you were still asleep
when I opened my eyes
light, rhythmic breathing
streaks of light showering
your sleeping face
amazing the tricks
sunlight can play in the early morning
you were beautiful there
and beautiful everywhere
and I wish I could have saved
this moment
for a day with no sunlight
or for when that inevitable axe
creeps toward my neck
let me live this moment
forever
your eyes flutter
glance at me
smile softly
and the whole world melts
you place your fingers lightly
between mine
and I shiver
with the morning sun
as it burns brighter in its
celestial bulb
in this moment
everything is ok

they say when you
get into the role
it can consume you
drive you crazy
blur the
lines between you
and who you're supposed to be
some roles you never get out of
--they say--
some masks stay on
more and more
it gets harder to tell
while you fight desperately
to remember who sits
at the core of all of these façades
and characters
scratch and claw at
the masks to tear them off
but only skin breaks
and the blood seems to be yours
that mask's still there
still won't come off
time goes on
there's no
you anymore
everything you are is altered
like a warped
chemical reaction

been wearing masks
for years now
fighting with the truth and the
role's I chose to take on
been acting
for years now
and can no
longer tell which
one is
fake
and which one is
really me
anymore

I don't know if
you remember
as vividly as I do
find it hard to believe
that you would
you're off in another
life
another world
and ******* the
grass
seems greener
over there

I don't know if you
remember any of it
but I do
--an ability that
has proved to be
as much curse as blessing--

I don't know if you remember
or just laugh and smile
and play along
when I bring up the past
a past that seems more and
more one-sided as the years
grow longer
a past where I believed in things
as vain or valiant as love
or war
or peace
we made the first two
on several occasions
--never could grasp the third--

I was young
you were smart
and I was exactly what you needed
for the time you needed me
that's that
everything after has been
ripples in the pond
growing smaller and further
from the initial splash
with every touch

I don't know if you remember
like I do
maybe you still think about it
sometimes
when he's gone
off on some trip
leaving you alone with
ghosts
maybe not
it's all a new world now
I'm not so young anymore
but you're still smarter
over there
in that new life

I swear that grass looks greener
everyday

they do not relent
impossible to
catch a break
I cannot keep up
they sneak in
through windows and vents
observe every move
with eyes like birds of prey
they sneak in
hidden behind
smiles and short dresses
faking love in the shallow
hours of the morning
talons caress
the edges of my back
as the grip tightens
ripping through flesh
before departing
--full from such feast--
while I lay unnecessary and asleep

they are the vulture circling
waiting for the ****
they are the eagle
tearing out my liver
prometheus on the rock
day after day
they do not relent
they do not
relent

back on the railroad
caught between the current
and the cold
how is it ol' Cassady died?
they say he rode the tracks
all the way to Avalon
say it was exposure
that got him in the end
secobarbital and second hand smoke
waiting on a wet sunrise
that never came
counting railroad ties
half way to infinity
hell of a way to go
the hero of two generations
hell of a way to go
not with a bang
--as they say--
no one there to hear the whimper
4am ticket to shambhala

Hank gave up the grief
weeks before he died
crippled and old
poor *******
Bukowski could
hardly walk
down those hallways
to hell
maybe Hem did it best
Ti Jean died from that almighty
weight on his shoulders
unhappy with a dead liver
and a dead spirit. yes,
Hem did it best it seems
him and Hunter
--football season is over--
felt the world
slipping out
quick as it came
so they both put a
quick one to the brain

all of my old friends
are dead now
one way tickets to Shangri-La
I see them
they all walk the tracks
but they don't wait up
they don't wait up

light one for me
Hank
I'll be there soon enough

saw his mother
while they buried him. her hair
--with sorrow as flint--
smoked and caught fire. the world began to
cave in up and around the swollen fist of regret that punched
through my stomach --the fire spread--
speared my gut with blame.
all the while
a cacophony
of strings and trumpets
cried parting and
a soul flew
on golden banners
towards heaven
those stone white graffitied gates.
--the fire grew too much to handle--
in agony I flailed and screamed.
rolled down tall mountains clawing at bone and dirt
and flesh. gilded chariots breaking free. shepherding the beautiful
from the leperous, riddled atrophy that controls the living.
the dying and the burning. how everything burns
dies. fire smoke guilt regret. oh sweet death.
death in the summertime. death in the
morning, the evening, death of
everything. always.

eyes open
--a crisp, cluttered autumn hillside--
fall back upon his mother
reality stricken and grave.
blink twice. refocus.
a tear falls from her face
followed by
one from
mine.

the fire is out.

we used to take the kayak
down the river
behind our house
to play tricks in
the mud of the *******
and with more grace than I
thought achievable
you would cartwheel
past the highway bridge
that served as boundary
set by our parents
and you would laugh
and I would laugh
and the whole
******* world
would laugh till
dinner time
when we'd trudge in
mud swept and weary
smiling and happy

now
I can't touch the ****** kayak
it's overgrown with vegetation
and nest to dead reptiles
while older
but still graceless
I stand on our dock
thinking about childhood
seems rushed
like watching from
one of those cars
on the bridge flashing by
looking down and
then backwards
at two kids playing in mud
you're moving into real life
and me
dragged not far behind

I don't even know if you
still remember
that horrible *******
or those endless family dinners
but I do
and somehow
we both made it
you always three
and a half
steps ahead
of me
so thank you
maybe you weren't so bad
after all

the first rays
bleed through
our old quartered
window panes
--slightly yellowed with
old age and neglect--
it casts a golden light
across the room
falling on top of the bed
as we once did
young lovers eclipsed in
passion too strong to control
muscles tensed with love
as shadows roar like lions
in back arched ecstasy
across the canvas wall
there's no passion
anymore
only the golden
light from
the window
as it falls
on an old man
alone with his shadow

there's a carnival
of all white
where the white
band plays
white noise
that soothes white ears
and white elephants
play small white trumpets
and eat small white peanuts
to the applause of a happy
white crowd
with bright white lights shining
down over us all
a young boy wins a white stuffed
animal from a game where white
rings are tossed on white bottles
--it appears to be
harder than it looks--
and a white wife tells a white lie
to her white husband
and white snow
carpets the white ground
and white footprints
from white shoes
and white hooves
make white tracks
like an amazing white
calligraphy across a white
easel
but if you
look closely at that
caked white snow
that falls
and carpets that white ground
you see stains of something
something not white
a snow tinged red
but you blink and it's gone
back to white
just illusions of color
spilled from some
war a long time ago
perhaps
and if you look hard you might see it
but no one looks hard
anymore
and why should they
those white elephants are so funny
with their white trunks and white ears
everything is great
everything is dandy
and everything is white
here at this white carnival
but for some reason
the snow
still seems a little
pink
to me

i give up
seems like
i've been using
that line more
and more recently
the fight is no fun
anymore
old bones don't move
like a butterfly no more
and it seems the bees keep
swarming
while i've run out of stings
too many blows
to the head and heart
severly concussed
and fading fast
there are
other young bulls
sneaking in the ring
where i wish to escape
let them breathe in
that spotlight
see how many fights
they can win before
they're out cold
wish them the best
i need out
i need out
but it aint easy
you live the ring for so long
you don't know the outside
anymore
where the women aren't
throwing jabs at my head
heart like a punching bag
as i grow older
grace is wasted on the graceful
now i'm nothing
but a beat up old man
with no wife and no lovers
out of the ring and into the freezing cold
a world i can't seem to remember

everything that
happens now
is pouring rain
banging fists on
window panes
elevated fear overcomes
excavated truths
atrophy is
a blessing
oh just to be weak
only a whimper
of jumping ship
to save yourself
with all the plans
just shot to hell

--the frying pan
is all we know
although the fire
looms below--

bones break as glass
shatters and collide
terrible secrets
drip out of pores
like sweat
and the rain still falls
weaker weaker
fists echo
noiselessly off of
transparent cages
another crack in
the glass
while the rain still falls

--from the fire
looking up
the frying pan doesn't
appear so rough--

glass is broken
bones are broken
and as the rain falls
I am weak at last
give in
that terrible weight
off of sunken shoulders
where did you go
you let me
get this bad
used to be strong
could handle
the world
can hardly stand
anymore
the glass is broken
yet freedom looms
far as ever
I would settle for peace
no chance
no chance
and the rain still falls

the window was open
and upon
looking out
into that
chill
post winter air
with the last
of the post winter
snow on the ground
with spring
waiting to erupt
i saw
the devil and god
work out their
differences
i saw the
stars all bursting
as one
i saw the heavens
and the earth
and everything between
open up and felt
reality burst forth in
color and beauty and love
so many brilliant things
passing before my eyes
amazing and breath taking
i had to pause a moment
had to look away
upon my gazes return
i saw that post winter
snow again
waiting for spring
and i saw you
almighty in your elegance

with all else forgotten
i stared in awe

kneeled on tile floor
there's no sense
of pride
anymore
the blood won't
stop
cough after
godforsaken cough
no idea where you are
and you come to realize
you don't even know
who
you are anymore
or how you got there
scared out of your mind
unable to move
praying someone
doesn't walk in
--wipe your
******* mouth, son,
you're a ******* disgrace--
look at me
all of this is wrong
but it doesn't stem the blood
try a sip of water
and your stomach
turns inside out
burning up your throat
torn by convulsions
broken down man
broken down and useless
and all you can bear to think
about as you
cough and cough again
wiping all that **** away
is just how badly
you need one more hit

these bones are
growing heavy
can't hardly
walk up the
stairs anymore
only a matter of time
before they break
and I fall
down
step after step
can't lift my
arms
can't get up
anymore
as the vultures
circle above
and the sharks
smell blood
swoop in
add insult to injury
unable to move
listening
as the world falls apart
step after step
the women
move on and around
money gone
memories leaving
so heavy
can't get up anymore
the women get me the worst
laughing and laughing
burning knives into my back
they have been waiting
for this
for me to fall apart
they knew it was
only a matter of time
they plotted and schemed
behind their
smiles
they jumped
from the
sinking ship
so slowly drowned
unable to swim
just smell that blood
in the water
here they come
here they come
as everyone laughs
and I do nothing

my bones have grown heavy
and I cannot get up

I've had the same view
here in the city
for awhile now
the banks of the schuylkill
the art museum
rocky balboa himself
its been 6 months
the same window
the same view
so many lights
always on
occasional cars
I can hardly see
last nights snow
littering the ground
7 stories downward
one hell of a fall
the glass is too thick
don't worry
no cleanup today
only me
watching the snow melt
and the cars pass
and the life
of everything
drudging slowly onwards
as it has for six months now
here on the banks
of the schuylkill
the tempo is all off
a terrible pace
in a terrible place
Kerouac did a year
up in New York
6 months more
then maybe I'm out
of here
on the road
to mexico
cheap liquor
and cheaper love
the heart beats
quicker there
stooped up in
some backwards
bordello
paying dime a dollar
for another round
then off to san francisco
where the beat stomps
and stutters under that
spotlight
or maybe the blood red mesas
of el paso
where the young broads
dark as honey
can taste just as sweet
but only just a while
its that thrill
you long to have
one more time
breaking a sweat in
the backyards
sneaking love
under fences
and desert floors
just to be anywhere else
where the beat is quicker
than here
I'm growing deaf to it
here in the doldrums
here in the city
of brotherly love
on the banks of the schuylkill
watching the same view
from the same window
as rocky balboa stands tall
moving faster than me in
that forever celebration

in the backroom bars of barcelona
broken bottles
blind old *******
with their blistered burdens
in their borrowed brilliance, basking
I sit; watch
reflect everything and nothing
a young boy brings jugs of water and ice
to our table
thinking on the bloodied realists
slumped in their stone thrones
condemning wild romance
with secret affairs
in the lost woods of aesthetic absolution
where ignorance has ascended bliss
up to the scorned eyes of thomas
that great protector of paradise

paradise
women and widows
and daughters and wives
sisters and sinners
slumped into sorrowful silence
stinging at the senses
where *** plagues the sacred
stolen sips from the chalice
wicked wine in the form of futility
reality and humanity
frail fruit forbidden from the fingernails
and the tongues and the tastes
and the tryst
between thinking and feeling
soldiers of thought
and solitude
march in their crooked lines
toward inevitable absolution
against the caressed canopies
of sensation
and surface level distraction

When thinking on everything
It's hard not to understand
Why people hope for
A greater being
Some form of deity
It's hard not
To hope for
An almighty design
After seeing
How humanity has
Killed itself
Hard not to hope

So I've come to an
Agreement
With my simple minded
Spirituality
And decided
That all of existence
Is made by some
Heavenly Author
Creating entertainment
For the almighty masses
A Celestial bestseller
So to speak

All the death
Catastrophe
Love and Hate and Chaos
All of it
In order to keep the
Pages turning

Therefore,
Just as
Mercutio was born to die

Just as
Every aspect of his character
And life
Was molded around the single
Unwavering moment
Of his death
At Tybalt's hand

Just as
He existed to serve his purpose
Between his best friend
And the tip of a blade
So must I serve
And finish a chapter
Of this epic poem

Write on, Shakespeare
I follow your lead

perched on the curb
like a pigeon
on a telephone wire
clutching a cigarette
watching
the remnants of the rain
wash down the gutter
there's nothing like
that post rain morning
with the air
heavy and thick
a weeping sunrise
peeks through
scattered showers
and thunderstorms
those early mornings
like noah
after the flood
the world seems
wet
and new
clean
simple innocent
until the people wake up
and the illusions fade
into that nine to five reality
with their car horns
and scattered conversation
dont know what they missed
what they ruined
sighing
i walk back inside
away from a world left wanting

The house is stone gray
Unpainted walls collage
The morning sun
Ugly and broken
Cracks permeate the tile floors
I lay
In lavished grace
Mattress on the floor
Strewn with stains and mistakes
Reveling in sweet
Disgust
While everything works around us
In order -- in line

From the mattress
A glance to the doorway
Reveals the woman
The alpha and omega
The reason to love life
And to hate it
She isnt unscathed by this
Ugliness
I have surrounded myself with
Bruises and cuts
Past fights
Her own demons to face
Nostrils red and inflamed
From short term relief
She's the queen
The everything
Amidst all of this nothing
No god. No government.
Only the cracked walls
The cockroaches
The rising sun
And her

This is my kingdom

I grab the handle
Of Maker's Mark
That slept with me
And start again anew

With the absence
of Grace
or transcended
human morality
there is silence
so what do you believe
when almighty Jupiter lays
crucified in the caressing arms
of Vishnu
Christ bent
broken over the knees
of Mohammad
what do you believe in
Father?
what do you believe in
Mother?
when Absalom
ascends the throne
and Daniel suffocates
in the lion’s den
what faith holds you
speechless
and chaste
as the stories
twist and burn
to crash together
on the endless palette
of human belief

the needle’s worn the
groove too deep
now the record won't play
all we have to believe in
is silence

let the deity’s roll in
celestial graves
give me human interaction
the touch of lover’s hand
sacraments that bring more absolution
than sorrowed sermons
screaming out just to
break that silence

oh, la musique de nos collisions fabriquer
laissent peu pour la l'âme à faux

walking under streetlights
**** drunk and
alone
worried about looks
self
aware
self
conscious
      who am i?

i am young
yet feel old
i am tall
yet feel short
        so it goes

i am old
yet feel young
life is long
then it's not
       so it goes

walking under streetlights
**** drunk and
alone
human interaction
blurred and erratic
kicked
out of bars
****
out of luck
       who am i?

i am an animal
yet feel human
i see god
yet feel nothing
       so it goes

walking under streetlights
debating individualism
and the self
old dean moriarty
that father they never found
wonder
oh what wonders
have we missed
we can't
even know

                                       so it goes

My father always
taught me to
pick my battles,
physical
or otherwise.
To choose
very wisely
what exactly was,
and was not,
worth fighting for.

Years later
I still struggle.
My eyes are black
and swollen
while my father
sits back, laughing
in his sales pitches and
stock options,
bartering cubicles for
candy bars.

"Keep it up, son"
he says,
"keep it up.
You’ll
win one,
eventually.
Keep blowing chances
and closing doors,
don't worry,
you'll grow up
eventually."

Yet I’m still here.
Street cornered with
broken bones
and gutted pride,
late nights spent
throwing fists at
passing shadows.

a bird calls morning
already awake
i burn the papered edge
of nicotine and habit
the new day yawns into existence
through drooping clouds
and condensation
rub my eyes
stare from the porch
into the mist
almighty rain
cooling and calming
hides the sun
as his drowsy gaze
echoes back into my soul
perusing my dreams
thoughts
inhibitions

zoom out
see the trout
fighting the river
see the bird whose call
woke the morning
see the wife
resilient in her
bruise beaten love
back to my
silken sorrowed soul
the sun still continues
in its rise
above and apathetic
over the clouds
trees people buildings
looking down on
everything
he looks back at me
and we both
laugh

poetry is dead
in the venues we
are accustomed
there is no
beat
sitting on stage
preaching
the madness
no
romantics
in stony silence
as the pages turn
we have no
present day
poets
that still
believe in
the written word
and the effect
a
line
break
can
have
on a reader
no
no more
no one wants
to settle behind
the scenes
rockstar lifestyles
don't present themselves
to the typists
beating their keyboards
as they do
their wives
but that's how it goes
these are for me
anyways
not you
this is the purging
of every sinful thought
I create
you don't know the
half of it
probably none
at all
but that's how it goes
these lines
all this poetry
isn't made
for kindles
and smart phones
no more
typewriters
or weekly readings
only me
dark in my room
poisoning
the text box
and shivering
guiltily as i
write
one
more
line

what to write about tonight
I wrote one
earlier
about the rush of
everything
about how crazy
this world can be
but that's overused
that's oversaid
I could write
about the woman
again I guess
she comes and goes
different names
different faces
but I know her when
I see her
in the eyes
of them all
you can tell
where she is
hiding
watching
waiting to bait
me in
she will always catch
me
though she's long gone
she will always catch me
I write to avoid her
I drink to forget her
I ****
just to feel her again
she will catch
me
and I will
let her

the sun had set
as the hours grew
and then diminished
as they tend to
i lay at the typewriter
pretending
late into the night
pitter pattering
fingers like rain
on the keyboard
in a room otherwise
dark and otherwise quiet
but realizing futility
staring at a blank page
and an empty bottle
i retired to my bed
and as i climbed in
the woman
eyes still closed
asked if i was done
and on hearing
my resigned sigh
she smiled
she smiled and
told me to
come to bed
it will all be alright
if the sun
rises again
tomorrow
she said
it'll be alright
she said
i guarantee it
so i laid next to her
and she rubbed my hand
and kissed my knuckles
as she tends to do
in bouts of affection
and i couldn't help but smile
the right woman
can be a miracle
in the darkest hours

as I reach toward twenty
its hard to see past it
don't see much
don't see much past 2 o'clock
no sir no sir
got an exam
then it's the long flight
back home to momma
back home to all those
chirping birds
kicking and screaming
how I love
to tear them apart
how I love
smooth
muffled moves in the dark
cannot wait
mouth watered in anticipation
that sweet love comes quick
cheap and easy
it's the sour one
worth working for
the one that
doesn't talk as much
cold and hard
can't crack that shell
no sir no sir
but it's the challenge
that almighty game
predator and prey
--never know which one's you
till you're chewed up
or ******* up--
no choice
if you don't
you're the sucker
you gotta play it
gotta make the moves
but watch out
she's got claws
like razorblades
and they won't let go
they won't let go
no sir no sir

walking across campus
late nights
brings a sort of cool
peace that spreads
through the body
except for the ankle
i turned the night before
drunk somewhere
with someone
doing something
i can't ever seem to stop
doing
the night appears to
be catching up with me
once and for all
and the limp
doesn't help
wish i'd stop drinking
but i can't find a reason
can't find an alternative
without worse consequence
the night is catching
up with me
it seems
and my mind is falling through
it seems
memory lapse and total collapse
don't seem too far off
where self control is a
ill-conceived notion
and these late nights
might be the only
clarity or peace
i get
this life is burying me
using bottles for shovels
and cigarette butts for dirt
i've been living it
too long
and the toll does get paid
eventually

sixteen
what was it like
again?
becoming infinite
on that couch
at her parents house
what was her name
again?

lost at sea
look out
behind the aft
is that sixteen?
almost off the horizon now
but this ship don't turn around
no no no
here comes twenty
on track to forever
rough waves and storm
can't remember the calm
no sign of shore

here comes twenty
think I'm seasick
throw me overboard
seasick and sorry
wish it would
slow the **** down
just for a second
look at sixteen
what was it like
again?

cutting off blood circulation
--inflammation--
hand is turning
black to blue
poor fool's face
must've been
made of steel

typing with one hand
on a late morning
3rd cup of coffee
finally getting that heart
pumping

wondering what he's doing

hope the *******'s face
fell off

there's a sort of
primal urge
that rips through
the body
and you can't stop
blow after blow
until someone pulls
you away
bones shattered
up and down your hand
can't even tell
till you wake up
one late morning
and you're typing
with one hand
wondering
if that *******
had as much trouble
brushing his teeth
as you did

i met her at the bar
we had been introduced
by mutual friends
and soon we were back at
my apartment
and i could feel the weight
in my chest
every time she smiled
or laughed in that reserved soprano
she had a beautiful voice
and we lay in bed
and talked and kissed
and over everything else
enjoyed the night
but soon she turned to me
and i asked what was the matter
she was scared she told me
because she knew me
she said
because i wasn't a good man
she said
because i was tall and strong
and old
and talk such bad language
and have been with many women
they are all ******
i told her
***** and ugly and meaningless ******
compared to you
but she didn't believe it
'i am another of your ******'
she had said
'to be ****** and forgotten'
no no no
i promise
but she wouldn't be convinced
and i didn't know how to fix it
i pleaded with her
no no no
she wouldn't stop
another one of my ******
just another one
though she was far from it
and i lay next to her
getting farther and farther away
unable to do anything
as my terrible and unwanted past
reared its terrible and unwanted head
and ruined love
once again

i wake up
in the morning
crooked on the mattress
all turned around
black eye
swollen jaw
reminiscent
of a night i
refuse to remember
bless the small graces
of the subconscious
the brain is burning
in it's sockets
consequence of a chemical
i swore
to be rid of
what a life i live
counting down to
senility
and death
speeding up the clock
with forty creek and rat poison
sticking a knife in my stomach
to call it a good time
can't get the taste out of my mouth
like rust and vinegar
can't open my jaw
the night
retreats
victorious and grinning
it has claimed me
once more
this cycle is tiring
the hull can't hold
ship soon sunk
the whole world greyed
by a sunrise i can't see
and a life i seem to have
lost control of
the edge has gone
the sharpness in the contrast
no vivid blues
when i see the sky
no no no
only grey
cold and unwelcome
each morning
you wake
and it seems a little worse
the body can't keep
this up forever
that's what your doctor said
that's what your woman begged
but there is comfort
familiarity
in the blurred sacrifice
of terrible numbness
and as i awake
every morning
i almost see the golds and greens
but a little color
goes each time
and now there is only grey

I think I could be a good writer
if I stopped and focused
for a period of time
if I could withdraw
from the streetlights
and the biting cold
that burns the veins
I try sometimes
to put out something
that someone may find
worthy of something
not sure what
but I try
and the words
sputter and choke
and all you see
on the page
is spittle
and small drawls
of a *****
waning man
who
not even twenty
can't keep to the course
he wants to walk
instead
dragged willingly off
by the women that
would eat his skin
and internals
laugh
in depravity
with teeth and tongue
much too sharp
I dont notice
another drink
another drink
I don't notice
all I see is legs
almighty
legs and
smiles that could
break satan's heart
another drink
another drink
I don't see anything
but the feeling
cuts through
the nothingness
of intoxication
and curls the neck
into tense relief
such leg
such smile
I am a sitting duck
ready and willing
such teeth
such tongue
they feast on me
like dogs to bone
can't focus
epic poems
escape
my tendered hands
inches from closure
as the teeth
and tongue
and leg and smile
pull me back
another drink
another drink
what was
I talking about
again?

all my teeth fell out the other day
and my tongue lost its taste
it was unsure how to handle itself
and grew numb and heavy
inside the remains of my mouth
speaking -- without much choice --
stopped being a priority
and my jaw hung loose
with the weight of words unsaid
i decided the best course of action
would be to become a writer
perhaps a poet
and maybe i could get the weight
out apart from conventional means
so i typed and typed
and deleted
and retyped -- such is the life of a
terrible writer, i'm sure you understand --
until i finally closed my eyes and knew
that i had found what i had always
needed to say
i wept tears of joy
for my discovery
and also ones of regret
for not being able to speak out
and preach to the world my sermon
i opened my eyes and peered into
the screen
mouth agape
overwhelmed with its own uselessness
i looked onto the screen
and found it blank
a mistake -- i knew --
had been made
clicking undo yielded no relief
there were no words
and it was then i realized the truth
the mistake was my own
words alone
do not carry weight
they are only conduits
through which emotion
translates itself from
the heart unto the brain
to give them power
is to take away from the act
men are scared of thunder
for it speaks a common language
but true fear lies in the lightning
i was a fool for becoming a writer
even more so a poet
but now, smiling -- toothless and swollen --
i will sit in silence

the couch isn't
as comfortable as
you remember
your eyes begin
the process of opening
but you force them shut
dare not
move a muscle for fear of
mental collapse
your head
on the anvil while
smith swings hammer
continuously
one
after
another
no rest for the weary
no rest
you lay there in the morning
is it even morning?
palms sweaty
sick as a dog
with nowhere to go
the bar closed too early and
seems it will never open
another drink
another drink
keep em coming jack
don't let this old dog down
its only the 12th and
I've got two weeks to die
two weeks
can't seem to pull
that trigger fast enough

i poured a drink
and told my friend of the old maid
who used to come every other
monday to the
house where i grew up
and how beautiful
she was
and how i would clean my room
the night before she came
just to impress her
and she would come in
all those bright monday mornings
and she would smile
ask to vacuum
in her broken, thickly
accented english
and i would smile back
hoping that despite
her Portugese heritage
her broken english
and her son my age
that there was hope
for me

--he smiled at this
and we laughed
at the amazing
fantasies of
men and boys--

and i told him again
how beautiful she was
though i don't think he really
understood exactly
she came for years
until one bright
monday morning
after she smiled and
asked to vacuum
i returned to
find my wallet
emptied
and my laptop as
missing as she was

--i informed him
it was the first
and only time
a woman
had broken my heart--

for years after that woman
has plagued my thoughts
from time to time
wondering where
she could possibly be
alive or dead
and how many
more poor, starry
eyed nine year olds
she had broken
since me

me and my friend smiled
and poured up another
drink
this one's for you
my beautiful thief

She interrupted me while reading,
"Go **** yourself,"
she said
"You are
nothing, and deserve
nothing, and I hope you die alone with
nothing.
Because you are *****,"
she said,
"***** and terrible
and full of shame.
I cannot look at you
any longer without disgust."

"Ok"
I replied,
dismissing her concern.
"This Hemingway is amazing
and I'd like to return to it."

She took none too
kindly to that,
ripped the novel
from my fingers.
"You are *****,"
she said,
"***** and terrible.
I cannot look at you
without such an anger
at myself for believing
you were something
more than nothing to me,
but now I have realized
and now you are nothing."

I didn't respond,
couldn't.
Such a beautiful anger
deserves no response
that I could give.
So she stormed off
all angry and beautiful
toward some other
man to fall in and out
of debt and love and
everything else with
as she had always done
and would always do.
It took all I had
not to stare in awe
as her silhouette stole
quickly out the door
into the dark,
novel in hand,
to leave me alone
with nothing,
just as I deserve.

the heat has gone
with the rain
a fierce humidity
saturating every breath with salt
and hydrogen and oxygen
wet dreary hell
smothering the houses
the people inside
all tucked away
breaking bones and sweat
too much to live these days
too much
hearts don't beat like they used to
the world's gone grey
don't shine like it used to
and its maddening
once again
except now
the roads are empty
and now
the madness is
in the
corners of the
bars and
townhouse basements
where small men
whittle away at
their
shallow pride
beating their
purchased wives
to make up
for the love
its a madness
in the blood
it is a cancer of the soul
or maybe it is
the salvation
can't really tell
hard to see
or think
much of anything
anymore
everyone drowned
by everything
as the world
limps onward
toward winter

she is getting married
I had no idea
tying the knot
while I can hardly
tie my shoes without
falling over anymore
think back on the nights
I'd lay in her bed
naked and young
while her parents slept
through a thin wall
we would wait
wait wait wait
until we heard the snoring
and then make love
--with serious concern
for the noise level--
always shushing
and snickering
our bitter and dark secret
continuing long after
we had ended
there were times I would
fly into town
and her groom to be
would be out at work
and we would move
to and in her room again
new now
more mature
grown up
picture frames and feng shui
not the pink and black
blankets and posters
that used to surround us
and we would make that
silent love
waiting for the garage door
and then I'd sneak out her window
careful to cover the trigger that
set off her alarm
I know that window
like my own front door
cutting through her
and the neighbor's
yards to where my
car was conveniently
parked
four houses down
I never met the man
he worked all day
always brought
her home something
sweet
--a true class act
i'm sure--
I was the down and out
the one that you don't
bring home to daddy

she is getting married
and I didn't even know
some other man some other problem
oh how things
grow and fall apart
just to grow together again
she'll walk down the aisle
while her daddy and my
missed opportunities
hand her off to a
better man
and I'll come in town
a few years from now perhaps
and make sure
I'm quiet
as to not wake the kids
before fleeing
--quickly and quietly--
out that window
once again

It's not something you notice.
Years pass,
maybe you don't keep
in touch
as much as you would like.
He's the reason you're writing
and you can't even shoot him a phone call,
what kind of **** is that?
Then you see him;
maybe leaving a movie theater
or in passing at a restaurant.
His hair is long-- mangy--
eyes low and wandering,
you shake his hand,
brief hug.
He's been drinking.
You can smell it as good
and strong as
you can see it.
He smiles briefly,
spares a few words;
an old joke that
doesn't seem
funny anymore.
And that's it.
It's scary.
There goes your hero,
****** it's scary.
Everyone's old now,
and all of the hope
of the future
has replaced itself
with the tangible
harshness
of memory.
You look back
just to make sure
it's real.
Thank god
he's not standing there
anymore.

the mesa is scalding
with summer morning heat
draped like a shawl
across the shoulders
of the hueco
I get up slowly
gingerly
careful of that mess
of a hostel floor
I couldn't live here
such a heat
dries out the bones
--and the soul
parched and cracking--
then the dust comes
through pores
and lungs
to fill the holes

grab a half
smoked cigar from
the ash
don't bother to step
outside
onto the caked,
blooded clay
simply
match flame to tobacco
and inhale
that starched, bitter
smoke
there's dirt on the floor
one room casita
pale green shades
pale green blanket
lemon wallpaper
around a one pane
window
where I can
sit and smoke
and type
watching nonchalantly
all the men
trying to break that
invisible line
across the Rio Grande
they move fast
and quietly
huddling their children
close on the small canoe
with one man at the oar
he only nods
as he rows toward the shore
he has seen many
and many more to come
before his arm can no
longer row
or perhaps his heart
will give way
what a sight
--glorious and true--
skin caked
like the clay
by the sun
the cigar is burnt out
I stomp it to ashes
across the tiled floor
I can't truly see them
that man in the canoe
and those he carries
but imagine
how green that grass
must seem
how green
amongst all
the clay and blood
must be a hell of a thing
to behold
whilst all I try to do
is get away
from it all
as fast and quietly
as possible
and so it seems
all there
is to do is
to keep rowing

Seems like humanity
is down like the drain,
down like the economy,
down like those
poor god forsaken
children:
shot and placed
side by side.
Anchovies
for the devil;
just peel away and
swallow,
one by one by one.
It's all a feast for the vultures.
It's all something for the *****
and the freaks
to smirk at and get off to,
in the dark, alone with the
madness.
Can't go to the movies
Can't go to the schools.
Don't leave your house,
ladies and gentleman,
it's a jungle out there
and the lions are the *******.
God, **** it all.

It's a sorrowful thing;
the madness,
the ****.
I spit in frustration.

What a wonderful world
What a ******* world
What a wonderful ****

Alright, calm down,
take it easy.
Can't you see?
The birds chirp,
that's nice.
The families laugh,
that's nice
Can't you see
everyone smiling?
that's nice
All of everything is nice
and wonderful again.
Almost lost it there
for a second,
can't even remember
why.

The bliss of a society
blessed with
short term memory.

Only until the next lion,
the next ****,
comes through
with a semi automatic
and plasters the walls
of an elementary school
cafeteria with the blooded
paint of our nation's potential.

The jungle always wins.

continues
all around
as you take a step
back
out of the frame
grab your drink
take a sip
sit down
slow down
the lights flash
the bass rattles
your jawline
everyone moving
and loving
and spinning
spitting breaking
shouting *******
--oh, the madness--
and you're struck out
sitting in the corner
as that madness
moves and loves and spins
spits breaks shouts *****
caresses and kills
you can't seem to
get into it anymore
not like you used to
these old legs can't
bear it like they used to
the old heart can't
take it like it used to
everything is all everywhere
while all you can do
is grab another ***** tonic
another one
one more
and just shut up
this is real life
if you're not with it
you're against it
so *******
and **** your poetry
you aren't special
you aren't anything
anyone will read
***** selfish *******
the blur cycles around
you don't want to step in
but i'm right
i'm always right
so step back in
that drink
is almost empty
anyways

You've been walking
in the same space
at the same pace
for days it seems,
or is it years now?
It makes no difference–
too afraid to pinch
and perhaps wake up,
or even worse
realize there's nothing to
wake up from.
It does not feel like real life
so far from home, far
from the tangibles that
once played strict boundaries
on your existence.
Every step you take
the dream becomes the truth
and your old life
fades from reality toward
memory–
still hoping to wake
and be home again,
back in an old city,
an old time,
with old friends–
maybe a beach in Fiji
with Kristine Kochanski
laid out beside you.
Seems like thats
how things should be.
Seems like thats the
reality
you had in store,
not tucked away
under smokescreen skies,
alienated and alone.
New friends and
New places
that are beginning to lose
that New car smell.
Pinch me please.
Pinch me,
you are asking
harder, harder,
again, again–
"Once more,"
you're begging.
This can't be it
*******,
it can't be all
there is,
you'll wake up
you have to
one of these days.
Or is it years
now?

cold night in palo fierro

they say the world is ending
and it's twenty past
at home on the east coast
but i'm tucked away on the pacific
taking a quick walk
down the street
afraid to stay in the cold
too long
too cold
while that clock keeps ticking
i see something in the brush
a cat perhaps
a coyote
lord death himself
but he's gone before
i will ever know
and the breath hangs
in front of my face
before it disappears
as well
and the brake lights
of some passing
nissan altima
disappear
and so it seems it
all disappears
the world is ending they say
hope it's by fire
could really use it
in this binding cold
out on the west coast
time tick ticking toward some
inevitability
always stepping forward
to meet us
whether tomorrow
or two million tomorrows
what does it matter
they say the world is ending
not with a bang but
with a whimper
not with a bang but
with a whimper
the devils sang while
the angels whispered
the bodies hang while
the souls flickered
not with a bang but
with a whimper

that end won't come
quick enough

late night
in the dead of summer
alone
with my sisters cat
she has gone
to California
big hopes
and bigger dreams
but left the cat
for me
and mother is gone
and father is sick
or crazy
or both
and the women
i love
or used to love
or never did
but should have
are gone
and that is hardest
for lonely nights
in the dead of summer
are best
cured with a cold drink
and a colder woman
all gone
and i am alone with
the cat
who jumps at every
sound
every shadow
i try to write
and hope to ease the loneliness
or the boredom
or the madness
stretching and shaping
within
but the words leave me
like everything else
and my thoughts are empty
as my glass on the stand
which falls and
clatters as i reach for
a drink
now even the cat
has gone

you're sitting
on the other side
of the bed
watching me write
but we're worlds away
forever apart
it's sad
you hardly ever
look in my
direction
anymore
for fear
of something
maybe one of those
chemical
reactions
in your brain
I'm sure.
I'm sure.
one of those doors
that should be left shut
I'm sure.
I'm sure.
emotions
were never
your strong
suit
--mine either
I suppose--

you're sitting
on the other side
of the bed
but I can't even
reach out my hand

driving down the street
weaving through cars
and people and cars and people
the **** AC is broken
and the heat is oppressive
melting through reality
down to white lines
on asphalt
and all roads lead toward madness
windows down
the whole world
drags
and *****
in the summertime
some *******
speaks salvation through
tin can speakers
unexpected absolution
nineteen ninety-nine
for a limited time
and the heat makes it Christ
through the static
and the birds don’t sing
it's so **** hot
or maybe they just
want Christ too
the red nissan ahead
billowing with bumper stickers
and *******
brakes too fast
all these ******* people
all these ******* roads
and all roads lead toward madness
the whole world is in on it
sweating and spitting
suckling away at our high octane
addiction
3.69 a gallon
can you feel the buzz
Christ has left the airwaves
and now its life insurance
a happy guarantee
once your gone at least you’ll be
worth something
but probably nothing
on these roads toward madness
the trees bend under the weight
of the sun
stars explode
and no one notices
except the dead
staring forever upwards
and i’m almost there
almost there
men in black ties
woman with car seated children
screaming their own obscenities to the universe
kids blasting music to erase
their own depraved silence
the list of offenses
goes on and on
everyone on the road
got to be somewhere
got to do something
or else nowhere
nothing
with the sun bearing down
closer closer closer
burning our throats
tick ticking towards
that sold out salvation
act now or you’ll miss
1-800-holy-ghost
tick tick tick
the line is busy
the cars arent moving
the heat has gutted my soul
tick tick tick
the dead see it and maybe
the birds see it
but no one else sees it
tick tick tick
as we strugggle inches
down the street
so hot
so incredibly hot
stars explode
all roads lead toward madness
and its hot
Christ is gone again
all roads lead
Christ is gone
toward madness
gone.


tuez-les tous, dieu reconnaitra les siens

money's gone
drunk as hell
woman's leaving
again
friends dead and gone
lovers lost
and lost
and lost
i write, but for what?
it brings no comfort
no coin
only cramped hands
and tired nights
writing is a fool's game
a cruel muse
a poison i continue to drink
and enjoy--
fool--
drink up
intoxication
grips my bones
and i don't know
how to get home
money's gone
drunk as hell
woman left
again
bottle's empty
again
a fool's game
no woman
drink
no money
drink
no more
the downward spiral
continues