…at four in the morning,
the room was sharp and silent
through the stillness of the dark
and yet, I sang those old songs
swaying in the cold wind
with bottle upon my breath
as I dreamt of green birds
and the lonely white lotus
that kept fluttering
into my scratched head
while coming apart at the seams
with tears of sadness
I sat and pondered
where they all went:
those little caramel ladies of brown doom
with novocaine souls and enamel bodies;
you gave me the liveliest moments
even when you brought me
to the brink of death,
you have liberated me during
my most shackled state of mind,
you spilled the truth when you
told me, “I could never be reached.”
and therefore I must come to terms
with the absence of your warmth
as the green birds have flown
into concrete skies
and the white lotus has shriveled
into a curling black mass
I sway with the wind,
rising the bottle
and belting out
those old songs
in a room so
sharp and silent
at four in the morning.

I chewed through the streets to find you

up & down the avenues of hope

my burning heart raged with fire
when you were there

and you were all that I wanted,
all that I cared for

you brought out the potential in me
when others had shown me the grave

you released my creative freedoms
when others had me incarcerated

all others before you were mere
throwaways, a simple practice
leading up to you

but when the lust had dried up
and my yearn for your thighs
still watered,

I still cared for only you

its when you became the exact opposite
of everything you’ve ever shown me

that’s when the love became scarce:

I could not stand the sight of you
I could not fathom what you’ve become
I could not grasp what lurked behind those fiery eyes

we were once aggressive lovers of dark bedrooms
and now passive strangers on blue-grey streets


and when we cross each other’s paths,
you fidget with your knick knacks
and watch your soap operas

so, I must go
out into the cold
where it is winter
where it is always winter
where the harsh winds sting
and the frost bites as the snow storms
back where my heart still rages on
in the streets I used to chew
through.

half of you remember cd’s
and half of you don’t
either way,
here it goes;

back then, I was living under rules so strict
it was almost impossible for someone to live.

no matter how much I tried to hide
or stay out of the way,
and no matter how much I tried to help out
and do my part;

I could never meet their standards.

what was good was never acknowledged
and what was bad was over-exaggerated.

basic existence was a crime
and the consequence was
always a long and
drawn-out
lecture

and as unsettling as
the home life was
I had my car,
the outside world,
and the hunger for
mischievous adventure.

and so, staying at home
was the last of my options
as I ventured out with no plan in mind
and a whole lot of time on my hands.

now, someone could easily get bored
with this formula;
I mean, you only could go out
to eat three times a day,
you could only visit friends
when they were around
and going shopping
was only a temporary fix
if you had money to burn
but this formula could also
be very interesting
if you’re creative enough
and you had
the knack,
the niche,
the crave
for something.

and so, I found myself traveling
to A LOT of local record stores.
I didn’t care how far away they were,
as long as it was reasonable within
the vicinity, if I knew about it,
I was there: Kiss The Sky,
Rediscovered Records,
Record Breakers,
etc., etc., etc.

I was always on the hunt for something obscure,
something no one else had and to me, it was like
gem or a hidden treasure I had unearthed upon the world.

my fixation for music was growing
as mammoth as the variety in my
cd collection.

music was becoming the sole foundation
to the underpinnings of my necessity:
it’s what kept me alive, out of trouble,
it was there when friends were not,
it fulfilled those empty spaces
it quenched my thirst for
wanting something more out of life.

I spent most of time, driving around, popping in one cd,
listening to each note, each lyric from beginning to end
before switching it out for another.

Lee Ving, Richard Hell, Darby Crash, Henry Rollins
all spoke out to me more with one verse
than all those lectures I had endured
from my patriarchs.

my cd book had become quite impressive
to my other bevy of like-minded friends.

and then it was stolen.

which crushed me.
but what’s done was done and
I had to move on, rebuild

and at seventeen dollars a pop,
my bank account was diminishing quite rapidly
as I tried to gain back what was rightfully mine.

I dreamt about becoming a thief
or a drug dealer to support my
addiction to music.

but not long after,
I had built a body of music
more vigorous with stout
than its previous
ancestor.

of course, there were a few gems
I still haven’t recovered
to this day from that incident
but thats beside the point.

the point is,
my folks may have incarcerated
my soul with diction and delivery
while they hid for themselves
in the oratory of delusion,

but
music was always there;
it was alive
it ran through me
it tickled my spirit
it shook my emotions
it boosted my endorphins
it got me pumped, it got me ready
for whatever life was gonna throw at me,
to face the cliche and to face repercussions,
I knew it was going to be ok as long as there was music
to fiddle with my nerves and provide comfort within my heart.

these poems here
tethered to me
by some unknown
uncontrollable force
I didn’t ask for this
I didn’t ask for any of this
all I wanted to do was to play
with the women and the music
and maybe even my kids every now and then
not knowing, not caring,
not believing, not searching
for a higher purpose
for a greater meaning
for an elixir of divinity
but they have arrived
in different variances
& mass quantities
I didn’t ask for this
now it is here
I can’t stop
I won’t stop
until it kills me
until it kills something inside of me
until there is nothing left
except
these poems here.

it usually leaps like a swordfish out of the ocean
and I’m able to harpoon it,
but as of lately,
I’m stuck with pond ****
and the tuna on my bad breath.

it’s nowhere to be found;
not in the parks,
the libraries,
the liquor stores
nor the circuit clerk’s office,

I tried fishing it out of the swaps of
spitfire and melancholy
but found nothing

I tried to ****** it with an excessive
amount of trouble and *******
but found nothing

I tried scooping the guts out of myself
like a hollowed out pumpkin and
splattered it with a wet slap
against an old newspaper
but found nothing

there’s nothing here;
no spark,
no imagination,
no ingenuity

what I’m I suppose to do?

as I sit here petting the black
velvet fur of my dog,
my toes won’t stop curling,
my nails are bitten down to the nub
and the stink of aging soars past
like eagles on fire

I have nothing to write about:
no unpopular opinion
no peculiar viewpoint
no bludgeoning over
the banality of
extinction

the only logical thing to do is
head out to see some local
band at a Chicago bar and see
where the alcohol takes me

I need the ammunition
I need the fuel
I need to make
something happen

the hard days of labor have diminished me
through attrition and lack of euphemism
but for right now, no matter how
saturated I am of feeling and thought…

whether I’m
drunk on sleep,
salacious on vulgarity,
grieving with quills,
vacant of *****,
dreaming of gout,
reading Géza Csáth,
listening to Sass Dragons,
burrowing under empty houses
or fixing the plumbing for the woman down the hall.

I still
can’t
coax
the word
out.

I don’t know how many knocks
I’ve had upon my door and
opened it to the sight of
some poor, ill-fated,
hapless crumb ***
standing there
with another
sob story:

“I got kicked out of my house
and I don’t know why.”

it was always the same thing
and yes, they put on quite
a show during their
initial screening
with their
spongy eyes
like ****** cakes
and as vulnerable as a
clay pigeon shot into space.

I’d buy into their dinosaur tears
and they knew I’d take them in
because I was an enabler.
I could never say no.

and next thing you know there was
bodies on the couch,
bodies in the bathtub,
bodies in the basement,
all drunk, drug-addled
and without women.

each time a new one entered the house
it always ran in the same sequence:
first, everything would
start off good, fun even;
they’d buy the beer,
I’d provide the music,
the music brought conversation,
the conversation brought laughter,
the laughter brought moments of joy
and the beer, the music, the conversation,
the laughter is what kept those nights alive.

many lively nights had passed.
gradually, they grew more
comfortable with settling in.
subtly, their courage piqued enough
to overstep some boundaries but not
enough to notice it or brush it off.

they were testing me.

seeing what they could get away with.

I was a pushover,
allowing myself
to get steamrolled
by their daringness.

then I noticed that none of them secured employment.
they’d pour their excuses all over me as to why
they couldn’t work or even pay me rent.

I imagined some interviewer
flipping through pages of their resumes
extending out a long rap sheet of various jobs
knowing they wouldn’t last long.

their twenty-four hour presence
thickened the tension in the house;
up and down the stairs
in and out of the front door
beer run after beer run
& continuous song writing.

I’d come home after the 12 hour shift
to beer cans preoccupying every
countertop and table in the place.

and just like that, I became both the
innkeeper and the house maid.

their incompetent and noise-laden identities
had troubled and angered my counterpart.
it wasn’t her fault though.
she had to put up with
my poor decision making:
I ran our home like a flophouse,
like a homeless shelter, like a charity ward,
like an adult foster care center.
I was inexcusably bad at playing landlord
and at subletting my house.

too much resentment had burst.
she’d curse me. we’d get into it.
the arguing would get out of hand.
then one of them would boldly step up
and say something robust and tumultuous,
interrupting our personal affairs,
as if it was their business,
as if they were now
running the show.

I’d let my emotions get the best of me and snap back at them.
boy, oh boy, did they have an answer for everything.
confrontations were never my strong suit and
winning an argue with these dolts seemed virtually impossible.
I had trouble saying what I really meant and what I really felt.
things never got resolved.

suddenly, it was starting to become abundantly clear;
as to why they couldn’t hold down a job,
as to why no one else would house them.

we’d return to our corners,
let some time blow over and
then reconvene at some later point.

burying the hatchet over a few suds,
only this time I was buying the beer
and they were taking over the music
and the conversations were awkward and dull.

the nights were quickly dying into a stale dankness
our eyes met in silence, there was no more laughter,
the room became uncomfortable, aloof, standoffish
no matter how much the beer and the music worked its charm.

the quality of our lives had gyrated into pure toxic sludge
we were pushed and pushed and pushed beyond our limits.
I was brought out of character; a reasonable man,
driven to do unreasonable things, I too, like so many
before me, had to kick them out of my house and they
hadn’t a clue as to why. they’d put up their fight,
they’d storm out with a dramatic exit and act
like I was losing something valuable.

oh yes, there was a time, when I believed it would be easier
to live in sheer misery over hurting someone else’s feelings.

I was too busy pulling knives out of everyone else’s back
that I didn’t realize how many were stuck in my own

but after many years of waiting it out,
I finally got the message
and had to pin
eviction notices
on the doors
of my beliefs
and on the doors
of the strays,
the rejected
and the runts
of the liter.

I’m in Vietnam right now overlooking the city at 3am watching the ** Chi Minh lights work their shades of violet and jade into the black mass of night.
there’s a lot of poverty out there and with it a lot of generosity.
I commend them for that because while deep-rooted in the garden bed of desolation, I can’t override these frustrations on feeling defeated.
I went to school, participated, put forth the effort and made the grade but the board felt I wasn’t worthy enough when it came to the final test.
the only thing I achieved was retaining monikers such as loser and failure because I have lost and I have failed.
the smallest obstacle had become my biggest hurdle and I am too mentally and physically exhausted to quash it.
each step I take feels frozen and keeps dragging across wet cemented floors
& the skies have listened to my screams
but delivers no answers.
my god, have I given up?
it’s not likely for me to do so.
especially when so much was riding on life.
I watch the motorbikes zoom pass my psyche
as a Tiger beer falls from the balcony and shatters in the debris. a wet heavy sorrow suffocates my heart.
I sob. I weep. I cry. I fall. I wail.
I must resurrect and rise like the sun, the smoke, the symphony but my focus escapes me and I lose my hope.
my mind turns to the system; they decide
who makes a better world and who gets
tucked away in the dust.
but I can’t blame the system, only myself and
my inabilities to try once again until
I’ve reached my success.
I gaze over a man yelling at a woman while roasting a chicken down below.
they’re trying to make it out there on the ***** streets of Saigon.
fighting to survive. one more day. one more time. one more ounce of life.
and my biggest struggle is only with myself.
my stubborn brain clashing against everything I worked so hard for.
beating myself up, tearing myself down,
all that time, money and effort: wasted.
it was all  for nothing, I screamed, it was all for nothing as my half naked woman sleeps behind a green curtain and a red rooster crows at another new day full of possibility.