1.
Nymphomaniac-addicts,
Overweight bisexual vegetarians
Climbing trees to stay fit
and eating 80’s fried chicken *******

2.
just imagine
Aquarians full of class valedictorians
Swimming on display for graduation ceremony…
reverse-symbolism of how Moolch drowned His *****

3.
Better yet, just imagine
Holy wars,
Beautiful words written to describe the burning pains
Of holocaust...the Kristallnacht nights
Under the mistletoe,
Watching Hall of fame ball hawks on pivot toes
Driving through hoes
After the whistle blows

4
College Literacy classes teaching basic:
Ideas that good questions leads to good answers,
Reading reminders
Free association conceptual constructions

5.
But *******’ professor:
free association **** shticks
misfires, false alarms
are all art, too,
Like sticking a dagger into an apple,
Not the edible, but the technology.

6.
Go head, deconstruct the philosophy
Of oral cute-tification,
according to the Tautology of Leviticus,
With the same three half truths, pogroms
against biological deviant... FLAGS!

7.
Cryptic gospels of a *******
Where three F.F.F’s
Stands for six six six
Like how 1mg of juxtaposition
And a dose of metamorphosis
is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon
‘cause even the Holy Ghost
drinks from the cup of Christ’s blood.

8.
Reading,
Self-flagellation gospel-manual of Pope John Paul II,
At shrink sessions under the daze of heron Piper methysticum blunts
With sweet phat butts like lit lickerish that droop eyes
Like the psalm of Valeriana officinalis root extract.

Who made you
the valedictorian of pain,
is mine any less?

Mumbling true-confessions
in the darkness,
pathways to
my broken heart,
with yours lying
in fields of
similar circumstances.

And yet,
we seek romance,
instant success,
gratification to feel,
to feel anything,
anything to be real,
real again,
knowing the depths
of despair.

shadows are doors
to another realm

creatures look
in from them
their eyes
tainted with
desires
and
they plot for how
they will enter
our houses
and replace us
as we
slumber

these apparitions,
translucent except for their
perfectly formed eye slits,
cannot remember
their last sleep-filled
night

(they were once you,
you must understand)

they are the over-stressed,
the over-achieving,
the well-known,
the famous

they are our heroes,
our role models,
our kings
and
fathers

they are the ones
we look up to

(and despise)

those we want to be
those we can’t admit to liking
those we take for granted and
ignore
those we call names and
bully constantly
those we cannot face alone but
who we sneer at in groups

the nerds,
the geeks,
the leaders,
the counselors,
the presidents,
the cops,
the valedictorians

we hate them
for we are not
them

the trend of our lives hurts
the deeper with dig down

but we would not dare let them take us

let them come through their doors,
take our covers and beds,
sleep, eat, *****,
let them have our lives in exchange for theirs

we would never do that

we know better

we light up our drugs,
**** in jars because the bars
don’t let us in anymore,
eat from garbage cans,
date ****** and pay pimps,
**** our brothers just to buy
*******

it’s the life for us you see

to **** up and
not give a ****

and it’s good

so the shadow doors can slam themselves
and the blood shot eyes can close shut

we’re going to bed alone tonight
and that’s perfectly fine with us

I am from

A yellow house and a little red bike

Bruises and Band-Aids on my knees

From learning every time I fall



I am from

The Band, The Beatles, Buddy Holly, and Bruce Springsteen

Our small kitchen table and Christmas cookies

From a family that almost fits on my Grandparent’s front porch



I am from

Summer memories and freckles and the Field of Dreams

The swimming hole, egg salad sandwiches, popsicles and pecan sandies

From Gramma and Fred and the Mill Road



I am from generations of tiny waists and dainty wrists

Of Marlise and Melissa and M’s

Brown eyes and pine needles and Big Rock

From denial and acceptance



I am from

Tea with my mom and driving with my dad

My beautiful Hazel

From the Harvest Party and my beloved barn



I am from soft white clouds of comforters

A room painted the shade of pink lemonade

Arizonas and cosmic brownies and Matt’s Honeydew melon Sorbet

From Quickway and the Gazebo and Cherry Valley


I am from a collection of keys with no locks

Chewed cuticles and paper cuts

A mouthful of words and a bad habit of tripping

From the love of glue and sharp scissors



I am from years of *****, bare feet

And freedom to be me

Getting the mail everyday except Sunday

From picnic tables and corn on the cob


I am from a love of language and words and poetry

A love of planes and tractors and the Superbowl

A big family as strong as the Brooklyn Bridge

And just as supportive too


I am from my dream catcher

Catching my fantasies of fast cars and shooting stars

A bottle full of memories and polaroids taped to my wall

From hip hop and coca cola and heart shaped sunglasses


I am from the baby freckles on my shoulders

A love of sun and freshly mowed green grass

Brave New World and Brandy Melville

From tweeting and handwritten letters


I am from the studio floor and my ballet slippers

My favorite black leotard and Fuentes

12 years of pointed feet and tutus

From the dressing room and the barre


I am from the Star of David and 8 burning candles

Suburban Philadelphia and Black Friday

Diners and Chinese Food and Fortunes

From my dad


I am from the cornfields and red barns

Chickens and cows, fresh eggs and warm milk

Valedictorians and Ivy leagues

From my mom



But most of all, I am from the puzzle pieces of myself

The dark, dusty, unexplored corners of my brain

The fear of death and rats and failure and loneliness

From the love of life and belief and hope

Literary allusions: the curse of
Those who overdo—or, as some say--
Overdid the reading thing.
I speak of close associates,
Imaginary friends you’ve not met,
Let alone read (pronounced "RED") about.
Like this guy down at Moe’s Tavern,
An 8th Avenue writer’s bar I frequent.
Let's call him Paulie Muldoon,
A fat Irish slob who claims to be
Poetry Editor, "The New Yorker."
Paulie likes to give me tips on
HOW TO GET PUBLISHED!
Like me, he’s never
Been in print anywhere,
Other than his ***-encrusted laptop, &
A letter he once wrote to the editors of
"The National Kreplach Review,"
A radical Zionist quarterly
Funded by The Mel Brooks Foundation,
Harvey Weinstein & Condé Nast.
Nevertheless, Paulie seems to know
A lot about the publishing business,
Particularly after six stiff Jack & Cokes.
He says the thing is this:  
The best of the Ivy-League’s
English majors wind up in Manhattan,
Slaving away in cubicles,
Working for peanuts—literally,
The publishing industry has some sort of
Barter agreement with Planters.
(www.planterspeanuts.com)                                       ­            
They sit around on their ***** all day,
Getting their kishkes in a twist,
Eating peanuts, perusing manuscripts,
Like chimp Zoo valedictorians.
The manuscripts submitted by the hopeful
And--for the most part--delusional.
According to Paulie, these Yalie, Princeton,
Harvard, Columbiana WORDMEISTERS
Are more likely. . .
(Urban Dictionary: word-meister (www.urbandictionary.com/define.php? 1. Something yelled in place of a cuss word. 2. a rare species of humpback whales. 3. small children whose mother's name is Debbie.)
. . . More apt to be impressed with your scree
If you lay siege their psychic CPUs,
Pushing a few obscure,
Mnemonic function keys, remembrances
Of past Proustian peregrinations.
That's right, you get a much
Better shot at sidestepping that
First smug obstacle of arrogance,
If you slather them; go right
Ahead & flatter them with
Lotions, potions & emoluments,
Arcane passwords,
Vain secret satisfactions,
Tidbits of titillation,
Things that only some mook
That actually had read "The Crucible."
Or "The Scarlet Letter,"
Could possibly know,
Let alone, remember.
For a publisher’s water-boy,
A synaptic switch is keyed,
Tripping off an avalanche of
Marginally relevant,
Yet ultra-literate,
Cognitive highlights.
And, while we're on the subject,
Has anyone actually read Melville's "OMOO?"

Two hundred and forty pounds, and not an ounce of confidence.
I’ve got weight enough for two women, and a heart heavy enough for three,
but I’m still waiting for the one.

Not a single date to my name, with Senior Prom a week away.  
What happened next, the blind man who walked into The *** of Gold
called miraculous.

It was five feet, four inches, one hundred and twenty pounds of she’s too
good for me.  Miss Horizon High School: the past star of my silent affections.
I cue my minstrels as the fairy tale begins:  

First it was the ‘yes’, followed by a date that ended with a fuzzy crown.
Then it was a quiet love that lived in awkward poems, freed from text
by her appreciation.

Graduation came, the two of us on stage, Valedictorians bringing in the future,
helping turn the page.  Life was like a book, and I the people’s king, the
man who’d conquered everything.

I knew this more than I knew myself, I knew it better than anything
I’d  learned from life.  I was surer than any man had ever been
that this was God.  He exists, and He loves me.

When I’d fall God would catch me, just so I could keep on jumping from
the tree to see if I could fly.  This feeling was His gift, and as a humble man,
I thanked him, instead of her.

Growing up being told you're smart,
Making straight A's,
Hitting those marks;
You started to believe you were something great.

The truth is,
Tens of thousands of valedictorians graduate every year.
Most don't change the world
In the way you wanted to.
Some become parents,
Work those 9 to 5 jobs;
Too busy living a typical life,
Not studying or traveling abroad.

You thought you were different.
Now can't you see?
To **** the marrow out of life
Is to live privately,
And the attention you seek
Will come from friends and lovers locally.