He brought
The beloved
golden ring
down to
the pawnshop.

Hey you
You on the corner of space and slow time,
With the Wednesday smile that looks like you stole it from a prankster
Are you for real?
Or are you that sidesteppin passerby
Who took two steps off the sidewalk and one into me
Took a knife to the inside of my skull
Wrote down a life I forgot wasn’t mine
Cause sometimes I’ll admit I can’t tell the difference
I’ve been throwin baseballs of the back porch of my soul
Since the day the monster under my bed grew teeth
Hoping for someone to catch up catch them and catch me too
I’ve been running since the day I met God on the banks of a backwards river
Spinning this world like a record played one too many times
Sk-sk-skipping across all the riffs we used to glide over like it wasn’t a sin
He and his pals foolin us for the fun of it
Burnin a driftwood fire just to watch the colors change
I traded in my bibles for a pawn shop prayer
Cause everyone knows that bookstores are just pawn shops
For ideas that people were too drowned to keep on drinking
To keep on keeping


Hey you
Imagine we became all the words we breathed
Out of fairytale pages turned cigarette papers
the night you became a constellation
Us, riding a magic carpet woven from strings
Stolen from Fate when she wasn’t looking
I’d never been one for shoplifting
But that night we made off like barefoot bandits riding on a broken hymn
With nothing but chains of laughter round our ankles
I, the night dancer and you, the day singer
And we two seeing both sides of the moon
Sing me the song that day sung the first time she realized
That the night was more than a coat her dad told her to wear
Because it was raining
The universe ringing with the words of convenience store philosophers
Things people are too scared to write anywhere but on the walls
Of public bathroom stalls so far from the city that
Blackberry picking still involves thorns
I wished I was an ant so that I could carry
Things that were bigger than me without breaking
So that my biggest worry would be microscope lightning
It wouldn’t matter if you only wore your turban on nights so cloudy you thought God couldn’t see you
Cause when’s the last time somebody judged an ant on their headwear?


Hey you
Sometimes when I’m with you I mistake myself for a queen
And right now I’m ruling these words shamelessly
My subjects whose only job is to grow fields of sunflowers in December just for you
Let it sink in
Let it be known that my physical transition fails to interrupt my meditation
That I’ve never known a dream that did anything but embroider the ether
The air between us quit smelling like a cinderblock romance
Your hands a kinetic ignition to my saltwater synapses
That connect in double-time to the electric current runnin from your heart to mine
If you’re just some sidesteppin passerby that took two steps off the sidewalk and one into me
It’s too late cause I’m dreaming of you like pumpkins in spring
I already burned down my fortress of forget-me-nots
When I tried to write your name with a side-split matchstick
I can still see you amidst a mountain of ceiling tiles and plywood floors
Closed doors that I knocked down because they wouldn’t open
You are a brick
I have no shovel
I have hands
Will you take them?

I
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark. Bluegreen glow of dashboard gauges, the faint scent of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap. Insects slapping the windshield like rain. How many miles does it take to turn yourself around, to rise up from ashes? Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.

II
Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor. The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence inscribed on my back also confirms this.

III
I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair, fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears, flirting behind tent ***** with the cute contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.

IV
I derailed in a dive bar.

V
I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights, where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic signals kept perfect time.
I picked through trash bins. I paid for love with drugstore wine.

VI
I closed my eyes on a mountain road. The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.

VII
I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew back the curtains and lost myself in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps, the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes. I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.

VIII
The moon over my shoulder tightened into focus like a prison spotlight. One night the barking dogs undid me. Goodnight, children. Goodbye, my love. I capitulated to the candor of a naked mattress. I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.

IV
I coveted the house keys of strangers.

X
I opened and closed many doors. I sang into the mouths of storm drains. I stepped out of many rooms only to find myself in the room I had just left. Despite all my leaving, I remained.

I'm taking my life. to the pawnshop on a dusty summer-fall morning
     Because at this point I'm not sure what to use it for anymore
               And they'll give me cash for trash
   Like a mountain of crushed cans in exchange for a dream money can buy in a clear plastic baggie

Where are you?

Do you hear me?
Do you see me?
Do you remember me?

I have always been here...

Tell me you remember me...

Tell me...

What did you used to tell me...

Lean on me, you tell me.
But when I try, I fall.
There is more often empty space
Than a warm embrace
To catch me.

Shivering in the cold of denial,
Where I can see neither my breath
Nor any warm, outstretched hand
To help guide me,
Rubbing bruised limbs from
Falling to the ground again
And again
(Lean on me, you tell me),
And blindly stitching at a wounded heart,
I get to my feet again and again,
And I fight.

I fight to feel that I still matter,
That I mean something to you.
Anything at all....

I fight to believe that I am still beautiful to you,
That I still bring light and color to your world,
That I am still the one who has your heart.

For in these days, I only feel that I hinder you.
That I, in needing you at all,
Even for the slightest thing,
Only slow your progress in your
Grandiose plan for your life.
A life you once said you wanted me
To be a part of.

As I hurt, I remain silent,
Not wanting to distract you.

You must understand, I'm not trying to ask for much...

Only that, in my moments of pain,
Where life is not so kind,
And people are not so gentle,
And my mind, body, spirit, and heart are not so strong,
That I might find warm solace in your arms,
That once so readily held me,
Protected me,
Shielded me from all that hurt me.
I only want that small comfort
Of running to you
And letting the tears
Or the words fall,
And having your gentle voice,
And loving smile,
And protective stance
Greet me,
Telling me it's all right to hurt,
And it's all right to need you.
That there is no shame or guilt
In these things.

Things that I dare not ask of you now.

I bear such guilt,
And I bear such shame,
For asking this of you.

Do you know how it hurts...
To find empty space again and again,
To feel like I am of no worth,
Despite how I try,
How I try so hard
To be perfect for you
And make you happy,
Always make you happy before myself.

I have always been there for you,
Never once turned you away.
I wouldn't dare.
My love for you forbids it.
I promised that no battle you fought
Should ever be fought alone,
Because I would be your fellow soldier.
I promised no celebration
Should be celebrated alone,
Because I would cheer with you.
I promised that no storm
Should ever pass where you did not have shelter,
Because I would always be your rock,
Your lighthouse,
The warm, safe place you would always have to go to.
I have never left,
And will never leave you
To face life,
The heartless *******,
On your own.


But in my darkest hours
And at times, my brightest dawns,
In my moments of despicable self-acceptance
That I need a hand to hold,
That I cannot take it on my own,
You are nowhere to be found.

Well... I suppose that's a lie.

I know exactly where to find you,
But I cannot go there.

I cannot interrupt you,
Keep you from what you are doing,
Because in those hours,
And among those people,
You have far greater things to concern yourself with
Than I.

Than what I might be thinking,
Feeling,
Fighting,
Celebrating,
Giving,
Taking,
Believing,
Denying,
Remem­bering.

Always remembering.

Remembering a time
When love held a far greater place
In your heart
Than work,
Than pride,
Than cold indifference,
All of which seem
Quite comfortable there.

They say that money is no object,
But she is the apple of your eye.

And I cannot help but envy her, for I once was in her place.

I had always been what you desired,
Now a pawnshop token you could take or leave,
Or so it feels.

I wish I could satisfy you the way she does.
That seductress,
Always luring in on a silver line
Those who believe she is the key
To happiness.

I wish I could have her wile,
Her charm,
Her tricks and beguiling ways
That have so captured you,
The way I,
And my simple acts of love,
Though I could not do much,
Once did.

I will never compare to her,
Never measure up to the
Beauty she beholds,
At least in your eyes.

I am a rather simple creature,
I suppose.

I have never had so much to offer
But my heart in whole,
And the promise of a lifetime
That I would never leave.

Maybe money truly does make the world go 'round.

But I never thought she could replace me.

Well played.

The door opened, he entered
There was a whoosh of air
The Bluesman looked bedraggled
And he grabbed himself a chair

Cy, came out, he heard the bell
Saw the Bluesman, gave a smile
He said "I see the storm is worse"
"It's gonna keep up for a while"

The Bluesman looked around the store
Saw a guitar on the wall
"She's an old one hanging over there"
He called to Cy, now down the hall

He grabbed it, rubbed the neck some
He said "she's got a lot to say"
He went back to the wooden chair
And the Bluesman, he did play

"There's lots of music in this girl"
"So many songs not sung"
He looked back at the hook behind
Where this old guitar had hung

He sang songs about Jesus
about freedom, and the moon
Amazingly for the guitars age
It wasn't out of tune

Cy went to the pawn stores  back
returning with a flask
He'd brought the Bluesman medicin
The Bluesman continued with his task

"This old girls a treasure trove"
"She's just so full of words"
"Songs kept hidden for so long"
"Songs just waiting to be heard"

He played some more, the storm let up
He thanked Cy, took his leave
"An old guitar needs to be played"
"It's lost songs to be grieved"

"You know that you can play her"
"Whenever you come by"
The Bluesman turned and smiled
He held the flask given by Cy

"That old guitar is special"
"She's an old soul, just like me"
"I thank you for the offer"
"Time will tell, we'll see"

The Bluesman left the pawnshop
It was if he wasn't there
He went out back behind Gianni's
And sang his music to the air

I Wrote her a love letter but she dropped it.
No money for the metro so we hopped it.
No money for the petro so I hocked a loogie
Then pawnshop hocked it:
Spitting that sick **** for profit.
We sat prostrate in front of our profit, then,
With her wet wig at the end of my mop-stick.
Check her prospects, then, blurry her optics.
We fly out in a flurry of topics.
I'm the nit-wit in her twit-pics:
The photo-bomber.
But she stopped its clock-ticks when she cropped it.
I should have told her,
I'm so fly she would die in my ****-pit.
And the Black Box is,
The love letter in her back pocket but she dropped it.

there is.
a ladybug on the ceiling.
there is nothing more.
maybe a lady on the negatives
on a 35mm in
a pawnshop.
but there is
a  ladybug on the ceiling.
they are the same

Pound shop,
pawnshop,
amusement arcade.
Spending the pittance of a life that they’ve made
at the job centre,
having it large,
scratting up tab ends,
before making a charge
to the Wetherspoon’s
for the rest of the night,
works even better if they get in a fight.
With their dog on a string,
hat’s probably nicked,
outside the bus station, begging on sticks,
like the world’s cheapest tricks.
Used to be good for a night on the town,
now the streets are starting to
drown
in dross and
distress,
but if you look at their frown, they
couldn’t care less
about your time.
Time to make tracks and drive,
its ‘kicking out’ soon and they’ll
eat you alive.

The light from the streetlamps squirms it's way through a ***** windshield
Miles of that road-dust, old and new, takes it due portion of the light
grabs it, casts it all reeling off, diffused

But it's ok, because now we're here, standing outside a corner store, charmingly ****** and completely bulletproof.
It has a sign that says 'Yes, we are open' and a thick, oily padlock that says 'No, we aren't'
It's like a sickly smile and a kick in the shins
A corner store like any other, except for the sound
The bass guitar flexes like a circus strongman breaking handcuffs
And pounds it's all-conquering vibe through the walls of the basement, through the brick and mortar and sidewalk-flagstone
Really more symbols that actual obstacles
The drums are syncing well, sunk as they are in the earth
We approach and find a subtler, silver-tarnish voice, worming it's way through ***** and crack
It's a pawnshop guitar, sizzling like a hot pan
It bounces like a drunk off the brick walls of the stairs leading down
Staggers it's way up, to invite you in
It's deadened just slightly by the giddy, rapidly cooling bodies relaxing there
in the no-man's-land between indoors and out, smoking,
drawing burnt-atomized sophistication in.
We mount the top stair, great explorers regarding a mountain, and proceed to climb down.
Every eye looks up, carefully half-lidded, and bored.
But for an instant, every single one has a message squirm it's way through the dust: "Yes, I am open. Please think I'm interesting. Please think I'm worthwhile."

I gave 75 cents to a homeless man
sitting on the frozen sidewalk
holding a half eaten loaf of rye bread.
It's 13 degrees and the sun's out.
Times Square, December 2, 2005.
A lanky man dressed like Santa walked by,
glared and shook his head at me.
He took a step sideways
and continued on, stumbling down the sidewalk,
stopping to lean against the building
twenty yards away.

He slid down the wall
and sat in an empty doorway,
his red and white costume sloping down on one side,
the elastic beard matted
with sweat stains and fresh egg yolk.
Gaps in the fabric revealed black stubble
with streaks of gray along his cheek bone,
his belt far too big for someone twice his size.
One of the lenses on his fake coke-bottle glasses
was cracked down the middle, but he didn't notice.

How come Santa drinks so much, my little cousin asked,
trying to absorb the idea of habits.
She's smarter than most seven-year-olds.
Some day she'll realize the therapeutic power of bourbon,
whether she wants to or not,
by virtue of a twisted and distorted lineage.

Remembering back to a time when I believed,
I asked myself,
Was he always so intense and disruptive?
Did he always look so disheveled?
Waking up in ****** unfamiliar motels,
fur stuck to his tongue,
feeling cheap and
smelling like reindeer?

Doesn't he have family to go home to?

I distinctly recall Santa getting agitated
at a pawnshop in Jersey,
hocking a six year old Rolex knockoff,
arguing with a deadbeat in an orange latex bandana
about whether it could get him 5 bucks or 50.
Santa is a hobo who should be in rehab
but decides to sit back and take blame,
driven by dollars and cents, not peace and love.
Fictitious friends have more of an impact,
imagining someone out there barks like a dog
when a strange man in card-carrying colors
gets too close to either side of the line
and lodges himself in a chimney
too small for his socks
but too large for his vision.

Think of the profile:
An obese elderly  man, about 6'1",
big bushy white beard
puffy red cheeks
and glazed over eyes. Dresses in red velvet,
has eight deer he runs until they drop,
overwhelmingly fond of children,
known to sneak around
in the darkness late at night,
carrying a sack,
usually around the holidays.
Santa is a transient worker.
But does he have a record?
Was he always a bag man?

Busted for B&E;
at the Christmas Tree Shop in Danbury, 2001,
then fast forward to indecent exposure
inside a moving vehicle
somewhere around 23rd Street
where the sun becomes the moon.

Everyone is old enough to know
not to sleep in soiled piles
reeking of their own fermenting remnants
of a night gone sour.

But he meets Betty Ford for drinks anyway
in a seedy club in Queens,
one night too many,
one night in particular, in 2003,
strung out stiff on single malt,
he grabbed the reins, lost control
and flipped back to front on a car full of elves
at a busy intersection somewhere around LaGuardia.

He showed up in night court
with a ****** who promised him a good time
but gave him more than he bargained for.
He never said he was innocent,
just that he didn't think he could be convicted.

Across the street, he pulls himself up,
throws an empty bottle against the concrete wall
and crosses back over toward us.
The stale stench of cheap red wine
permeates from the center of his beard,
with permanent stains across his chin
and all along the white fabric pleasure
path that connects one head to the other.

Santa glares at us again,
mumbles something in Croatian
and falls face first into a pile of stones
deep down the alley,
two sheets to the wind,
and ten steps closer to Brooklyn.

Baby
Girl
Naked  
Showing more than skin
Red eyes, bleeding
Out
The whole ocean
Fake
*****
Clothed
Covering it all up
Red lips, lying
Like
"We might hookup"
Baby
Can't I help you
Your Fragile figure
Your Stick figure
Why can't I make you eat dinner
Keep Getting thinner
Keep Getting thinner
Baby
Please have some dinner
Angel
In the mirror
Screaming at a sinner
Took your soul to the pawnshop
Exchanged for that pretty skin
Tell me
How is it not to feel anythin' ?

The walnut stock had several light nicks,
and a few rust spots were sprinkled the barrel.
It was old but still functioned flawlessly.

Time didn’t degrade the accuracy very much.
For many seasons it took game without a single failure.
The sons of three different generations knew the rifle well.

It got sold to a pawnshop for one hundred and fifty bucks to buy some ****.

Sometimes I read
something I’ve written,
and not so long ago...
a couple of months,
last week,
or ten minutes,
and think:

“Man, you are really
full of ****!”

You want them to love you,
to fall into your depths,
dive into you,
you mud puddle,
you pothole full of last night’s
***** rain.

You don’t really feel that way:
you’re hollow...
a gourd,
a dried up well,
a stringless guitar
in a pawnshop window.

But it’s easy
to make something up,
almost as if deception
were a built in feature.

Doves feign broken wings,
Possums play dead,
Chameleons blend,
Anglerfish dangle their bait,
and men and women,
well...

This...."flaw"
carved by necessity
into our bones,
and written in our blood.

Yet we are shocked
when we are deceived,
like being surprised
every time we see
another person’s face
and discover it has a nose.

back then he wor nobbut a sapling,
kindling
grown to be the new King,
spawn of the mill and the pawnshop
and when the workhouse would be his
last stop,
he dreamt on.

In the home where the hotpot was bubbling
and the door locked so as not to let no trouble in
dad sat grumbling,
dad always did when grandma had hid his baccy.

Milltown memories underneath tall smoking chimneys
where even the poorest fell in love.

I think we know the way it goes,
Stray bullets in the moonlit night--
Football East Louis, Illinois--
Take life from good girl only eight.
A pawnshop gun, a deal gone bad,
Unanswered prayers, unfinished life,
Uncertain hopelessness gets fed
To those who somehow just survive.
Which way is this, untouchable?
Defender of the sacrosanct,
Red blood of Jesus, god man child
Spilled out on grass beside white paint.
Our sport is shooting children now.
Swing low, sweet chariot, swing low.

–What do I have to lose if America falls?
my body? my neck? my personality?
     .   .   .

I have not done my research, no
yet I am fat with knowledge,
yet I am drunk on symbols & poetries of excess—
yes, I am an american, what does that mean?
I couldn’t begin to tell you, yet I am
america imagined
in some pawnshop philadelphia
next to the gas station next to the liberty bell
i’ve driven by many times before i’ve seen
the ghost of Ben Franklin, **** out soliciting oral, & heard
          ******* whispers of, “O, poor Richard…”
I love like movie cowboys & policemen I love
a yankee vampire w/ confederate fangs
a working class hero story told in reverse
I’m beautiful w/o being pretty
I’ve got that trillion dollar smile
my economy IS my business
my mind is outer space pleasure cruise
my politics are bombs & ***
my cultural heritage is hollywood & skyscrapers
ford commercials & Burroughs in a nike ad
my religion is myself, no
that is no wholly american,
no, no holy american, just me
but I am america’s spleen
am its mouth, speak its rhetoric & give its head
am its fingers rubbing on redbutton starspangled fleshspasm
am its brain on drugs
am its soul
         on eastern flights

but I don’t take myself so seriously.