Boy the mad man is mean
          ain't he, ha?
The mad man mad with
          unfair things, no?
******* the mad man
          gon' get hit, na.
******* the mad man
          man he's mad, huh?

I think you will like it
          the mad man.
He gets mad 'nd tell it
          how it is.
He howls at the moon
          crazy like wolves.
Snarls and grunts, the
          ripping of the flesh.
Flesh rots, smells, becomes
          like the mad man.
Old, cold, forgotten:
          crazy like wolves.
The mad man.

At first I hear snarls, "Nice
jeans, ******!" although I'm
sure they don't include any
punctuation when ragging
on my anorexic pants
as if my jeans have anything
to do with my sexuality as if
the color of skin had anything
to do with last week's mugging
as if Catholics didn't once
**** for religion.

My friend Frank asked how my
day was and it was fine: I
finally trimmed my finger
nails; he looked at me funny.

I don’t cut them frequently
but I cut them enough it’s
not like I’m some sort of freak.

Two flower gardens engulf
you in the pattern of the
fabric, trapped; the
vocal track of the song
slows down

- boom, thunder -

until the ******* seems
like the storm itself.

Old wood and brick walls made it
seem like the place called home
and we met a few strangers. She
wore a floral patterned dress and
me a combination of smoky greys.
The jukebox caused feet to dance
as musky bourbon casks ran dry.

The days blur together: fog
and moisture run off of the docks
with sunrise providing a flash
of hope that something will change.
But sunset rips change from
our callused hands that
don’t even blister anymore.

Algae green waves crash onto
the black rocks of the ocean,
the sea foam caps inviting my feet
to dance into the unknown depths
of the sea. A petite fishing boat
cuts through the fog and we meet
face-to-face.

Flowers blowing in the wind
give me a flash of hope something
will change. She offers a weak smile
and is gone as fast as she appeared.
Gone - it happens so quickly; the
wind picked up and my feet decided
to dance. Fall down, never get up again.

bebop, bebop
sway your hips
tap your foot
tap, tap, tap

Cold November Evening
Cambridge, MA
Scarf, Pea coat, Flannel
Hot mulled Cider

Leaves have turned.
Red, orange, yellow.
They clutter the ground.
Wipe your feet.

sing, sing it loud
dance with her
dance with him
one two three four

Body Heat Insulates
472 Massachusetts Ave
Skinny Jeans, Toms Classics
Chilled Brooklyn Lager

Lights on the stage.
Red, orange, yellow.
They warm the atmosphere.
Play one more song.

Don’t let this night end.

Well, I’m stuck on the roof and my ladder is broken.
I watch my footing so I don’t slip down the icy *****.
My worn out sneakers keep me relatively secure
but I could certainly use some bigger boots.
******* ones. With large golden buckles.
Black boots so big it’s impossible not to hear
me coming. And black goes with red so
give me a red suit, classy and stylish
but still quite comfortable.
Add a white belt, beard
white trimmed red hat,
and then I wouldn’t
be stuck next to
this *******
chimney.