If you need me,
please recount all
the times I spit nasty
words in your face without
any remorse.
please recount all
the times I spit nasty
words in your face without
any remorse.
I really want
to reduce the
world to 24
bumps of lace and disgrace
and stark silence.
At 24
you could squirt three
times in a night and drink
a case of minis. Plus,
you were stupid.
You are toxic
and so am I
and the next guy and his
girlfriend. We voted
our own poison.
I just want to
scream at the top
of Bull Hill Mountain that’s
behind the AirBNB
where we’re staying.
I just don’t want
to land until
I have kissed and hugged my
hot Mexican wife one
more freaking time.
Poetry keeps
following me
around like a mangy
mutt that won’t go away
no matter what.
There’s too many
dirty dishes
on the counter by the
sink filled with too many
dirty dishes.
I know what Sam
ate but have no
idea what Lauri
ate. She’s a poet, so
who the hell knows?
The lavender
luminescent
platinum shampoo is
sulfate free and makes you
feel like kale.
It is getting
repetitive.
He punches her in the
face. She cries. They go to
church on Sunday.
I must reduce
the world to
24 bumps. If so,
the Hudson River will
look like candy.
Your unspoken
inference leads
me to believe that I
might just get in your pants
after all. Shh.
I hear the wind
of the world,
a silence in the sea,
and a bleak prognosis
for you and me.
I don’t feel
bad that I think
in a couple dozen.
How about you… with your
lovin oven?
At night, there is
absolutely
no reason for me to
be scribbling in tongue
for no money.
I must admit
I piss and shit
and talk and cry and live
and die and don’t know why.
It’s horrible.
A proud gay man
eats all alone
in a formal room of
families and flair, no
one the wiser.
What if of your
sexual urge
you don’t want cheerleader,
you want shortstop? What then?
How shall you live?
A small chica
upset to be
deported holds the hand
of an ICE agent just
doing his job.
It doesn’t fail.
As soon as I
go on vacation, the
24 bumps find me,
make me wail.
Drunk, New York street
food beats grandma’s
meat loaf. But stoned, grandma’s
turkey jerky is a
dream on acid.
Money money
money mon – where
did you go? One day you’re
rubbing licks on my chest,
then poof. What up?
Quite doing that.
I must now go
to sleep. I close my eyes
and you start up again.
24 bumps.
The quiet scares
me. Goblins and
tragedy find solace
in the silence of an
unsettled mind.
I disappoint
myself. Better
decisions could have led
to a lot more money
and certainty.
Instead, I wake
up every
morning thinking about
mortgages, insurance
and groceries.
I am far from
the land of dreams
and colors and the next
possibility. In dreams,
people die, though.
At a sidewalk
café in Queens,
I write silently in
wait for my wife and the
hope that she brings.
Sunday morning
in Astoria
means babies in strollers
and swarthy-looking Greeks
smoking stogies.
Each New York face
is a story
of stoplights and forklifts,
Chablis, rings, kisses and
New York Yankees.
Foot on pavement
satchel across
the back. A cup of black
coffee at a café where
you don’t dare smoke.
High on the roof
under an orange
moon we played catch with a
glow-in-the-dark football
and we all laughed.
A relaxed stroll
to the other
side of the Brooklyn Bridge
will restore your lost hope,
if you let it.
The first full breath
after midterms
releases tension but
not knowledge. Logrithms
don’t die, just fade.
You followed me
to the drugstore
before I knew of the
possibilities and
could deny them.
My daughter lives
in New York and
there’s nothing I can do
about it except wait
for her return.
Balls in a small
blender, I tried
to make payroll but got
choked by a clown in a
purple jumpsuit.
Waiting for flight
attendants to
do a proper crosscheck,
I fear cancer and no
more wife and kids.
to reduce the
world to 24
bumps of lace and disgrace
and stark silence.
At 24
you could squirt three
times in a night and drink
a case of minis. Plus,
you were stupid.
You are toxic
and so am I
and the next guy and his
girlfriend. We voted
our own poison.
I just want to
scream at the top
of Bull Hill Mountain that’s
behind the AirBNB
where we’re staying.
I just don’t want
to land until
I have kissed and hugged my
hot Mexican wife one
more freaking time.
Poetry keeps
following me
around like a mangy
mutt that won’t go away
no matter what.
There’s too many
dirty dishes
on the counter by the
sink filled with too many
dirty dishes.
I know what Sam
ate but have no
idea what Lauri
ate. She’s a poet, so
who the hell knows?
The lavender
luminescent
platinum shampoo is
sulfate free and makes you
feel like kale.
It is getting
repetitive.
He punches her in the
face. She cries. They go to
church on Sunday.
I must reduce
the world to
24 bumps. If so,
the Hudson River will
look like candy.
Your unspoken
inference leads
me to believe that I
might just get in your pants
after all. Shh.
I hear the wind
of the world,
a silence in the sea,
and a bleak prognosis
for you and me.
I don’t feel
bad that I think
in a couple dozen.
How about you… with your
lovin oven?
At night, there is
absolutely
no reason for me to
be scribbling in tongue
for no money.
I must admit
I piss and shit
and talk and cry and live
and die and don’t know why.
It’s horrible.
A proud gay man
eats all alone
in a formal room of
families and flair, no
one the wiser.
What if of your
sexual urge
you don’t want cheerleader,
you want shortstop? What then?
How shall you live?
A small chica
upset to be
deported holds the hand
of an ICE agent just
doing his job.
It doesn’t fail.
As soon as I
go on vacation, the
24 bumps find me,
make me wail.
Drunk, New York street
food beats grandma’s
meat loaf. But stoned, grandma’s
turkey jerky is a
dream on acid.
Money money
money mon – where
did you go? One day you’re
rubbing licks on my chest,
then poof. What up?
Quite doing that.
I must now go
to sleep. I close my eyes
and you start up again.
24 bumps.
The quiet scares
me. Goblins and
tragedy find solace
in the silence of an
unsettled mind.
I disappoint
myself. Better
decisions could have led
to a lot more money
and certainty.
Instead, I wake
up every
morning thinking about
mortgages, insurance
and groceries.
I am far from
the land of dreams
and colors and the next
possibility. In dreams,
people die, though.
At a sidewalk
café in Queens,
I write silently in
wait for my wife and the
hope that she brings.
Sunday morning
in Astoria
means babies in strollers
and swarthy-looking Greeks
smoking stogies.
Each New York face
is a story
of stoplights and forklifts,
Chablis, rings, kisses and
New York Yankees.
Foot on pavement
satchel across
the back. A cup of black
coffee at a café where
you don’t dare smoke.
High on the roof
under an orange
moon we played catch with a
glow-in-the-dark football
and we all laughed.
A relaxed stroll
to the other
side of the Brooklyn Bridge
will restore your lost hope,
if you let it.
The first full breath
after midterms
releases tension but
not knowledge. Logrithms
don’t die, just fade.
You followed me
to the drugstore
before I knew of the
possibilities and
could deny them.
My daughter lives
in New York and
there’s nothing I can do
about it except wait
for her return.
Balls in a small
blender, I tried
to make payroll but got
choked by a clown in a
purple jumpsuit.
Waiting for flight
attendants to
do a proper crosscheck,
I fear cancer and no
more wife and kids.
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