To bridge the chasm between words and affection,
it's tempting to start from a poet's distance.
But you are not a chance hiccup of beauty or emotion,
no tree sap bend or light-ray twist,
not a fabric wind dance dangling cloths-lined above
roaring Brooklyn.
You are you.

A walk through a town built on tuition, brings nothing but satisfaction. But nothing comes.
Write.

A jog through Halloween skin and choreographed stupor stimulates nothing.

Write, you poor *******.

From the fridge to the desk at 2AM, to write, means nothing.
Write, you fool.

Write, because most nights don't belong to you, but still, sit down and try.

Vonnegut was easy to admire. He gave you the sense that he'd seen people die, that war was something he lived - like an oracle saying, "Hey, this is what war is, it ***** *****. So it goes," you know? Then there's trenches, and Hemmingway.


But what happens if more people actually split an atom?

I'm a writer. I have no idea.

I did watch a guy get beheaded today - on Youtube. Almost. 30 seconds in and I couldn't do it. I've never lived war, but I watched an English aid worker, at the mouth of death say, "My name is David Cawthorne Haines. Following a trend amongst our British prime ministers who can’t find the courage to say no to the Americans, it is we, the British public that, in the end, will pay the price for our Parliament’s selfish decisions.."

Then a faceless man starts to rip an aid worker's head off.

So it goes. Writers go to war. I never had to. But I watched from home, between a Friday and Monday, and do my best to warn my children about the end.

Mother Do You Think They'll Drop The Bomb?

For most my childhood, I was lucky enough to ask, "Mother do you think they CAN drop the bomb?"

If you know Floyd, as far as breaking my ***** goes, done. I finally get that, pops. ***** will always be broken. But the bomb? That's not too different than the ***** is it? There's always someone. The hippie's now, I feel, just hope a little less, and pray a **** ton more.

Its time to write about dogs
with embedded decency
to walk away when you take a drunk **** in the backyard.

We don't have the same embedded decency.
A dog ***** in the park
with no where to look
except for its watchful owner,
who cant figure out why it's weird to watch his dawtson take a ****.

I had a friend in grade school tell me
if you stared at a dog while it ****
and crossed your pointer fingers over each other and pulled,
the **** would explode inside the dog
and it would die.

And I tried.

Wild eyes of digital natives
rolled back in their heads,
hibernate and build
chasms to screens
on autopilot dreams;
vacant windows to the soul.

A crooked jaw through the middle of my bottom teeth
is a reward for a night well spent.
Charisma and charm,
the loquacious chasm between a visionary and a car salesmen.
Spent time, people, and energy
on credit
so that no one was left to stand between me and the pavement.
Now a canyon runs through my jaw
and I can’t smile right,
and my ear always hurts,
my chin clicks,
my eyes sit deeper,
my neck aches from looking over my shoulder,
tongue bleeds from biting,
mind’s weak,
linguistic chess,
anticipatory dialogue ripe with plastic fruit.
It leaves me nourished with doubt to speak outloud
and move outside my shadow.

Late nights keep me awake hoping something happens.
But early nights keep me in
and I hope for late nights.
But they end with me
****** drunk
hungry
for something to touch.