sure of nothing
But that!

Let's use the remaining
Seven fifty
To buy some
Seven Eleven sustenance
To have while
We walk backwards
Down backroads edged
With the encroachment
Of the wild back into
Negative space some
Long-ago engineer
Carved and paved.

Let's tell the driver of
This beat-up
Time-worn down
Overcast grey
Buick LeSabre
That we can pay her
Ten dollars to replace
The juice necessary to get
Us back to our sick aunt's
House in Poughkeepsie.

At the gas station
We'll tell her to stop
Real quick
And hope she leaves the
Auto to go
Pay the schlup at
The teller's booth
And jack the beater
And hope we won't
Have to bolt
Again if she doesn't.

Let's call my cousin
And find out who will give
Us four hundred dollars for
The stolen used parts store
And take that four hundred
And buy:

Two (2) greyhound tickets to get us
Back to our ****** apartment
In Stamford: 64.50 American

Three (3) damp-bunned flimsy
Beef patties glued between
Pieces of government-issue
Yellow American cheese
With all the fixins we please: 3.24 American

One (1) zip of dried out
Seeded and stemmed breaks
From the boredom of
Our own conscious
Processes: 120 American if lucky

At least eight (8) servings
Of amphetamine based
Pressed little buttons
Of confused energy: 200 American

One (1) bouquet of
Red yellow and oranges
Mixed on the petals of
Your mother's favorite
Species: whatever's left American.

Don’t stray from sidewalks,
Cuz the grass doesn’t
Slap the bottom
Of your flats with
The same firmness
Of paved furnace
Baking in an august
Heat,
Your feet might get wet
If you step off the curb
Because it rained
This morning,
And the good lord’s word
Said don’t stray from
The path of the righteous
And its hard to be righteous
With wet socks,
Don’t block the flow
Of people, keep walking
Or they’ll get really ******
And start talking ****
About how if you
Don’t walk faster
They’ll give you a kick
Swift to the ***
If it’ll make you go quick,
And you better stick to
The paved sidewalk,
No stepping off
To let them pass,
Keep with the flow
And keep their pace
And hope you’ll
Go someplace
Where all the
Conformity makes
You feel good
About yourself.

You say you
Hate
Everything about
Me

Well so do I

So why
Don't we
Try
Some new material

Why not lie
And make
Your insanity
A little less serial

A little more
Bearable
To choke
Down with
My cereal

What a funny
Joke
That they both
Make me
*****.

7 am
On a cold
Hardly carpeted
Floor of a one
Room apartment
In a ******
Not quite big
But big city
Full of bugs
That flit
And fly
Around me
In flashes
Of astounding
similarities
And I’m wide
The **** awake
Because of the
Cats in heat
And the glimpse
Of the future
In a kitten
Named Fiona
Who is attacking
My outstretched
Hand on the floor
And I wonder
If she really thinks
It’s a spider
Or five snakes
I mean
I really have
No idea what
This chick
Is seeing
Then
The sounds of a
House being
Torn down in
Charred and
Smoke painted
Pieces of wood
And personal things
So sorries
And oh wells
Floods the
Room from outside
And swells to
Replace the
Cats who have retired
To slumber
And the kitten off
Exploring somewhere
And still I lie
Eyes wide
Waiting for the
Appropriate time
To get my coffee
And bagle
And finagle
My way through
Another day
Of the same old
Same old
That old grind
The old grind
The five to nine
After nine to five
And I dive
Into
The image
Of coffee being
Ground and
Its sounds
Lay me to rest.

Sitting at a bar
In a palace built by
Nineteenth-century slaves,
And the back of my shirt
Is soaked from the
Hundred degree weather.
I rub my neck,
Wipe the hot perspiration
From it with my hand,
Only to pick up
My glass of beer
And get it's cold sweat
All over my palm.
I ask the bartender
About the nets
Obstructing my view
Of the gold-flaked,
Hundred foot ceilings,
But he doesn't know
Why they're there,
Or just doesn't care
Enough to humor me.
Happy hour prices
Segregate me and my soul
From the charcoal
Suits shuffling past
As they head to
The trains that will
Deliver them to
Their BMWs
So they can drive to
Their wine cellars
And plastic wives.
The history of this place
Is suffocating me,
It's thick in the air,
As are the dialects
Of dozens of states,
Shouting to each other
Or to themselves
Or to god.
I pay our tab
And dive into
A red line train
Like a CVS syringe
Into a ******'s arm,
And rush away from
the city's heart
With the other cells,
Through tunnels buried
Beneath the birth and death
Of the American scream.
If I fall asleep,
I'll never wake up,
The dream will replace
The reality I've created.
The steady thrum of
The train croons to me,
But the acidic stench
Of July humanity
Keeps me locked
In this scenario.
The darkness flees
As we breach the
Border of daylight.
Jetskis on the Potomac
Remind me of what
I don't know.
Dreaded beards
On weathered sacks
Of human decay
Perched on plastic seats
Remind me of what
I've painted as real
In my underexposed brain.
I'm exhausted,
All my water has
Evaporated, risen,
And I'm a Little drunk.
My eyelids are heavy,
And move like
Hurricane barriers.
Open:
Same scene,
Different passengers.
Closed:
Spiral staircases
Of neon fibres,
A religious maven
Spitting his canon,
Fleeting images of
Hardwired memories
I've grown old
Trying to erase.
Open:
He's staring right at us.
The man in the
Periwinkle shirt
And the bronze
Kmart tie.
His sweat shines
Like young paint
On an Oldsmobile,
His double chin
Is tanned to
The color of his tie,
And he knows too much.
He knows more than I do,
More than I can take.
His eyes shine
With the knowledge,
The stupid grin
Plastered on his
Greasy face
Knocks me out.
Closed:
The sky is vast,
And unscathed by jealous clouds.
The crystal clear water holds me up,
Its pressure on my back
Is as refreshing as it is comforting.
Max and Andy splash and laugh to my left.
The pond water in my ears
Distorts their sounds,
But the mushrooms in my blood
Explain them.
Jesse is coming,
Doing well at keeping his cigarette dry,
Swimming with one arm.
I feel something unlock inside me,
Forget it's June,
That I'm floating
In this lake
For the first
And last time,
That I'm still
In Rhode Island,
That the love
Of my life
Is in Virginia,
I forget my limbs,
My hair,
My skin,
My ****,
My heartbeat,
The stellar iron in my blood,
And as the water fills my lungs,
As the shouts commence
And sight fades,
I am reborn,
I am the microbes I am swallowing,
I am the glow of the nearest star
Glinting off the rippling surface,
I am the sand beneath me,
I am the air pushing the pine needles,
I am alive,
I am open:
I am still on a train
In Washington DC
And this ******* guy
Knows too much.
His lips are wet with it.
It's written in the part
Of his thinning hair,
In the way he's thumbing
the pages
Of the book he isn't reading.
I can't contain the shout,
The burst of wasted pride,
The "*******!"
The "What do you see that's so ******* interesting?!"
I can feel Ali's hand
And the eyes of
All the passengers in the car
Fall upon me,
And the pressure
Caves in my skull.
From my sunken face:
"I'm a reasonable man, get off my case."
"I'm a reasonable man, get off my case."
"I'm a reasonable man, get off my case."

This combination
of obligation
And common sense
Has got me pacing
And wringing
My hands,
And I've been
Doing the dance
Of the permanently
Tranced
For far too long
To ever advance,
Or act like I'm strong,
So I guess
I'll swing, I'll sway,
Wave my hand,
Kick my leg,
But it won't be to music,
No,
Cuz there's just no song
For the land of the dead,
No background
Orchestration
For us here,
We just swing, and we sway,
To prevent the fear
From washing us away
From the face
Of the cosmic disarray
And down the grimy
Bathroom sink drain
In a toxic rain
Upon the roofs
Of clouds,
Where we gather
In crowds
And condense,
Like the people on the ground
But without the fences,
Who're eventually
Drowned
By the flood
Of colors and
Invigorated senses
In a sea of god's blood,
Like their religious
Romances
Explained that they would,
For if god is everything,
Including us,
Our bodies and brains,
Then god is made of water,
So when it rains
I'll give myself praise,
And the tiny drops
That fall from god's veins
Will remind me to stop
Dreaming of days
That have already gone away,
That argue "Walk this way"
"No. Walk this way,"
And I've got to say,
I can't walk at all,
My feet have somehow
Been replaced
By decades of fault
That have rooted
Me to this big blue ball
That's really not big,
But infinitely small,
And these minutes
Keep tocking
And my knees keep locking
While my feet keep ******* stalling,
And I'm mocking myself
As I feel myself falling
But I can't ******* stop
Enjoying the way
Everyone's eyes are rolling
As they watch the display
Of me falling
Flat on my face,
Where I'll lay
And grow mold
And feed bugs
And eventually decay,
All the while caught
In the gaze
Of a society
That pays
To be told
It's ok,
While lying prostrate
Next to me,
Rotting away
Just the same,
Trying to explain
By vomiting excuses
That aren't even good,
And it's to no gain
Since my face is
Buried deep in the mud
And I don't give a ****
Where society puts its blame,
I wish this putz
Could just
Stop being so lame
And rattling off names
That don't mean a thing to me
So I could be at peace
Here in the dirt
Where I'm sinking,
To emerge come spring
And bloom in
Full shame.

There's this guilt
That sits
Like the world's worst ****
In the bottomless pit
Of my stomach, and it
Is making me sick
Like colic, and as
The clock tics
And tocs
That burden rots,
It's spoiling my blood
And clotting my thoughts
And making me think
It was all for nought.
I ought to start reading
These books that I bought,
Though none of those
I've read have said
How to deal with a stranger's
Bed that you wake up in instead
Of the one you shared
With the one you wed,
But my love is now
Three years dead,
And all the girls that
Have stood in her stead
Are like plastic money;
Not worth a cent.
But I can't make sense
Of how to move on,
I just can't believe she's gone,
Why did she have to die?
Why did her heart give out
At just about the best time
Of our entire lives?
Thirty five is far too soon
For a coronary infarction,
Let me tell you.

Now that my
Parents are dead,
I guess it's okay
To tell what they did
To me as a babe.

They tore off my limbs
And they dug me a grave,
Cuz I said that I would
But I didn't behave.

They split up the parts
And dug up a ditch
In six different yards
So I couldn't restitch.

They should've guessed
I couldn't stay
In eternal rest
For more than a day.

My hands dug in the dirt
To find one another,
My feet kicked in the clay
To be with each other
Once again, to start it all over.

I reassembled
Under the moon
And slowly ambled
Up to my room
With all my stuffed animals
Waiting to be told
What they should do.

I told them my plan
To get my payback,
First we'd get Sam
And then we'd attack
His pretty wife Jan.

My lion Simba
Clawed out their eyes,
My polar bear Nimbus
Bit into their thighs
And tore off their legs
Like they had done mine.

My giraffe Mr. Skeep
Wrapped his neck around theirs
And put them to sleep
By stealing their air.

My job complete,
I walked down the stairs,
Got something to eat
Then split apart,
Said bye to my feet,
And went back to the dark
Under the streets
That my lovely parents
Intended for me.

I bet her boyfriend
Of almost two years
Wouldn't care
For the flirting,
An open seat
On a bus to DC
Has got her skirting
The edge of
Polite conversation,
Threatening to fall
With insinuating smiles
Like private Pile,
If only he knew
How many miles
Have been spent
Laughing at jokes
And breathing the sweat
Ripe with pheromones
And flashing white teeth,
With a subtle groan
He'd pick up his phone
And give her a call
With his stomach
Feeling like a stone
Thrown in a well,
But he doesn't know,
And she won't tell,
So while he's waiting
At the bus station
For her to arrive,
She's necking with
A Haitian
And thinking of lies
To deny the fire
Between her thighs.