Seen hundreds and hundreds
and I know exactly why
Tweakers steal and lie
Tweakers cry
and Tweakers die

Brain fried
and barely alive
Always Jonesen'
to get another high
Just another day
in a ****-Head life

Beautiful girls
too soon turned
old and decrepit
Yeah we know
your sick
and you say
you can't help it

Sell their soul
and their body as well
Just another **** day
in Tweakers Hell

You stand up and say
then what is the cure?
Nobody knows
but death will do.

-R.

(10.16)
-LA

Look at him twitching
You know he's tweaking
His jaw swinging back and forth
But there's no speaking
See's something down
In the carpet twinkling
He gets all excited
You know what he's thinking
Anything he finds
He's going to be smoking
I wouldn't be laughing
Because he ain't joking
Down there for hours
Refusing to fail
Doesn't even slow down
After smoking toenail
Smokes up almost
All that he finds
He hears a noise
Now he's peeking through the blinds
He's been smoking too long
And he's up all night
Doesn't have a job
But that's alright
He's finds a dumpster
And without any warning
He's dives in searching
Til the early morning
That's just the life
Of a tweaker you see
Always out hustling
To get his **** for free
If you see him at night
Approach with caution
He's got a stink about him
Because ain't been washing
Picking at his face
Til his sores are bleeding
A light and a mirror
Is all he's needing
He finally got busted
Now he's on parole
Has to hide his drugs
Up in his *******
It's a shame, but that's the way
A tweaker gets by in the world today
His family don't want him
And he don't have many friends
His life is cut short
And that's how it ends
Everybody knows him
But no one knows his name
They just refer to him
As "That dope smoking Lame"

At the mailbox, again:
“Who loves me, baby?”
Well, let’s see: there’s a flyer from Mercury Insurance,
Reminding me that most middle-income customers
Save an average of $4 million smackaroons when they switch too.
The Penny Saver USA.com is here,
Thank God, almighty!
So now I know that Thomas Roofing & Paving
Is having a special on 20-year leak-free flat roofs;
"All work guaranteed & insured.
No job too big or small.
Free estimates/Emergency services/License # I8U-69."
And thank you, Jesus,
For another $4.99 Farmer Boys 3-Egg Breakfast
Combo with Coffee coupon, and that
Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready, $5.00 cheese or pepperoni,
Mae-West-“why-don’t-you-come up and see me sometime?”—mailer. And, of course, another technology Siren’s song:
Verizon FiOS delivers entertainment this big,
Dish me up some dish NETWORK, $19.99 a month . . .
Are you ******* me?
For 12 ******* months?
AT&T;: whack me off on 120 channels.
DIRECTV.com - DIRECTV® Official Site‎
Worry-free 99.9%  . . . cue Joe E. Brown,
"Some Like It Hot“ Osgood:
"Well, nobody’s perfect!"
Time Warner/Sprint/T-Mobile;
And ******* Leather, Polk Street, San Francisco.
******* leather?
Must be for my neighbor: that ***** ****!
And here’s the weekly 8-page color fold-out from Stater Bros:
Lowering prices every day, large cantaloupes
(Jessica Lange, are you back?)
10 for $10.00, 32 oz. Gatorade
Or 24 oz Propel in 30 assorted varieties @ 79 cents
+ CRV: California Redemption Value?
Nice euphemistic cover-up for a TAX.
Nice, nice, very nice, CA elected state officials;
Nicely done, Sacramento.
Everywhere else in the country you get real money—
A fixed number of pennies, nickels, or dimes—
For your plastic bottles and aluminum cans.
But in California, the licensed recyclers
Get to pull the market price out of their *** each morning.
California Redemption Value?
What ******* genius government kleptocrat thought that one up? Conspiracy Alert: who gets all that CRV money?
And what are they doing with it?
Feeling plain, Jane?
Marinello Schools of Beauty, want you,
Offer you hands-on training in cosmetology,
Skin care esthetics, manicuring and vaginal deodorizing—
Just kidding, Babaloo.
Food tip for the Third World:
Never try to write poetry on an empty stomach.
Sizzler 6 oz juicy & succulent.
RENEGADE DEAL:
El Pollo Loco guacamole chicken sandwich,
Coupon free, small drink and small chips,
When you purchase a guacamole or jalapeno sandwich,
includes pepper jack cheese and a southwest sauce.
Gardenas sandia con semilla, 7 lbs 99 cents.
GARDENAS: “en precios, servicio y calidad, nadie nos iguaia.”
Bud Gordon’s Quality NISSAN:
One at this price after a $1500 factory rebate.
TERMINIX: get them before they get you!
The Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Arthropoda, Class Insecta
Bug up my *** again.
And a form letter from the VA
Asking me to please update my whereabouts.
And a form letter from the VA asking me
To please update my whereabouts.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Bite me, Mr. Frost!

An outing, at last.
I am going for a walk around the inside of my gates.
I live in one of those gated over-55 lunatic asylums.
There are gates. It is gated. Get it?
GATED! We feel safe here.
Probably a good thing at our age:
Self-imposed institutionalization,
Putting oneself in an asylum to ferment and die.
The fact that so many of us
Need it so bad at only 55
Says something itself about the current state of
Baby Boomer metal-fatigue.
I am now standing at the far end of the golf course.
I wait at the far end of the 18th Hole.
A ball bounces past my head and
Rolls off past the green into the far rough.
The 18th Hole is perched atop a small plateau,
Out of sight, far above the horizon for anyone teeing off.
I am Puck, invisible and impish.
I pluck the ball up.
I scamper to the green.
I pop the ball into the hole.
Which is better than popping a hole in the ball,
Surely, kind of a drag,
As we were once fond of saying.
Deflated Ball.
Deflator Maus.
OPERA can be ****.
Bodice-ripping corsets, whorehouses and naked ******!
Hardly what you might expect from
A night with the Welsh National Opera,
But they found their way into this production of "Die Fledermaus."
Ripe language, contemporary jokes and
Toilet humor thrown in, adding immensely
To the pleasures of Strauss’s operetta.
"Die Fledermaus," or The Bat’s Revenge,
Is all about drunkenness and adultery.
Despite being written in the 1870s,
It remains equally pertinent to today’s pub culture of excess.
Daring; Colorful; ****: PGA golf.
I steal a golf ball on the far end of the 18th Hole.
I pick up the Titleist and stick it in the hole
(Steady Jessica, not yours.
I hide behind your bush.
(Cue up PSA, First Lady Bird Johnson’s 1960s
Nationwide Beautification Campaign:
“I want everyone in America to plant a tree,
A sherrrr-rub, or a booosh.”)
The golfer now searching frantically:
Why is the cup always the last place they look?
Then, wham, bam, he looks:
A legend is born.
A hole in one,
His name forever immortalized
On a plaque over the bar, the proverbial 19th Hole.

As you know, I speak for all mediocrities,
Safe in my 55+ gated-community.
I go next to the Club House,
"The Lodge" as it’s called.
Each afternoon, the usual suspects
Claiming first come/first serve tiered mini-theater seats
Where Netflix matinee gems are screened.
It is two minutes to DVD show time.
I walk to the front of the room.
I stare at my audience.
I count the house slowly,
Making meaningful eye contact with each wrinkled face.
I cup my hands behind my back and speak:
“I assume you are all here for my lecture on Kierkegaard.”
No one reacts.
I turn to leave but do a double-take and smile.
One old woman in the top right corner of the amphitheater laughs, Perhaps the one other human being within the gates
Who has also smoked a joint today.
For an instant, I am overwhelmed with paranoia,
Perhaps I’ve gone too far over the line:
No longer “oh-he’s-a-character;”
I am now “that creep is ******* nuts.”
Is it time for someone to approach my family,
My next of kin, my “who-to-contact-in-event-of-emergency” number? Who will make the call on behalf of the HOA—
The Homeowner’s Association—
The Tsars, the Duma, the Supreme Soviet in these parts?
They are the power inside the gates;
Those who determine the state’s enemies,
Who govern its community norms.
Power within the gates.
Law within the asylum.
Little Hitlers one and all.
Hopefully they reach my sister first.
She’s been briefed.
KEY POINT IN THE NARRATIVE:
The new narrative is non-linear.
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We grow more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen;
We become more intimate with a legion . . .
Did someone say a legion? SPQR:
Am I having some sort of genetic-linguistic seizure here?
Am I channeling Benito Mussolini again?
Il Duce speaks to me from the grave,
Still blowing smoke up my Hopi-Jew-*** ***,
Filling in my insecurities,
Plugging the holes in my character
With delusions of classical Roman grandeur, glory and empire. Hmmmm? Quite an appetizing pitch for the average *****,
A message so completely, so ethnocentrically slick,
Olive oily, and so seductive.
A non-Italian would have thought
American Legion or Legionnaire’s disease,
Or The Foreign Legion, The French Foreign Legion.
The French: a virulent, promiscuous people.
Do you want fries with that, Simone?
No, I don’t get out much.
Only an occasional brisk walk around the asylum,
In and around the golf course, around but inside the gates. (LINKS) Bill Gates. Daryl Gates. Billy Bathgate’s Gates? Ghiberti’s Gates? The Hot Gates? Thermopylae? 300 Spartans/700 Thespians:
“The noun causing idiots to think of
Two girls sloppily eating each other’s mighty vaginas,
When they hear mention of someone being an actor.” http://www.urbandictionary.com
Not even close.
No, I rarely venture out.
This is Hemetucky.
There are methamphetamine-stoked
Teenage zombies at the gate.
Note to costume control:
Perhaps camouflage clothing is the safe choice?
No loud red Hawaiian.
No garish Indonesian batik.
Fleet of feet are these Hemet tweakers,
These cranked up Riverside County teenage barbarians,
These Huns & Visigoths,
These amped up, ravenous jackals.
And why stop there?
These Vandals & Vandellas.
A Motown flashback:
“Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.”
With or without Martha—
They remain dangerously lethal.
Yes, let it be camo clothes for me.
Those **** heads may be young.
They may be fast.
They may be able to run me down
On a dry grass dog-legged fairway savannah,
Tearing the meat from my carcass.
But the sons-a-******* have to see me first.
Besides, we know who are real friends are.
Hooray for our media peeps!
We become more intimate with a legion
Of television personalities on 125 different channels.
Most of these we know by name and context.
We know their families, their friends,
Their histories, their tragedies,
Their favored hyperbole and manner of speech.
Sometimes we establish intimacy with celebrities
Strictly on the basis of universal body language.
At times–in the absence of any other
Empathetic facility of identification–
We connect on instinct alone.
Instinct: perhaps animal at its core,
An animal kingdom affinity group,
Connecting on a bio-linguistic level,
Particularly when the Korean, or Spanish,
Mandarin, or Arabic,
Japanese, or even Hebrew language version is broadcast.
All languages cryptically alien,
A dense boundary, a barrio border wall,
Undecipherable, impenetrable concrete.
But we’ve never spoken to our neighbors,
Nor do we know their names.
Celebrities are the neighbors we know best;
Although the intimacy is an illusion,
Permission to invade their privacy presumed,
Tacit in the relationship between celebrities and their fans.
I am an independent contractor now,
An outside consultant to the NSA.
Try as I might I cannot crack the enigma,
Kim Kardashian remains far beyond my code-breaking prowess.
I repeat myself:
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We are more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen; we become more intimate with a legion . . .
Back to you, David Ulin:
“Sometime late last year—I don’t remember when, exactly—I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read. That’s a problem if you do what I do, but it’s an even bigger problem if you’re the kind of person I am. Since I discovered reading, I have always been surrounded by stacks of books. I read my way through camp, school, nights, and weekends; when my girlfriend and I backpacked through Europe after college graduation, I had to buy a suitcase to accommodate the books I picked up along the way.”
Thank you, David L. Ulin.
I cannot help myself.
I grow more eccentric each day.
My eyeballs glued to that flat screen!

Cosmo Kramer: "The bus is outta control.
So I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat,
I get behind the wheel, and now I’m driving the bus."
Jerry: "Wow!"
George Costanza: "You’re Batman."
Cosmo Kramer: "Yeah, yeah, I am Batman.
Then the mugger, he comes to and he starts choking me.
So I’m fighting him off with one hand,
And I kept driving the bus with the other, ya know.
Then I managed to open up the door,
And I kicked him out the door, ya know,
With my foot, ya know, at the next stop."
Jerry: "You kept making all the stops?"
Cosmo Kramer: "Well, people kept ringing the bell!"
(Share this moment with a stranger.)

I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.
Boom Chaka Laka. Boom Chaka Laka.
Boom Chaka Laka. BOOM!
Isn’t it time Salieri tempted Constanze–
Frau Mozart–with a plateful of Capezzoli di Venere:
“******* of Venus.”
You had me at hello, Kidman.
I know you too well, Nicole.
I knew you from before,
Way before Tom’s Oprah couch freak show.
Listen to me, Nicole:
We are face to face
With the most profound question in American literature:
"What is the grass?
The flag of my surrender?
The flag of my disposition?"
I resort to Socratic maxims: Know yourself;
The un-****** life is not worth living.
Is it stress? Is it lack of conviction?
Everything Jeff Lebowski neither wants nor needs in his life?
I watched you *** in "Eyes Wide Shut," Nicole.
Now I know you with my eyes and your legs wide open.
Thank you, Sidney Pollack.
Sidney knew.
Sidney dealt us cards
From his Hollywood Tarot deck.
We are intimate, Nicole.
I watched you squat.

a dark place,
dingy and cobwebbed:
the forlorn basement
below an unfinished house;
there is no hope
of an HGTV house-flip
or a makeover
or the sort of boring/heartwarming story
where some nice white family
—or conveniently diverse—
sets up shop,
smash-cuts through a renovation
and gets their dream home.

no,
the house will remain gloomy,
this basement filled with emptiness;
no one desires
to come through the door,
no one except the tweakers
and the vagabonds
and the runaways,
the ****** and the pimps,
the celebrities and psychiatrists,
the demons and the ghosts,
the preachers and their seething
congregations of judgmental ******
that live across the street,
and the ***** teenagers
hunting for a place to try out ***.

no cleaning crew
or maid service
or organize-your-life guru
or even the most experienced
of all the world’s janitors
could enter this house and clean it
or beautify this basement
or disenfranchise the squatters within;
the neighbors just try
and demolish it
every chance they get,
to rid their sparkling, spotless community
of this disgusting eyesore.

Took the 17 down nicollet
Passed the City Center
Passing time
Passing men on the streets with an open guitar case
Passed the kids with their skateboards
Passed the guys covered in ink playing fight night on the street

Fifth street
Yellow cord
Brake peddle
Bus stop
Sidewalk

The sharks fight the jets
Romeo goes to Juliet
Old men with canes talk on their cell phones
Nicollet and 4th feels a little heavy tonight
11:47 comes my bus

Down 4th ave
Passing time
Passing the former home of the Twins
Passed the cops with their lights on
Passed some kids in their visors

Red light
Doswell street
Yellow cord
Brake peddle
Bus stop
Sidewalk

Out on the street
Street lamps glow fluorescent
New moon fixed in the stars
Tilted, slightly

The tweakers stay in the shack down the block
They’ve got the rocks in their socks
And they’re sleeping on the carpet
Welcome mat turned over
Shades drawn tight
And an icy cold feeling runs in their veins
And they roll back into a dream

Apartment building
Stairwell
Door 10
Living room.

tweakers tweakers everywhere.  there's barely room to stand.
little knots of junkies nod.  i think they're with the band.
ravers... rolling.  round and round.  chewing fruity gum.
cokeheads chatting. chatting chatty chats.  i feign i'm deaf and dumb.
stoners take it all by calm.  in need of nothing save visine.
drinkers drink.  until they puke.  get sad or just plain mean.
pill poppers pop to **** the pain.  or relieve life's daily stress.
remember!
you can always do a little more but not a little less.

Tweaker Tweaker
Did you eat any dinner
And Have you showered
Tweaker Tweaker
How long have you been awake
When's the last time you had real sleep
Or is everyday maintained
W/ 10mins every half hr.
Tweaker Tweaker
Do the shadows still appear
Are the voices the only thing you hear
Is what you feel inside your skin
Even real or just made up in your head
Tweaker Tweaker
Do you even care
The ones you love miss you so much
Do you even care
You've lost your life before 25
Tweaker Tweaker
Please get better
Reach out for help
Put the needle down
Drop the pipe, hear it shatter
Blow away that line you just crushed up
Tweaker Tweaker
It'll be alright
Your loved ones are still near
They still care
Reach out for help
Don't be scared
Everyone only wants to help
Tweaker Tweaker
When you quit
The devil will shout
It won't be easy , count on that
It will be worth it
You'll get to live
So try your best
Beat past this, you'll get through this
Slowly but surely
You'll make to 100 days sober
Reunite with all your loved ones
Employeed with a growing family
Is what will come
When you decide  
It's time to end the Devils game
So
Tweaker no more,
but a lady or gentleman
Good for you
You've come far
Keep your mind positive
I'm proud of your sobriety
Congratulations  
You're living
& now you see why
Sobriety was always worth it
Tweaker no more
Lady or gentleman
How was the meal you just had
Was the shower the best you've had ?
Did you finally get some sleep
Were you able to escape
the shadows and voices from in your head
Tweaker no more
Just admit
This is the best you've felt
Since your first time trying crystal  
You feel human finally
There's no going back
To tweaker island
You won't make it out
The second time around
So hide your very best
Keep yourself busy
And talk out loud
When you feel like
you Might relapse back
into tweakers land.  
With no chance to survive another night

3am....boom!
Door slams, feet pounding on stairs.
4am....boom!
My household remains asleep, Only me and my cares.

They come in all colors,
different flavors,
unique fears,

No status quo,
different walks,
All sorts of careers

The business owners,
The urban campers,

The highschool dropouts,
Grownups still in Pampers.

Theres even the alumni,
with their bumper sticker,
All taking a medicine,
that only makes them sicker.

All the while, the thoughts harbored within-
Makes me think, this wall we share, may as well be paper thin.

I smell the smell,
Made a call with a cell,

No help from the ones dressed in blue
Just me and myself, seeing it through.

The war is mine,
The battles they own,
Let it end, before this wall we share,
Becomes their gravestone

Apple bottom *******
I take time for snitches

Stitches for fourth degree burns
I’ll meet you in the ditches

The trenches
The sneakers

The benches
For tweakers

Let’s be family on the further side
Of normal

Let’s be ******* on the closer side
Of formal

I rhyme when it comes to me
I shine when she **** to me

This is for the doers and the seekers
the straight arrows and the tweakers
this is for the movers and the shakers
the hungry, unemployed and the money makers
this is for the girlfriends, and the secret ******
the ungentlemenly men and the ones who still hold doors
this is for listeners and the hearing deaf
the right wingers and for the liberal lefts
this is for the child who's awake at night afraid
and for the parents who'll regret not being there one day
this is for the academic scholars, and the high school dropouts
the meek, quiet talkers, and the ones who curse and shout
this is for the homeless and those braking banks to afford their mortgage rates
the healthy ones and the ones who's lives are in the hands of the fates
this is for the elderly and ones who's lives are not yet found
this is for you my brothers and sisters
for it takes all kinds to make the world go round

YOU HAVE
TO WANT IT



MAN
“go outside,” the doctor says,
“stand on the grass for fifteen minutes a day.”
you’re here because today you want to get better.
“tell me how you’re feeling.”
“I’m scared.”

“I mean physically.”
“so do I.”




ANGEL
an angel can come in a burst of a blister,
on the tip of a finger.
he always starts small
with the whispers,
         “i know about love,”
   like you asked for it.

he prefers to come at the end of the month,
            amid deadlines, another set of blood-soaked, ruined *******,
some traces
     of the relationship with your father and failure.
but you like that: having an excuse that sends you
   scrambling for car keys.

    at first it’s forests, their fires,
the flowers that follow once the ash and skin and soil
are mixed. at first it’s earth and rubbing it in,
     seeing god behind your eyelids.

so you clean the pipes, keep washing sheets.
      the voices they stop coming; once in a while you
      read online how many kids this week have overdosed
    on ****** and it’s foreign. kids with dirt
under their fingernails, kids in basements, kids
with ***** canvas shoes and overgrown cuticles.
           they don’t look like you. you still look like
you.




MAN
                   mike sparks a j in the basement.
        we chew on xanax and no one’s paying attention to the TV.
some white static and early afternoon rain. it’s made me gone
ghost, sitting on a leather recliner, silent with a cigarette.
              it’s a right of initation to carve your name in mike’s
coffee table and sign on the back wall. this summer I added
   mine alongside the kids I used to get nervous around in high school.
                       his mom comes downstairs with a joint of her own rolled
and a French manicure. her lip liner is too dark for her
lipstick, and phil’s warmly lit and ivan leans so far into the
couch he isn’t human.

mike sits up, “ma,
you know you owe me some money?” he changes the channel.
she laughs throaty, her insides a swamp. she’s
prettier when she’s high like this.
                       “I got your money,” she promises. it gets soft
from there and phil smiles over his body and ivan moves
further into the couch. she touches mike’s hair.

“good kid,” she tells me and I smile up at her. I wish I had
a body but I left it wandering through
the thunderstorm outside. ivan nods his hazy head.
          mike hands her a diet coke and she hands him a fifty and she goes—through the walls—
       phil digs his hand into the couch cushions to find papers. I go
ghost in the seconds it takes him to spark his lighter.

the ghost lights herself a cigarette.
   the ghost lights herself another cigarette.
               the ghost lights herself a cigarette. “are you chain
smoking now,” phil slurs playfully. “yes,” the ghost agrees.
     “are you having fun,” ivan turns to her.
                “yes.”

HUMAN
i don't want to know what love is like i want
                                       air that
                     tastes like apples and
       i want real raw
         brown sugar
       i want to shoot up every
grey second for two weeks— get frantic then
       take benzodiazepine until i shred my
stomach lining, singing
                                                    
            i want bud light and
a backyard. bed time stories and
            white furniture and ritz crackers
             with fancy party cheeses
                              i want to complain about the drinking age,
                              new york’s black-dusty wind charm. complain like the
                              moon is still lonely and not a destination
                                          i want to wake up in the sun spot
                                          i want to wake up to a baby crying
                          soft like mothers do, going to
                                     that dear one to quiet them down,
                                        i can be here to kiss you calm
                                                              i want to get out of bed
                                                              i want to call friends back
so winter can come and i can still
                              go home.



       WANT
         throwing on the rag&bon;; jeans,
         neither rag nor bone more milky skeleton-ized, eyes
         pin headed. faces struck yellow all tops of the heads
         with umbrellas and sorry throats. "here take mine" no
         "you'll get sick" it's fine
                                                        the gothic church with social strangers
                                                       ­ tweakers and nodders all smiley side-
                                                        eye­-Y
                        i know the gimme gimme
                        i know the routine
         and blondie (they think) here she comin she twenty years clean
         blondies a baby she weak as **** she dont know what she got
but i know the "i want" "i want"
         and the ok baby,
         Got U




HUMAN
i dont want to know what love is like,
                  i want to walk the manhattan bridge at sunrise
                  i want
                       grass wisps and capers
                       chicken noodle soup
                       a night at the new york city ballet
                       and pauses in sentences, in breath
                       the breath before a kiss or the breath
                       after it. i want instant hot chocolate
                       and reality television, ugg slippers with
                       faux trim. a bicycle painted lilac with a
                       basket, and clear skin. i want pier 63 on
                       a 70 degree day, the weepies playing
i want to be a ghost
            where ghosts are white sheets with two button eyes
             and make jokes about halloween and their past lives
i want to go there
to street fairs
and watch fireworks and write out names
in fresh concrete patches
                                                     i want to eat blackberries in the bathtub
                                                     i want skin to make me feel safe again
                                   i want to want to live
                                   but i know the "i want" "i want" and the ok baby,
Got U




WANT

they were right,
                               they were all
              going (right
they were righjt
they were right

air hanging eyes to dry
blood pull in push out brown golden push IN
  

they were right they were all right
nothing could ever make me as happy again



WANT

it’s a hold on something so quiet and soft in your hands and no one knows what it is and you dont know what it is. it’s the pin drop in a hospital room and so lemonade refreshing. im in a snowstorm and i cant see the city, cant see past my own two feet. im on a long highway drive and it’s rain that comes in sheets so hard i cant move. i walk and the world writhes underneath me and we put needles in our arms. and we wait for the blood push. and i watch my life go away in warm *******. and i watch it go this way like it’s not me. and i’m going home to ****** and i’m scared, i say outloud to maggie, “i’m scared i’m going to do something stupid,” and she is so quick to say “like what” that i know she knows what it is. and i’m so scared.





WANT

give up on me , I Know where im going. don’t follow. don’t even look for me. keep
Counting sugar cubes and stirring your coffee , it is my wish for you that it always tastes sweet.
I love you












WANT


i just wanted to be kept warm by something that looked like love



MAN
i walk slower on the streets of manhattan; stop at
   the strand, look for the man with eyebrow rings
asking "do you know where a girl in this city could get some relief?"
         he laughs, says he just looks like someone who would know
            that. he asks, "is that Monster Blood?”
                             &nbsp

What have I done?
I've unleashed Quincy Valero into The Big Bad City, upon Greenwich Village for the first time
The 177 express, round trip
To Port Authority
To the A train to Canal

We missed our stop
Had to walk from Soho to Washington Square Park
But along the way we saw artists and galleries
Head shops and street performers
Hobos and junkies

"We made it"
"We in this *****!"
Quincy said as we walked through the arches

We saw a multitude of creatures
An artist drawing floral murals with chalk
Meditating Buddhists
A cello player playing for a meal
A drummer drumming for money to get back home
A jazz band
A clarinet player
Writers scribbling down whatever came to mind

We saw beautiful women everywhere
"Look, my ten, your two"
Quincy said nodding to a **** brunette wearing a sundress walking by

We got coffee at The Third Rail coffee shop
We met lovey dovey couples and a girl poet sipping espresso

Treading down Bleaker to Sullivan to Macdougal to Huston
*** shops, leather and studs, ****** and flavored lubes
"This **** reminds me of Saw"
Quincy said with a laugh
"Too much for your threshold aye?"
I said nudging him

We passed a guy selling vinyl on the street
"How much for the Charlie Parker record?" I asked
He took the record out and inspected it
"Five bucks" he said
"How long you gonna be here, like till what time?" I asked
"Oh I don't live by time or numbers" he answered
"Time ain't your mast huh?" I laughed
"Nope, you cant spell T-I-M-E without M-E" he said
Quincy and I looked at eachother with a grin
"I'll be back, if I'm not here before you leave good luck in your ventures" I said as we walked away
"Thanks brother enjoy the day" he said smiling and waving

We ate to Papaya Hot dogs
Best in the city
Then to the pool hall

Now folks, it is common knowledge where I'm from the Quincy Valero is the local pool shark
He can break and sink three *****
He can jump over your ball and get his in
He can shoot behind his back with one hand

Playing with him is a guaranteed loss
But I never cared, I just like playing
We talked and laughed about all the stupid nonsense back at home
And planned our next move

We went to The Blue Note, the best jazz club in the city
The Dizzy Gillespie All Star Band was playing that night
But it was too expensive for both of us so we went on to St. Mark's place

More head shops
More *** shops
And book stores, clothing stores
Punk things in Search and Destroy, record stores
All that good stuff

It was getting late
Back to Bleaker to start drinking
First stop, a little pub
The bartender was a gorgeous blonde, sweet as could be
We ordered two beers
She seemed to be having trouble with the tap
"Sorry guys it's a little foamy, next rounds on me"
We were amazed by that because back home all the bartenders couldn't care less if we got a whole mug of foam
We clinked glasses and took that first cool icy sip
So nice on such a hot day

"Ya know dude, this is it this is perfect" Quincy said
"What you mean?" I asked
"Well this is a great time, I'm on vacation right now and were here exploring and relaxing and enjoying the moment, this moment" he said with his beer hovering over his mouth

Quincy always talked about "This"
This moment
This time
This feeling
This thing

"This" is that time when you're in the moment
That moment of complete and total encumbrance
When you're wrapped up in what you'r doing because you love it and you're happy
The moment you live for
The moment you want to last forever
This moment
This right here
Not then, not before or after
But right now, this
We lived our lives trying to to make this happen every second of everyday
Living it up

Quincy took me to Artichoke Pizza
And my God, it was immaculate
A nine in wide, nine inch long and half inch thick slice of heaven
It was a mixture of crunchy, gooey, savory goodness
I highly recommend it

Then back to the bars
Wicked *****'s
Triona's
Off The Wagon
The Bitter End
GMT
The Red Lion
Cafe Wha?
1849

Beer
Wine
***
Whiskey
Scotch on the rocks
Bourbon

Smoking electronic cigarettes down cobble stone roads
Passing hipsters, college students and tweakers
Locals and tourists
"Out of my way you tourist *******" I yelled frantically pushing my way passed them with Quincy trudging behind

You can always spot a tourist because they got their cameras, their ***** packs and their head looking up saying "ooo look at the building and that one!" taking snap shots in awe

We walked to The V-club
As we walked up to the entrance a little old lady in a wheel chair called out to us, "Are you two brothers?"
We laughed and said "no, were best friends and next door neighbors"
"Oh, well you too look very similar, very young" she said
"Yeah we're both twenty one" Quincy said
"You live around here?" I asked
"Right over there" she said pointing to the building across the street
She told us about how the building was falling apart and how all the law students got booted out leaving the little old lady and one other person living in the nine floor heap
"Back in the day there were river rats in their the sized of cats, but now we only have mice" she said
"I'm being moved though, whenever the land lords and the officials decided where" she added
She had some sort old senior citizen perk that allowed her to be taken care of
She then started to spit some of her poetry from thirty years ago, perfectly from memory
It was full of truth, insight and hope
We were floored by this wheelchair bound geriatric
She was a a retired barmaid, a poet, and an ex-lounge singer
Her name was Tracy Warren

The three of us walked into the V-club
I ordered a glass of Pinot Noir
And Quincy got a draft Brooklyn Lager
While pulling out a stool a spilled my wine all over the wooden table
"****" I said as everyone in the bar watched me put my face in my palms
I got paper towels and cleaned up my mess while the bartender leaned over to Quincy and said "If you don't tip me that will be your last drink ever in here"
"Okay" Quincy said as he walked over to me laughing at my expense
"If it was Burgundy I'd be in tears" I said with a half serious frown

I went to the bartender and apologized and asked sheepishly if I could possibly get a refill

"You spilled your wine?" he asked with sarcasm
"Yeah" I said
"And you want me to give you another?" he asked
"Well, I mean I don't know if that's okay or not that's why I'm asking" I said
"We don't, it isn't okay, you have to buy another one" he said with the most insulting tone I've ever heard
"Okay" I said with disdain

"**** this guy" Quincy and I both said
I left the remaining wine dripping off the table
Quincy ****** all over the bathroom
He finished his beer and we left without tipping that bearded-high and mighty- *******
We said goodbye to Tracy and she told us to enjoy every moment and to get home safely

We went to one more bar, had one more drink and headed home
But on the way to the train we got stopped by a ***
"Hey you give me money I know you got it" he yelled at Quincy
"Na man, hes broke trust me" I said to end the oncoming confrontation
"No yous lying i know it" he said
"Na, see those shoes? I got him those shoes, fifty five bucks" I told him
"Stop putting me on" he yelled
Then some white knight hipster wearing thick rimmed glasses and a green flannel stepped in and said "What's going on here? You picking on my friend?" While putting his arm around the *** mocking him and making trouble for us
"This ******* won't give me any money for my troubles" he told the hipster
"Come on man, give 'em something" he said to Quincy
"Dude, he has no money he spent all he had today" I said to the hipster and the ***
"He's a trust fund kid, he gets it from mommy and daddy" I said winking to Quincy
"Trust fund kid?!" the hipster said
"Trust fund kid!" said the ***
"TRUST FUND KID, TRUST FUND KID" screamed the hipster, the *** and myself laughing at Quincy making a scene
Then me and Quincy just walked away throwing our heads back howling at the full moon, drunk and exhausted heading for the subway  

The subway to Port Authority
Our legs, our feet and our ***** were killing us
We just wanted to sit

We could not for the life of us find our gate
We got misdirections from officers, other public transportation patrons
Thank God for this one janitor for pointing us in the right direction out of our wild goose chase
And ***** the guy who I asked "Hey man do you know where I can find the gate for the 177 express?"
And all I got was a blank indifferent stare
"WELL **** ME RIGHT?!" I yelled in his face

Finally we got on the line for our bus
We saw some weaselly looking guy cutting the line until he got booted to the back of the line
As he passed us we both looked at his and said "Weet, get meerkatted scumbag"
He had to wait for the next bus, whenever that was

The bus ride home felt like an eternity
But we made it
We had to walk down the unpaved dirt road to our street

We did it
We took on The Village
Sailed through the bars
Walked the streets
Met cool, hip people
Made memories
And now we have stories to tell

Zillions of tweaking bums
Sitting here and there some are rambling non stop
Others are rolling  the glass ****
Or WITH a rig in their,arm

Sometimes you see a few tweakers
Staring at the the pipe begging
With crocodile tears these we all know as fiends
Drama fills the little shack
Stolen electronics array and ***** needles in every trash can.. as well is outside  on  the ground
Sad and pitiful

when the time is right
when the times are good
I lived in apartments smack dab in the hood
I remember the tweakers and the town drunks
use to knock on my door when I lived in the slums
Use to give them water
and a place to sleep
woke up thinking will they be there to greet
they always were gone
And I fell back to sleep.
the moment I moved away from this place
I felt kinda fake
pretending I was rich
And my heart felt fake
I still often wonder if they knock on the door
and instead of a couch they get a curb or a floor

Mopin' in an overpriced motel
Trying to decide what items I can sell... Well, what's few and far between
Hardly any parts are even left of me

though THINGS do not define us
Take a peek in my chest cavity
You'll see I am righteous
High-strung Yet somehow Vibrant

Here it is, kids
'Tis the season of unrest
There's no sleep just tweakers
Screaming obscenities
In shadow corners
"****" "****" "****"  "godammit"
Im watching his sanity go
Right out the door

Is it the allure?
OR
Perhaps its the warm bed?
That's keeping me from leaving right along with it
I bite my tongue til it becomes
Blood red
Before I know it my mouth
Begins mimicking my head

And I'm yelling ...


"****** I can't stand it, get your **** together man!"

I'm not going to get better
It's not like that
This disease doesn't go away
There is no cure

But oh, there are symptoms
Paranoia, cynicism, and distrust
To name a few

I've heard it's my burden to bear
A toll for artistry
Which I tolerate, that is
Until the next bout sets in

Like now.

Now I am driven to madness
What a ******* up world we live in
Where nice girls turn into tweakers
Where people never change
Where we will always rather drop the bomb than talk it out
Where people hide from their feelings

That is what you're all afraid of, isn't it?
The kinds of conversation that spin out of you
Are remarkable
You'll talk of anything save the things on your mind
Fearful
Fearful of what?
Directness, no, we cannot have that here
I would much rather discuss
The grazing habits
Of a cow

I'll just get as much music and writing out there
As I can
Before I combust
And rejoin the nothing

A garden trowel in a patch of irradiated weeds

An odometer in an endless maze of MickeyD's

An encyclopedia in a pawn shop full of tweakers

A love song on a boombox with broken speakers

May I present several examples of useless things with nothing to do

Now if you think those're bad, you should see what I'm like...

My neighbors stay up all night
Doing ****
Slapping music
Talking loudly
And I remembered
For a slight minute what it feels like to live with no responsibility
Without meaning
How terrifying
How I'd sit alone in solitude
Hoping for something
And I wanna call the police because
I work
They don't
They live off the government
Do drugs
And get there children taken away
But I listen and let them be
Because, I don't know why
I feel bad in some ****** up *** way

Cracks form aside eyes of-
tweakers.
Heads down-
shuffling.
Stop. Smile. Beg.
Might as well fetch too.
Dark alleyway stops.
Shoot up.
Shooting down the block.
Stop. Smile. Breathe.
Heart racing.
Stand-
shuffle more.
Place to place,
Block to block,
Light after light,
Searing your pride.
Downcast eyes.
Prestine scowls.
Plastic smiles.
Stop. Smile. Beg.
Furrowed brows.
Echoed no's.
Fold in half,
"God bless."
Yelled, **** no's.
Who do you think you are?
Get a job.
Don't beg.
Shuffle back.
Empty parking lot.
Shoot up.
Stop. Smile. Breathe.
Shoot up.
Stop. Smile. Breathe.
Shoot up.
Stop. Smile. Breathe.
Shoot up.
Stop.
Smile.
Break.

Body no more.
Soul gone long before.

Just as soon as the emotion comes in
The emotion has vanished from my ten fingers
Those god awful tweakers have failed me again
Like a mouse on speed, I’m running into the streets

As I revel across the kitchen floor
Socks drenched in dirt and adolescence
I find that the only true time I’m happy
Is staring at the screen in my mind
Watching life whisper in my ears

Veins pop out like a loud mouth
I dream of two dozen men
Walking a tightrope toward me
And I only find that none of them
Have made it, they only fell
Down to another who loves them so
And just like that, I’m walking it too

Home is where
The wrong word is a slap
crying is a belt
noise is
cigarettes on your back

Home is where they hurt your dog to hurt you
Where the boyfriends come and go
Where the drugs and flesh
are sold

Home is cops
Pounding on the door
Drunks passed out on the floor
Kids asking for more...
Food

Home is needles
it’s pipes
It’s tweakers trading their lives
for a high

Home is spoiled milk in the fridge
Empty boxes and cans and
Roaches crawling
Everywhere

Home is burns and bruises
Scars and stitches
and frequent
accidents

Home is damp ***** stained carpet
smells like ****
I want out of it

No matter how

Paint me.
Leave your somber wooden floor.
Move to the chaos.
Paint me.

Meet the trees,
erected in the concrete.
Go mad, grow stupid.
Compare. Compare. Compare.

Hide from the outdoors.
Compare.
Paint the trash.
Slick blacks and browns.

Rats, tweakers, and mud.
Become.
Compare.
Paint me.

Pinky ring slingers,
Watch as my brothers get put in slammers,
Watch as my brother’s get hung from swingers.
Every day, every week I hear cries and gospel singers.
Every day, every week I hear gun shots and tweakers.
Trauma runs deep, our community the titanic,
All we get is static from a government,
That watches along as we sink here.
Treating it like collages cause they hearts cold as winter.
Where our cries go in one ear than out the other ear.
If the Statue of Liberty was a person,
They’d probably evict her.
I guess one may say that,
Equity has become as real as flying reindeer.
It’s cute that some think they understand the pain here,
Just because they watched Naruto.
Now, that’s what I call taking a big leap sir!
But the truth is you’ll never understand kiddo.
You may be lost now, but so too was Nemo!
Just gotta accept it like the fact that,
Han first shot at Greedo.

Dealing with the same **** since existence,
But we refuse to fix the broken toilets.
Flushing away the vulnerable.
**** a safety net.

Dealing with the same **** since existence,
But those in power keep their phones on silent.
Letting people fall through the cracks,
Thinking it’s priceless cause in their minds they’re worthless.

Yet ignorant ******* still can’t seem to fathom why we upset!
In fact the buggers uno reverse the subject.
Like they are the true victims,
Cause intersectionality displaces them.
Must really **** to be viewed as the problem?
Get over it darlin!
Tell me more about how it feels to not be pardoned for your skin!
****.
Straight up, Got ‘em.
Got they hands up but still shot em.
Got barely any food to eat, still robbed em.
May have been hit with a rock bottom.
But they still don’t know what it is to hit rock bottom!
So, shut up and **** on my *******.
***** I’m not playing,
***** I’m not joking!

Dealing with the same **** since existence,
But we refuse to fix the broken toilets.
Flushing away the vulnerable.
**** a safety net.

Dealing with the same **** since existence,
But those in power keep their phones on silent.
Letting people fall through the cracks,
Thinking it’s priceless cause in their minds they’re worthless.

You don't think I have all this anger and aggression
As a kid I've only been taught suppression
You wonder why I speak with a stutter, guessin
They tell me to sit down shut up and learn my lesson.
I have anger in my sneakers metal music fills my speakers I have more rhyme and Rhythm than the rest of these tweakers, they wouldn't know the classroom from football bleachers.
So I sit with my time I write down and rhyme while the rest of my classmates are getting caught with crime I go home and have to deal with my parents doing chores lifting up grime but I'm awake the next day back at that grind,
I suffer all day and all night it ain't right I say these Rhymes out of spite at home no dinner no good night one of these days imma take off in flight.

It was ever only for freaks geeks and tweakers
for hyper borderlines to decypher,
when alone he is times and times he listens to these rhymes

streets ahead

Forgive the gimmick that was becoming so good
Like some things you never trully owned
Best tricks you pull are the ones you sold

Greatest thing I ever felt felt so ******* cold

Holt Boulevard
Between Garey and White
Hooked up with some friends at the Travel lodge
Set ourselves up for the night

Carpenter ants in the dresser
Flies in the screen
It will be too late by the time we learn
What these cryptic symbols mean

And I dreamt of a house
Haunted by all you tweakers with your hands out
And the headstones climbed up the hills
And the headstones climbed up the hills

Send somebody out for soda
Comb through the carpet for clues
Reflective tape on our sweatpants
Big holes in our shoes
Every couple minutes someone says he can't stand it any more
Laugh lines on our faces
Scale maps of the ocean floor

And I dreamt of a camera
Pointing out from inside the television
And the aperture yawning and blinking
And the headstones climbed up the hills

If anybody comes to see me
Tell 'em they just missed me by a minute
If anybody comes in to our room while we're asleep
I hope they incinerate everybody in it

And I dreamt of a factory
Where they manufactured what I needed
Using shiny new machines
And the headstones climbed up the hills

Before its too late
Tie the bow on the Christmas
Present
And see about the back gate.

We're getting old
As we're getting young
And we know
Every song today
Will not be
A song sung.

Before its too late
Tell grandma
She convinced you
Love wasn't real.
Wasn't her fault son. It was theirs and
Their far off war with no guarantee
For sovereignty.

Before its too late
Whisper nothings at nothing
And play tricks on the dark
For once.
Make believe with belief
Because they're always telling us
What to hope for
As if they know the future.

Before its too late
Make the bed and fluff the pillow;
Do the dishes twice as the time tells mice
Whiskers and forever tweakers;
Sweep the floors forever
So we as one and neither
Can skip marry lou to a lost forest
For two plus two.

Before its too late
Learn guitar and how to howl.
It's midnight yesterday
And you should know how to do
How to do by two day from today.
We are our own trials and failures, and yet
We are still so beautiful.

Before its too late,
Strive to writhe with the struggle of the poem.
Dragonflies dance between
The consonants of madmen and madwoman
Whose muses know no patience
Or constructs of etiquette.
They come barefoot and naked or robed
And cast in the moonlight when they want
As they want for whatever they want; pirates
Of lore and violence.

Before its too late,
Do not fear.

Before its too late,
Adventure.

Before its too late,
Drink from the fountain and
Smile at strangers and
Shake your fists and their cousin moon and sky.
Break loose for thy noose
Is held by no other hand

But thine own.