Alex Fridman - Thoughts, Poetry, Music, Comics, Pictures

Poetry: one of those people

Wed, 07 Jan 2009 00:06:35 EST

i was reading camus
for the millionth time
and it hit me like a bottle of wine
that i am one of those people

i didn't just happen to be wearing black
and feeling up about feeling down
imagining how no one would save me if i was to drown
in a pool of late-night diner ketchup

explaining to a fake blond how suffering purifies
the absurd experience of sexual intercourse
and that love is not a tight-ass knight on a white horse
but a noble project that can only be born out of the shadows of death

the hum of a fan continued dutifully
i closed the book, removed the bookmarks
no point squeezing the brain wounds for the sharks
of unmanageable fear, uncertainty, and exhaustion

Poetry: a deflationary outlook is not good for therapy

Sun, 04 Jan 2009 22:54:54 EST

my upstairs neighbor is waiting
for a girl to respond
he can get better, but better he doesn't want
he just waits, drinking protein shakes

and coming down to talk to me as he waits
discussing the intricacies of women and love
i see his eyes dry up and his skin get tough
dropping a hint of sadness as he closes the door

he doesn't know that there isn't anything more
out there for any man but himself
skirt-wearing trophies, romance, and wealth
won't make him happy, nothing can, but himself

however, a deflationary outlook is not good for therapy
and as the building's sole therapist i sit back and chill
helping my neighbor with all that time he wants to kill
by helping him play the game as if i'm helping him with algebra homework

Poetry: open to vultures for gnawing

Sat, 03 Jan 2009 20:44:10 EST

have you ever found yourself pacing
with a coffee in hand
a seagull on deserted sand
searching for bread crumbs

and then found yourself tasting
a wrinkly apple with the texture of corn
the skin of a baby girl that never was born
naked and open to vultures for gnawing

perhaps you put yourself there
as a way to escape
a widower painting and repainting the same landscape
finding neither peace nor anger in the muttering of winter trees

Poetry: a future in a high school english paper

Sat, 03 Jan 2009 08:28:59 EST

i go to those and these
poetry readings, show me
what i strive to never be:
a badly dressed attention whore

so i sneak up on the hours with reminders
that i have no value beyond my own head
and it's big enough for that
and maybe bigger

i urge you to watch a poet on youtube
that has at some point won an award
his penis becomes the world's sharpest sword
and each syllable secures a future in a high school english paper

while i continue writing, mostly on the toilet
to an audience of my dad and a fatigued stranger
both of whom are in constant danger
of receiving a phone call, and mechanically turning this page

Poetry: stories about other men

Fri, 02 Jan 2009 22:42:18 EST

go ahead, pretend that you don't care
and i'll pretend i do
making a joke of love and truth
with every witty bit of a witty conversation

i've spent so long being a dungeon master
that it kind of feels good to let the feminist mouth run
having what i think one would refer to as "fun"
in the soft tension between hard pauses

every other text message could be misread
as a stylized suicide poem
slipping in stories about other men
which are too important not to be passed down through the generations

Poetry: bruises or marriage

Thu, 01 Jan 2009 22:43:32 EST

you used to make me steak and baked potato
as i waited in the heat of an active kitchen
not knowing that peaceful dinners fuel eventual bouts of bitching
and solidify into a cognitive hernia

the short hair and feminist armor do look pretty good on ya
but i still got a soul full of possessive, destructive ego
so prepare yourself, for peaceful dinner of steak and potato
that will build to an end of bruises or marriage

Poetry: smart people can disagree

Wed, 31 Dec 2008 14:39:34 EST

smart people can disagree
idiots though should remain quiet
instead idiots usually start riots
based on an ideology of hate

i don't need more facts than what's on a wiki page
to come to a sensible conclusion
and if you insist on making elaborate allusions
i would rather just drink in silence

and yes it matters who started the violence
but jesus had something going with that whole cheek-turning thing
i know eighty rockets leave more than an embarrassing sting
but sometimes compromise requires you to proudly bend over

and i know, a girlfriend will object, sipping on a chocolaty liqueur
that bending over is no way to achieve compromise
well, darling, down such pessimistic sewer pipes is where a break-up lies
and before you know it, the toilet roars, and both you and i are drowning in shit

Poetry: willing to restart

Wed, 31 Dec 2008 00:16:25 EST

old man moves two heavy legs, one by one
across the bricks of the uneven sidewalk
he must have lost his wife when i was born
and scars began to form when i first learned to talk

each conquered brick, broken, rests,
pride drained, in the shadow of the man's daily quest
i picture his lips as they must have confessed
some silly old feeling when her head lightly rested on his chest

the cigar smoke chuckles at the hours
spent this morning testing the capacity of the human heart
just then i notice in the man's brown bag a modest bouquet of flowers
he and i may have tasted the end, and somehow are still willing to restart

Poetry: functional relations

Mon, 29 Dec 2008 03:16:36 EST

read my email, nothing worth while
couldn't sleep, you god damn know why
pushing cigar smoke into the sky
on a warm december night

ate a fruit rollup with a sigh
the dating scene is a bucket full of lies
compliments about the complexity of your eyes
rigid expectations, double standards, and single-round fights

functional relations, bartender, where is my damn drink
think, god, my brother's really doing well
and damn, my hometown buddy too, i can tell
going to his wedding in may, my first time

and the poem deteriorates into a drunk text message
that will never be sent
like this month's rent
or the letter informing all my exgirlfriends that i loved them
but they just sucked in bed

Poetry: no puppy follows

Sun, 28 Dec 2008 11:12:23 EST

i walk, no puppy follows
but the blood still flows inside
god damn memories ride and ride
honking, yelling out their windows

i think to push you against the wall
and ask a painfully genuine question
but isn't that what builds the tension
in the broken guitar strings of our rock song?

distance from home increases
traffic lights change from yellow to red
waiting in dark stillness will mess with your head
if you don't jot down a poem, and slip away gently

Poetry: overconceptualization

Sat, 27 Dec 2008 01:52:52 EST

i've overconceptualized the beer
along with the woman, the child, the fight
a closet of clothes that are a little too tight
for a man defined by failure and polite cynicism

and all i want is a warm yellow light
over a couch on thanksgiving
where life wouldn't be life, i'd just be living
with a stupid smile on my face

no tight little asses for me to chase
just piles of papers on a computer desk
becoming more and more statuesque
in a thoughtful repose, wife with a coffee scratching her nose

and maybe on the weekends i'd listen to her bitch
about how i haven't done enough around the house
reminding me of how scared she got when attacked by a mouse
and i would drag my ass out to the hardware store

happy because i couldn't ask for anything more

Poetry: no lips around a gun

Fri, 26 Dec 2008 19:23:17 EST

yeah i've done that
you're no fun
no rope around the neck
no lips around a gun

romantic comedy
is not romance
nor is dinner, movie
holding hands

god damn you
if i have to spell it
in a russian accent
with flying spit

i don't want
to taste your cooking
i just want
to break the cook

so i send
a naked photograph
of me with a snow leopard
ripped in half

for you to cry over
with inner thigh pain
running your fingers over the glossy paper
whispering my name

Poetry: cleaning the bathroom naked in a winter coat

Fri, 26 Dec 2008 00:18:45 EST

i'm probably too good for you
but you would never know it
and god forbid you show it
when i come over unannounced

who are you hiding in your kitchen
under the sink with detergent and soap
don't tell me you aren't hooked on dope
while cleaning the bathroom naked in a winter coat

what i wouldn't give to write a love poem
so honest it would make the ceiling paint curl
but i'm not t.s. elliot, and i don't attract t.s. elliot girls
dwelling on an idea that i will get you a bathrobe for christmas

i return to my one-bedroom lair
a hyped bnm between my teeth
resisting a grappling instructor's advice: "don't forget to breath"
because sometimes i do forget and want to call you

Poetry: i share secrets with my advisor

Thu, 25 Dec 2008 14:38:16 EST

i share secrets with my advisor
what do you do with yours
we're not drinking beers, nor hunting wild boars
we're just trying to do science

watched a little sopranos and thought
maybe i do have a distant italian relation
there's no russian or jew in the distinct sensation
of beginning the day with the knowledge of a brotherhood pact

yeah, we'll part ways one day, all friends do
but we won't dare wake the dust
and yeah, i'll defend my thesis, if i must
but that won't be the last of our mafia connection

Poetry: coffee and sex

Thu, 25 Dec 2008 04:52:46 EST

hey, alex, i left you a message
like this one, ha ha, i guess you're away
i thought about you yesterday
and decided to call

don't know what you're up to tonight
but i'd like to see you, you know
you got short hair now, i remember it was long
let's make it work this time, yeah?

anyway, i'm tired, and i have to pack
christmas, remember? ha ha, you jewish hag
i'm going away, but just one bag
so i'll be back soon, let's meet then for coffee and sex

Poetry: the marrow in this bone

Thu, 25 Dec 2008 02:36:57 EST

came to the party
bottles were slamming
exaggerated smiles cramming
into caricatures of ex-stripper faces

buckets of lipstick
applied with a hose
from head to painted toes:
skin (and besides that: nothing)

"oh my god, alex,
what's up with your shoes?"
offering head, i supposed, i refused
holding on to a red cup for grounding

"one day, i'll be a father"
"what? ha ha. i don't know!"
mishearing my words, misreading my tone
blinking violently through misdirected sexual tension

the room grew smaller
puppet jaws flapped
i wasn't literally trapped
but i was definitely wounded

stepping discretely with rhythm
blood in my mouth ruining the taste
of thinking it's you in every girl's face
until an empty yellow couch presents itself

i can write, now, with genuine vigor
having the benefit of wisdom in bloom
after the night's last trip to the men's room
i am not finished chewing through to the marrow in this bone

Poetry: a shirt full of sweat

Tue, 23 Dec 2008 22:36:18 EST

a shirt full of sweat
just past the point of soaking wet
in below freezing weather
slams the iced-over thoughts together
to the fireworks of life
a hot buttery butcher knife
chiseling into the spine a frustration
the silent poetry of an oppressed nation
the explosive discomfort of toil
leftover brain stew beginning to boil
just as i bust into the seven eleven
great god above, this must be heaven

Poetry: because it's christmas and i'm alone

Mon, 22 Dec 2008 03:14:16 EST

head down by a returned book of poetry
a cellphone full of numbers saying "please"
love passes like a kidney stone
because it's christmas and i'm alone

i deserve all that i got
"why?" you'll ask, i'll pretend i forgot
thumbing the road for the skirts i know
because it's christmas and i'm alone

in a cosmic sense, i'm full of doubt
but my heart still tumbles out and about
looking for what it knows is gone
because it's christmas and i'm alone

erased your memory on a whim
it's a natural part of a brain to trim
a few drinks, and i'm doing the same with my phone
though hoping tomorrow i'll still be alone

Poetry: naked girl

Sun, 21 Dec 2008 23:37:41 EST

naked girl in my camera
naked girl in my head
naked girl in the kitchen
chaining marlboro reds

naked girl one-word texting
naked girl blind with lust
naked girl saying nothing
head and hand on my chest

naked girl fills with longing
naked girl disappears
naked girl is reborn
with a drink and soft tears

Poetry: this poem is not about you

Sun, 21 Dec 2008 16:21:20 EST

this poem is not about you
it's about a feeling
from a jacques brel
lyric on the downfall of a beautiful sunday

it can't be about you
it's about a chance
for a white picket fence
around a sunday home-cooked meal

not you in the curves
of a ceiling stain
above my bed, beyond my pain
an optimistic sunday yawn

would never be you
in a poem like this
eagerly willing to confess
in the wake of sunday's passing

it just couldn't be about you
with its wild open doors
its dirty carpeted floors
and its worn paths around deserted intentions

Poetry: keep one foot ahead

Sun, 21 Dec 2008 03:29:57 EST

what do i have
except a big jewish nose
clumps of tired muscle
dry crooked toes

a sad tight-lipped smile
dark rings 'round the eyes
aching shoulders, callused hands
and a past full of goodbyes

numb legs from a hard chair
lonely steps to the bed
little patient reminders
to keep one foot ahead

Poetry: damn overpriced war

Sat, 20 Dec 2008 23:24:33 EST

damn overpriced war
i walk the aisles of 711
looking for a tangerine
a conscience or some such healthy thing

i try to remember
the statistics on civilians dead
knowing that the whole wheat bread
will just turn to fat in my stomach

got singles and condoms in my pocket
and a stupid smile on my face
beef jerky has the worst after-taste
and so does the thought of innocent people tortured

Poetry: a debate is here to be had

Sat, 20 Dec 2008 15:38:02 EST

two dudes, two beers, too much discrimination
and the arguments flow without polite restrictions
outside of media-recited political fictions
a debate is here to be had

gay marriage, abortion, the right way to wage war
my voice grows louder with the shameful realization
that each thought is a derrida-style intellectual masturbation
as wittgenstein eyes roll in a well-defined grave

and that's just the problem, for big-headed mouths: definition
two guys struggling to undress a concept in a scrabble-style porn
a threesome as smooth as the ocean wave in the 'perfect storm'
culminating in a ridiculous tangent, drying lips, and another beer

Poetry: my perfect exit

Fri, 19 Dec 2008 00:25:58 EST

at the first sign of trouble
i'm running, half-naked
flask in my back pocket
searching for new facebook friends

all that poetry about love and death
is like an everclear after-burn
except that i don't seem to learn
of the lies chuckling behind every sound

i have muscle, i have brain
a couple lines, a little game
some flirt with a misspelled name
may fall for it, or at least stumble

and fate will watch me crawl and crawl
with worms and other self-indulging creatures
in search of ass, tits, or other features
that inherently suffer from diminishing returns

and that old happy day won't come
when no more running's to be done
when standing with me arm in arm
she will become my perfect exit

Poetry: drink water and expect juice

Thu, 18 Dec 2008 07:55:42 EST

drink water and expect juice
losing, missing, faking truth
in the voice of reason on the phone
the sound of a guard dog chewing a bone

how can i leave when you have one of my books
it looks hard, and is always harder than it looks
to rest in the daylight of your careless stroll
to pass not just ketchup but some trace of control

Poetry: anger is a flickering light

Wed, 17 Dec 2008 20:22:33 EST

blood boils, typing, thinking, it's all work
my body in san diego, my mind in new york
true love is waiting in a gas station bathroom stall
where anger is a flickering light and a noise down the hall

the much talked-about weakness is a chain around my neck
it's fake, but no one cares enough to check
and so i survive along a modest route
giving off an air of a man filled with fear and doubt

but i know who i am, proud monster and all
growing stronger from the stillness of an unanswered call
never blooming into a smiling picture on a night stand
promising to change, and switching masks instead

Updates: Added MMA Page

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 07:22:42 EST

A new page covering previous and upcoming tournaments.

Poetry: the logic of causeless loneliness

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 01:27:24 EST

i cringe at the mention of eternity
in an emily dickinson verse
she has scribbled herself in a chaos-free room
into a suffering game, well rehearsed

in typical male fashion
i resume criticism of penisless genius
because it's too difficult
to grasp the logic of causeless loneliness

i am the old man and the sea
and feel the spite of a heavy fish tearing into my aching shoulder
but i don't feel this nobel-prize winning desire to be free
when nothing holds you back but the fact that you're get older

Poetry: because i have no need for women

Mon, 15 Dec 2008 02:23:03 EST

because i have no need for women
i don't mind writing a poem
about how much i use them
and in the process destroy them

and i know there are women
that read what i write
not because it's any good
but because it's usually about the previous night

and there are nights when i'm a rabbit
nights when i'm a bear
nights when i'm choking on puke
and nights when i choke and i don't care

there are nights when in bed
i'm no better than a flaccid drone
and nights that they'll call about
at the first chance of being alone

with age, my apathy grows out of season
and a lack of a good reason hardens the tongue
until a sparkle of a gem in a mundane glow of a computer screen
changes my strong to weak, and my weak to strong

i crave the impossible in the tension of the silence
on the verge of starting over
before the beginning of this poem even gets a chance to dry
maybe we can't stay together
but god damn me if i don't try

Poetry: a gutter ball can enslave a man

Sat, 13 Dec 2008 09:26:18 EST

a gutter ball can enslave a man
and two can make him see
the errors of his proud ways
and so he'll makes it three

now beers have been known to help
when pressure shakes the knee
but drink too many, and you become
the old man and the sea

the giggling girls in ugly hats
are smiling at my shame
but do they know that one day soon
i'll own this irrelevant game

smoking in the hallway breeze
in treasured company
i tell my friend just what i'll do
and that's how it must be

Poetry: politely nodding to the passing of youth

Fri, 12 Dec 2008 16:36:29 EST

hit the piano keys, they're blue
the melody takes the worst of truth
politely nodding to the passing of youth
the busy minds fill with stress and regret

the devils caged in a quarter century skull
awaken at the first appearance of a tensing pattern
the reign of a feeling ends when the heart burns
but not yet, not until the music quiets

Poetry: the defeated warrior

Fri, 12 Dec 2008 09:28:28 EST

the rags and drooping face
left hanging on the skeleton
of a commuting underground man
softened through marriage by inertia

i asked which stop was his
it came off not as i would ever intend
as if looking for a circumstantial friend
to flavor a life filled with cheating women

the defeated warrior was polite
raised his eyes from a stack of financial papers
the absent sex life, the shopping for drapes
gave him a fading glow of aged anticipation

i let his answer fill
the tense space between our smiles
and left it there to rot awhile
like the epiphanies in my future and his past

Poetry: the turning of nights

Thu, 11 Dec 2008 15:20:06 EST

i rode to see you in the rain
the ass of my jeans wet from the bike seat
tired, dirty, hungry, chewing on dried peppered meat
explaining why i may or may not be an asshole

despite the cheap fruity red wine on a tough dorm loveseat
and the noise of west philly nail salon chatter
i found the simplest of touches made everything better
and for the first time i feared the turning of nights

Poetry: brilliant prose turned to vacuous vomit

Wed, 10 Dec 2008 18:56:09 EST

i came together with a page
and almost wrote on it such shattering prose
that all my hair, even in my nose
could not resist but shiver slightly

those were the tortured hours of meaning
the vulgar and the silly took a walk
leaving my soul to sink with the unsinkable rock
as the unwritable essence of life bled from my fingers

in retrospect, i may have been excessively drunk
and thus dared to dream beyond my assigned limit
until brilliant prose turned to vacuous vomit
and the gay pride parade turned to a funeral for my brain

Poetry: the bare beginning of positive human contact

Tue, 09 Dec 2008 03:03:26 EST

it's that time of night when
the wolves with warn out vocal cords
drag home the bleeding sorts
to satisfy the hunger at sunrise

i enter and exit the womb
no one acknowledging one or the other
just like that, i'm back to the love of mother
as the bare beginning of positive human contact

soon, always too soon
i'll be digging for romance in a garbage can
never worked before, but i'll try again
persistence, it seems, is kind of like my thing

Poetry: the hope of somehow breaking free

Mon, 08 Dec 2008 23:03:09 EST

i want my words to be the sweat
between the hands of two domesticated sluts
i want it to be a dollar-store thong
twisted and tired from driving men nuts

i want to write with the pride
of the traveling bard tradition
blending the cynicism of cheap vodka fights
with the realism of sober intuition

i want to make myself new
each morning after our worlds agree
and write because we're forever slaves
to the hope of somehow breaking free

Poetry: second place

Mon, 08 Dec 2008 11:03:33 EST

each day and every day but never again
i fight to get to and be beaten in the finals
the desire of never being the lesser of two rivals
will fuel the labor through the hard hours of doubt

never, and i mean never, except one day soon
i will face him, the better, the smarter, the more skillful man
but not this time, not this day, not ever again
will the ref, when the match ends, raise his proud hand

Poetry: the sum of all the late night screaming

Sun, 07 Dec 2008 06:26:54 EST

what i haven't given for the earth to turn
in the direction of profound meaning.
the sum of all the late night screaming
is as meaningless as an apology by phone

i've lost the will of jealous dreaming
the curse of causeless anger and doubt
yet sex still goes on all around
raw meat floating by a fasting shark

the world of the possible and the real
come together like the fingers of a fist
and the silence of early morning insists
that i'm not prepared for what's to come

Poetry: to never hate without anger

Sat, 06 Dec 2008 22:12:24 EST

i hope to never hate without anger
to never love without being afraid
and when the words run out, and the hour is late
i hope to find peace in simple sadness

the old beginnings leak promises
as the signs of honest labor disappears
from the powerful hands of my hero
the wise tired father left alone in a hospital bed

imagination rescues mornings
when i return home on the train
hoping to never live without pain
to never own without losing

Poetry: the number of days without you

Sat, 06 Dec 2008 19:00:01 EST

the number of women i slept with
the number of shots i can down
the number of pounds i bench press
the number of dreams i watched drown

the number of cylinders in the engine
the number of horses it'll pull
the number of good fighters i've beaten
the number of unicorns i broke into mules

the number of papers i published
the number of books i have read
the number of poems i've written
the number of people i love that will one day be dead

the number of inches of bicep and penis
the number of lies sold as truth
the number of figures in a paycheck
the number of days without you

Poetry: trying

Fri, 05 Dec 2008 10:42:39 EST

twig-like feet twist into punchlines
when i swim into a throw
"trying" is a bucket of diamonds
turned to shit when i make it my own

still, tensing slightly, i plunge in again
subconsciously jarred by the echo of shame
hitting faster and harder
while watching things end up the same

this goes on for an hour
sometimes two, three, or more
and i return home to a glowing monitor
like friends return to a childhood shore

i sneak up with hot tea
on a paper, dim, still, an unknowable hole
suddenly dragging me into a battle
where "trying" is all that the son-of-a-bitch will ever let me know

Poetry: the patience of weeds, bushes, and fungi

Thu, 04 Dec 2008 08:19:46 EST

the patience of weeds, bushes, and fungi
form the background hum of my morning routine
which boils down to making breakfast for the queen
who spends her life trying to make babies

a serial killer friend of mine is good with the ladies
we have much to learn from each other's ways
he about genuine affection, i about abandoning tortured prey
while the plants keep defying harbored fantasies of the botanists

i made up that last part about the friend of mine
sadly i don't know anyone eccentric enough to murder in numbers
but i try to get out shopping for food late at night, when the city kicks off the covers
and the beasts of burden crawl out to feed in the produce section

Poetry: when everything is quiet on his side of the wall

Wed, 03 Dec 2008 23:57:24 EST

i most distrust my savage neighbor
when everything is quiet on his side of the wall
i fear that i'm losing control
when there is no place for me to direct my anger

i turn up my music
to test his will, if he is there
reclining in his ridiculous silk underwear
eating leftovers from some far eastern cuisine

there was a time we had a connection
through a blond easy-going friend of mine
but like all weak relations, we were destined to realign
into a polite friendship, or in this case, a hatred of an ideological sort

and for the blissful souls that may find comfort
in dismissing my childish ways
i modestly beg you to cherish the days
of your existence without such troubles

Poetry: i can drain a bottle on heater-less nights

Wed, 03 Dec 2008 11:57:36 EST

never has this couch seen
this type of elegant ease
i can drain a bottle on heater-less nights
my heart aching for such soulful antifreeze

some sort of european freedom
with a mundane question's tone
makes the saliva in my throat linger
on why she'd ever follow me home

thoughtful steps on beer-stained carpet
take me to when i was born
dust-covered pages of my upbringing
fear the day she'll let them turn

strong, unchanging, fearless shoulders
are the hills under my feet
sexist, racist, sisyphus boulders
drum down to the loveless beat

and i'm trapped between the weakest moment
of subtle beauty and carefree grace
and the tension of the same old hopeful comment
never spoken, but always chased

Poetry: bruises, cuts, and aching joints

Tue, 02 Dec 2008 12:42:06 EST

bruises, cuts, and aching joints
promise to never abandon me
but they do, sometimes returning
and always as if part of a story

a few have remained, loyal, unchanged
outlasting even the most persistent relation
preferring to linger in the undocumented gaps of existence
unwavered by the nagging flings of hesitation

these are my brothers, icons of nature
redefining with every sting the ties between the living and the dead
i'm drowning in the slowness of the idea between the pencil and notepad
the unwelcome sunrise wakes whoever may or may not be sleeping in my bed

and as i'm promised by the aging giants of my youth
the ghosts of overused body parts will grow more desperate
stay longer, and return more frequently
like the women of bukowski poems, begging for this, demanding that

Poetry: krav maga

Mon, 01 Dec 2008 21:10:43 EST

with arms crossed, i'm being educated
about threat neutralization by an israeli
who is at once a stick and a comedian.
and yet his soul is torn, i can tell
war has not been kind to him

the emphasized realism of his fighting craft
is admirable like the ability of an ex-girlfriend
to leave me speechless, from pity or weakness or worse.
but there is no reality in any of what he preaches
only in what he is: a product of a system that breeds war

we're dancing with rubber knives and plastic smiles
under the banner of rape prevention
in the most sexually vapid atmosphere.
i fail to imagine anger, shock, confusion
i fail to summon the illusion of fear

and when he mentions in passing, like a bird
that relieved itself on my head the yesterday,
that we would fight a gunman that wanted keys to his car
if the car had his wife and child. i know it's trivial
but i feel helpless, while knowing next to nothing about war

the ideology of muslims, jews, and the rest of the cast
leaves my body like a puke-lubricated crawl to the bathroom
when the man goes from selling peace to selling t-shirts.
i know that i have only a couple hours left in my day
but i beg for a chance to spend them in less comfort, perhaps even suffering

Poetry: eying teens from the porch of my golden years

Sun, 30 Nov 2008 20:17:00 EST

eying teens from the porch of my golden years
dry lips working the intricacies of a square whiskey glass
i imagine myself to be quite happy, loyal to my wife
and to the dreams that i could have sworn finished me early on

i imagine missing my parents, my grandmother, my second dog
missing the things that one misses when the sex life sours
the commercial breaks of my middle-age, the forgotten hours
add up to the sighs of "where has all that time gone?"

i imagine myself thinking that i'm not the one
my wife ever thought she'd end up aging along side of
a man who'd let the ants and roaches win
a man who used to be someone, finally giving in

Poetry: folks give me more respect than i deserve

Sun, 30 Nov 2008 02:48:28 EST

folks give me more respect than i deserve
kind of like you do to a slow cockroach
on the street or in your kitchen, something trips a nerve
and suddenly both you and i are searching
for words to toss around over the noise
of life moving swiftly all around us
whether we're too old friends waiting for a bus
or an astrological impossibility making small talk about the holocaust
a couple folks will even say they like "my" poetry
and i feel a heavy sense of shame for owning such self-indulgent crap
if only i could put in words all the words that are in me
maybe i'd be more proud, less respected, and finally, a welcomed tie-wearing sap

Poetry: the possibility of something new

Sat, 29 Nov 2008 23:37:28 EST

the fresh smoky fire of a newly-lit candle
and the heart opens to the possibility of something new
i know what i've got is a foot and a sandal
talking to motherly-love cynics about a shoe

the post-it notes of my adolescence pave memory lanes
like small-town newspaper headlines about unfinished freudian construction projects
amidst the today of aches and pains
the eye-lids are guillotines and the non-existent confessions are closely-watched facts

Poetry: thanks, sucker

Fri, 28 Nov 2008 00:51:57 EST

a successful career is a jealous career
rising out of a desire to outdo a rival
until the rival is internalized
and is really no longer needed

so what is my place in this absurd chase
what is the reason i sit, sometimes through the night
typing away in a language invented by a man
who may've not lost his virginity until he was tenured faculty

do these dreams swimming in my head come
because of a thirst for comfort?
because i'd like to cover bills and thrills
without looking over my shoulder?

and as i keep asking such questions
the aroma of a romantic midnight depression
that lasts for a split second creeps up my nose
into my soggy brain, until i pee, and go to bed

tomorrow is a long day of typing
because the rival in my head
just may decide to take thanksgiving off
to see his family and hometown friends

thanks, sucker

Poetry: us sick folk

Thu, 27 Nov 2008 13:47:32 EST

the sticky frost of freezer vodka
defines the regret of dry unusable lips
they belong to the anonymous mass of the liars
consumers of what's brought to market by pimps

what's a good man to do
but to indulge
when it's a droplet in the waterfall
of a declining morality surge

until nothing
of commonplace honor remains
and us sick folk begin
another decades-long restitching of shredded veins

Poetry: dog from hell

Wed, 26 Nov 2008 22:59:00 EST

i live on the first floor
folks just knock right on my window
and when i open the door i'm ready
for anyone, especially people i don't know

yesterday two big guys
came asking questions
i had a knife in my pocket
in case they didn't just come with questions

and then today, two visits
and i open the door without a weapon
since both weren't too threatening, this time,
i've seen them both naked

i was leaning back on the fridge
shirt open, sipping tea, as if i wasn't on an edge of a blade
nodding and smiling, the way a professor does
when a student comes in to ask for a change of grade

and thinking now, in the peace of a lonely thanksgiving
sober, wearing nothing but boxers, facing a humming fan
my life has passed just like that from year to year
with different brain and bra sizes stopping by to see that i'm still a man

but today, i wish things were different
because bukowski's dog from hell has been drinking up my blood and sweat
i came outside in a scarf and t-shirt to smoke a cigar
without my phone, thinking of why the hell i ever moved out of my third floor apartment

Poetry: some corners are too dark for hiding

Wed, 26 Nov 2008 19:37:48 EST

some corners are too dark for hiding
a few folks i know have disappeared
it started as a tearful game
but ended as a maze of fear

the madness of the tortured mind
is that walls are built by days of lazy
unwillingness to find strength for the morning
turns into an ego stream of crazy

each brain cell learns the virtue of greed
hardening into a statuesque death
and a life that used to carry great promise
turns into a struggle for the next breath

Poetry: don't read into what i'm writing

Tue, 25 Nov 2008 12:04:00 EST

don't read into what i'm writing
it's not bullshit, but it's easy to misconstrue
when i'm down on some woman
and you think that woman could be you
or when i'm sounding like a buddhist
with a half-empty whiskey glass
i'm only trying to embrace myth of sisyphus beauty
even when it knocks me on my ass
for my parents, for my family
i'd like to think i'd give my life
even when my words repeatedly
make me sound like i'd beat my kids, pets, and wife
and for each moment of obvious weakness
i tip-toe around with cat-in-the-hat rhymes
rest assured i'm more than human
worse than most, maybe not all, most times

Poetry: masochistic shadows cast by the soul

Tue, 25 Nov 2008 10:39:38 EST

about two years back, i cut up my eye at a show i played
smoked it into a golden raisin, coughing without knowing where i put my keys
until i met a hell of a drink bought for me by an eight-inch mini-skirt tease
she kept insisting she go down on me, it lacked romance, but it was free

and as i said, i misplaced my keys, had a guitar that seemed heavy
no car, so every decision made my legs feel unsteady
looking around for the broken type, someone trapped in the heartache of one too many shots
but the night was over for me, i ran out of thoughts, gave in to the momentum of chatter

but the bitch of it is that the momentum grows, in the days, months, and years
making life into a kind of slide-show of miniskirts that are masochistic shadows cast by the soul
and with tired legs and cut up eyeballs, i take control, until the night withers, my interest too
like the rash on a body part that has been used too many times, without purpose

Poetry: don't turn your back on a man's modesty

Mon, 24 Nov 2008 23:38:59 EST

don't turn your back on a man's modesty
it will scribble down a list of grand pursuits
before you can even begin to tell him
about your recent dentist troubles

somewhere between punch eight and punch nine
the man learns to decline ninety percent of chances to brag
and some find peace in this little procedure
and thus perfect it over a career to a level of admirable artistry

the idea of a modest intellectual inspires in me a bitter smile
of a thirteen year old girl in the womens section of sears shoes
when i was made to bring for her skimmers of different colors, all undesirable
she capitalized, then and forever, on the power derived from my fear of the unknown

and somehow, in the presence of a mother's allowance
she too flirted with the facade of modesty
like the colleagues i admire and strive to join
forever polishing their weaponry in case the definitive day of judgement does arrive

Poetry: struggling to be a better man

Sun, 23 Nov 2008 22:19:56 EST

sameness is choking on a cheesesteak
on a mattress full of sweat, beer, and tears
it can choke and break the heart of my family, friends
i'll continue on, struggling to be a better man

change is roaming the caged-in landscape
with a fearful look in its bloody cyclops eye
it came from nothing, it will return there in the end
i'll continue on, struggling to be a better man

love is cheating on a deep-down sensitive white-collar dog
in the way that harmonizes with the romance of the human condition
dismissively chuckling at my life-long pursuit of knowledge, calling it bland
i'll continue on, struggling to be a better man

pessimist bird watchers from dysfunctional family units climb into my nest
breaking the intricate rituals of eat-sleep-hide patterns inside self-silencing existence
constantly stealing the rhythm of my expanding chest, wasting the power of my closed hand
i'll continue on, struggling to be a better man

Poetry: an abandoned zoo

Sun, 23 Nov 2008 16:09:06 EST

a dreamer and his beat-up side-dish trophy girls
parade around the mind's stage of bukowski sex-life obscenities
all the while i listen to an audiobook on the deconstruction of love
giving underdeveloped arguments about why i don't seem to say sorry and please

"the idol and the slave both depend greatly on one another"
all the while i'm pacing around the stale apartment that used to be an abandoned zoo
getting a visit from my long-time co-idol and brother
a warm and loving echo out of a bottomless void, which both he and i enjoyed, and still do

Poetry: one eye open, one eye closed

Sat, 22 Nov 2008 04:50:36 EST

one eye open, one eye closed
the son-of-a-bitch ibuprofen always knows
the way that pain can make me feel
when sweat on a pillow turns to a chill

i got two three hours of half-awake rest
like the last uneaten egg in a dead bird's nest
looking at a glass full of cigarette buts
waiting for exhaustion or the epiphany that i must be nuts

Poetry: the beginning of another irreversible step

Fri, 21 Nov 2008 11:47:21 EST

the little devils came tumbling down the hill
a rush of blood that challenges even the most callused will
with questions no man wants to hear himself accept
because it means the beginning of another irreversible step

the same old pleas for explicit semantics of sexual lust
answered with words that radiate a believable sense of trust
but without a feeling that something is wrong
when the legs become scissors and the mouth becomes a gun

Poetry: folding fingers

Thu, 20 Nov 2008 09:43:19 EST

the windows fog over
the rib bruises squeal
subfreezing air inspires
a frequent urge to kill

the fifth cup of coffee
and i'm still typing slow
the escape plan contains only
where i am and where i want to go

i start folding fingers
to count the people i love
and am warmed for the first time this morning
by the fact that one hand is enough

a little life behind me
a little life ahead
i'm going to stop my bitching now
and return their love instead

Poetry: bent shoulders on a bug-infested couch

Wed, 19 Nov 2008 22:51:12 EST

tossing glances at the radiator with a bitter discontent
pondering the existence of a landlord when such weather roams his land
draining beer that's twice more of a beer with a middle eastern scent
thinking that too many women sat here smiling while sadness was the only thing i felt

and in a boyish awe of a horizon that no longer said "dead end"
feelings of real wonder filled the vast spaces of my quickly-sobering head
rolling cigarettes the way i always imagined a french girl would on a small-town hotel bed
drifting into perfect sleep with bent shoulders on a bug-infested couch, not caring which of us is more misled

Poetry: until an mit professor starts reciting wittgenstein

Tue, 18 Nov 2008 12:20:45 EST

at a conference, i met an asian graduate student
who nodded excessively at everything i said
so i decided to tell her instead
everything i knew to be complete nonsense

she continued nodding, smiling
using her best english to agree
with every statement coming out of me
despite my plagiarism of joycean prose

all this went on for what seemed like an hour
of course it was barely more than a minute or two
time slows down abruptly when admiring eyes turn to you
and the only thing that stops the drooling are two fearful lips

that's when i told myself for what seemed like the millionth time
that i will never again return to this place with coffee and fruit
where every asian graduate student is in an academic version of animal pursuit
and despite the appearance, i'm a warm-up snack until an mit professor starts reciting wittgenstein

Poetry: weightlifting belt

Mon, 17 Nov 2008 23:06:19 EST

with the sorry glance of a homeless black man wearing a weightlifting belt
for a reason i couldn't quite imagine, but in the end i'm sure was heart-felt,
i dragged my sorry ass to the bus stop, where i waited for my tear-ducts to melt
leaning on the chilled light post that made the new pain wake up with a "what the hell"

and i began to think analytically, standing right there on 34th street
on a stumble-of-a-span between 2nd and 69th, i calculated myself to be in the middle of it
i looked at the overweight black woman standing next to me with pride
we could split the world right there in half, i thought, her black, me white

and for some reason, i imagined her wearing a weightlifting belt, over her black designer pants
maybe because i desperately wanted for the city streets to make sense
with dead-end streets to smell like urine and have quiet strangers waiting in a trance
then maybe i could hold her hand over warm morning tea, or at least give her a chance

Poetry: a throbbing reminder every time i spill ink

Mon, 17 Nov 2008 15:20:55 EST

living with pain
make it cold, make it hot
just don't make it go away
how else would i ever feel disarmed
struggle through a day-long run
to find myself back at the start
how else would i practice my fake smile
swallowing a dull but ever-present vile
that rips through soft innocent veins
pain, take a rest, if you wish, but don't go away
how else would i find the power to think
without a throbbing reminder every time i spill ink
in which concepts will drown until one will survive
if my psyche was not shocked deep into the thick of life

Poetry: the used peanut butter spoon

Sat, 15 Nov 2008 09:49:32 EST

the editorial freedom
of readerless content
of aimless intent
amplifies the self-aggrandizement

wrong words are the teeth
of the sexually-charged
on the parts both small and large
summoning the beauty of miscommunication

time is the flavor
of the used peanut butter spoon
the sound of barking at the moon
the rush of a new feeling

yawning with outstretched arms
towards the dullness of the ritual morning
begging with a harmony of disgust and yearning
to be for once misunderstood

Poetry: the glory of a paper plate

Thu, 13 Nov 2008 03:18:36 EST

the glory of a paper plate
sticking to the kitchen counter
boldly daring to conquer fate
to make its brief existence louder

i knew a girl once like that
sorry fool feared the common awkward pause
would fiddle with her words and nonexistent fat
tried to kill herself, i think i know the cause

it turns out i still imagine her naked
when i wait for the morning egg to boil
at the time i had no smile, but i faked it
a lot of good that did, judging by my kitchen's perpetual turmoil

Poetry: the sleep of a baby in the back of a rental car

Wed, 12 Nov 2008 06:28:57 EST

bleeding for freedom is like choking for truth
show me an ideal and i'll show you the end of youth
but on the other side you should always consider
that death is only as real as the morals of a sinner

relativism floats to the top of each beer
show me a veteran and i'll show you a lost ear
floating past screamathons that got us this far
like the sleep of a baby in the back of a rental car

Poetry: kittens meowing

Mon, 10 Nov 2008 11:15:32 EST

i train to be the bone
that no dog dares to finish chewing
with kittens meowing common sense
"this lifestyle will prove to be your own undoing"

if money happens to run out
i'll search for warmth on the winter pavement
but fists will never stop conducting
the lifelong performance of a desperate existential statement

Poetry: toss my eyeballs, tongue, and ears in a blender

Sun, 09 Nov 2008 09:30:27 EST

i, the egotistic asshole with a kitchen-sink agenda
will toss my eyeballs, tongue, and ears in a blender
before i let the idiocy of a hate-based philosophy
stand side by side with the hate that you so often see spill out of me

each word that burns inside you like a sandpaper condom
is a caricature of polite party conversation as seen through blood-shot eyes of midnight-bus pessimism
it never leaves my lips with the ambitious goal to offend
and if it does, darling, just rip my eyeballs, tongue, and ears out now, and blend!

Poetry: holding on in plastic chairs against all reasonable odds

Sat, 08 Nov 2008 04:52:51 EST

broke down waiting for my clothes to dry
friday would have been so perfect for the likes of you and i
holding on in plastic chairs against all reasonable odds
damning the past with heart-felt sadness and calm lake-surface nods

nothing new to learn about one another except who cheated on who first
yearning for a vodka tonic as if there was nothing left of us but thirst
i loved you again for a moment when you demanded that i leave
standing in the doorway frowning, begging for a sign that i still believe

Poetry: if god ever will forgive us

Thu, 06 Nov 2008 11:41:25 EST

we're all racist and sexist
gay terrorist atheist fascists
child molesters, carriers of every std
schizophrenic satanic, all to a degree

and on most days, it just hurts when you pee

guilt follows bad grammar and teenage masturbation
oval office blow jobs arouse the penis of the nation
and the worst thing of all is man marrying man
if god ever will forgive us it'd be because of bombing iraq and afghanistan

Poetry: a cart full of veggies

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 16:31:53 EST

i noticed you looking at me
as i passed you in the diapers aisle
i was lost or in denial
and given your figure, i figured you were too

i again ran into you with a cart full of veggies
and figured you didn't eat meat
so i played you like a pacino in heat
with my best de niro: strong but broken

you were a little disfigured from a long day i supposed
after all only broke students and junkies go shopping at 4 am
why you held the door for me i'll never understand
nor will i ever figure out why i didn't thank you with a smile

Poetry: the limits of flight

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 11:14:35 EST

ex-girlfriends crowd up behind each unlocked door
humming a judgment that builds to a roar
like alarm clocks that find me waking inside a small cardboard box
forcing the chicken out of a self-proclaimed fox

sidewalks, skirts, heels, and traffic lights
give the feet a rough guide as to the limits of flight
and when i wrap myself out of instinct in two warm female arms
i know the box waits to contain me, to keep me unharmed

Poetry: pondered the lights of the oncoming train

Mon, 03 Nov 2008 00:08:30 EST

pondered the lights of the oncoming train
almost jumped to push you out of its way
but didn't and instead stood still
unable to tell god who that damn drunkard can't kill

there wasn't much blood amongst the usual dried urine
and the torn body parts seemed only barely human
made it okay somehow for me to get on the train
forever not knowing if anything but lust ever flowed through your veins

Poetry: thank the devil

Sat, 01 Nov 2008 21:15:05 EST

sleeping beauty with suffocating breasts
twisted words as part of a rorschach test
i think she said she just turned eighteen
thank the devil it's halloween

skirts so revealing they're not really there
making the game of hard-to-get hardly fair
you, darling, are a caricature of abba's dancing queen
thank the devil it's halloween

innocence for the first time has found itself in a whorehouse
looking like a sobbing barbie after ken ripped off her favorite blouse
the dance floor is a special olympics where nobody can win
thank the devil it's halloween

for the first time in ages the spartans are sleeping
leaving their beloved ladies behind a back alley dumpster weeping
no amount of beer will wash away the taste of this vulgar scene
thank the devil it's halloween

Poetry: wish i had me a good wife

Fri, 31 Oct 2008 02:16:03 EST

cut my hair, change my shirt
tape the body parts that hurt
throw a hat on for the cold
run the bases till i get old

wonder if the dark hides a creature that stings
loose the juice boxes and cheese strings
the cliche-up-the-ass little things
that make the minutes drain swiftly

sit alone with a hunting knife
wish i had me a good wife
so i could trust her with my whole being
instead i toss the knife up at the ceiling

catch the sucker with my teeth
chuckle because i still can breath

Poetry: a bloody foot, shin, and knee

Thu, 30 Oct 2008 01:18:40 EST

with that smile and that sense of self-importance
i hope for your sake you've once killed a man
and have the fearless steel balls to do it again
because i'm going to keep coming until
only a bloody foot, shin, and knee is all that's left of me

i haven't always been this dedicated
to the chopping down of a memory
of speaking in fear of something in me
but unfortunately for the both us, i'm now just that man
who, like the slow motion sport movie hero, will fight to the end

for thinking folk like me the first punch is the hardest
it's an answer to a question posed by a brick surgically implanted into an irish skull
to the girl standing in a cute top, short skirt, hair made up, the whole scene is just dull
and two hard heads linger in the exhaust of a passing bus
like two vanilla icecream scoops in a root-beer float, not ready to be either one of us

Poetry: an embrace with a plugged-in toaster in a boiling bubble bath

Wed, 29 Oct 2008 10:48:20 EST

i've been waiting to hear the right words from you
like a big-city date-rape victim face down on a wet pillow
my life's been a lie, with shitty odds on tomorrow's
infinite possibilities not turning into another common-place lie

between shadowboxing and rereading the highlighted lines from "the plague"
i wait to be saved by a tear-jerking joke and a southern shotgun laugh
sinking in an embrace with a plugged-in toaster in a boiling bubble bath
the sadness has left me, just before you came, but its voice somehow is still around

i wait to be saved, as i let myself drown

Poetry: the butcher knife between your thighs

Tue, 28 Oct 2008 01:21:06 EST

i've seen the monster in your eyes
the butcher knife between your thighs
squeezed so tightly i shiver from the pain
of the thought that i will rejoin you one day

warn brick city sidewalks form the impenetrable wall
until i crash into it, full of liquor, with my sledge hammer soul
singing songs i didn't learn from living
in the language that's as natural to me as not breathing

whispering to a drying puddle that i can still be rediscovered
in the warm female arms of the reflection onto which i explosively vomit
now i've really done it, lost my dignity and wit
from the early words of a bad poem to the final dry post-puking spit

Poetry: taste bud ambitions

Sat, 25 Oct 2008 10:53:56 EST

lite beer, like drunk-dial romance, cannot define a man
with its bland american watery froth
like the wall-stain from a murdered moth
can fill the stomach but will never fill the soul

crowds of meatheads put their mouths to the glory hole
and let whatever comes out sooth their taste bud ambitions
weighed down with a self-imposed crown and preconditions
for the three-word exclamations to the half-naked opposite sex

but who am i to judge a man
based on the transparency of his drink
when i myself order coors lite pints faster than aging perverts wink
creating something of a scene
with a polite but proud grin

Poetry: in a grappling match with a diner waitress's tone

Fri, 17 Oct 2008 06:52:14 EST

wild flames engulf the curious foot
inherent cost of wandering outside its home
in a grappling match with a diner waitress's tone
and prolonged unexplained absence

what's the sense of playing it safe
when all the fans turned in for the weekend
and truth is too twisted to allow another bend
in the return that will forever be resisted

Poetry: the triumph of blood sport

Wed, 15 Oct 2008 02:05:05 EST

choosing pain is like drinking warm beer
for the chance that it may make you laugh
i chose pain, so i could face my fear
of standing up to the forces of death

each day, without exception
i train my body, my mind, my girlfriend
to prepare for the illusive conception
that i think of as arriving just before the end

trash dogs pull the sled of time
across the canvas of my desperate efforts
crawling where once long ago sisyphus climbed
beyond the search for the triumph of blood sport

Poetry: a dramatic orchestration with the world's smallest violin

Tue, 14 Oct 2008 03:07:09 EST

dear girlfriend, life is bitter
but i've decided that i'll stay
doing it over, the right way
without simulated drowning
every time you say something dumb
rubbing your index finger over your thumb
in a dramatic orchestration with the world's smallest violin
about all the things that boil down to the old out and in
yes i'll take the day off to bring flowers to your gold fish's grave
yes i'll try and find a reason for a daily morning shave
yes i'll change in every way, without you knowing that actually i won't
use you for the warmth and weakness
for the fighting and the stress
which i'll now confess
to enjoying more than a perfect compromise
which happens to be death in a half-ass disguise
arrested to a somber fate like a white-trash tv dinner
fast-forwarding through diets, as you get thinner, fatter, thinner
until you weigh less than a pound
a sorry left-over snack for an aging maggot in the ground

Poetry: learning to smile

Sat, 11 Oct 2008 09:24:42 EST

no more blues tonight, i'm flirting
no more worries on the tab
drink the last unprovoked beer
before relighting the old brown bag of crap

if you're not careful the days blend together
when drink, work, and women splash onto your lifeboat
leaving you stunned with a copy of "my pet goat"
pressing gently down on your fingers

wait as the memory of unrealized potential lingers
and poof, back to the sizzle of a beer and a giggle of a girl
reenacting a distortion of a bible passage behind a bouncing curl
no more clues tonight, i'm breathing
no more sausage for the dogs
no more thought-provoking monologues
no more talk, i'm learning to smile

Poetry: bidding with whiskey breath on old city wares

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 13:52:23 EST

half-naked girls with aching feet
drag their goods around the street
as the fake tan crowd stares
bidding with whiskey breath on old city wares

since as early as just a little boy
every girl i touched is a girl i destroyed
and tonight on another trip to the pond
i close my eyes, but my eyes still find a submissive fake-blonde

Poetry: poking a cyclops in the eye

Wed, 08 Oct 2008 09:41:46 EST

why is that the toughest fighters
more often than not are nicer than mary's little lamb
but when you try to arm bar one of them
it's like poking a cyclops in the eye

two hooks from one such nice fella
and you rediscover your liquid composition
questioning every single one of your decisions
which landed you in this initially polite exchange

suddenly your short arms mean a short grappling range
and your average-thickness neck is begging for a bare naked choke
your glass chin becomes a circus joke
when fists come raining down on your tough guy charade

Poetry: the point of purchasing an axe at walmart

Mon, 06 Oct 2008 02:08:16 EST

the point of purchasing an axe at walmart
may at first glance evade the innocent observer
well buddy you're not me, and you don't know her
sometimes an axe is the only argument she will allow for

it's not acceptable in most post-feminist american homes
to use such brute-force communication
but that's what the axe is for, to take back our nation
from the jaws of middle class kitchen impotency

i swing that bad boy with such maniacal frequency
that even the sweat droplets don't get a chance to fly
i know that by now you're probably asking "why?"
because a man is either a slave or a master
and never, except in death, can he find calm in this age of disaster

Poetry: a piss-stream of stale mornings

Sun, 05 Oct 2008 23:52:43 EST

facelift melodies ring true
with every change of face that ignores me
not publicly, mind you, but with a vicious secrecy
that poses questions when even everyone has left

the last kiss is the natural end and the nonpunishable theft
leaving the moist brain out in a dust storm
of tall glasses, short skirts, and what is almost porn
where the sun-dried rotten lies descend to watch the sunrise

bad language and bad tidings, rereading bathroom stall writings
for the shakespearean drama of the repeating shallow romance
only if the sluts amongst us would give loyalty a chance
what a piss-stream of stale mornings would fill the toilet bowl of our head

Poetry: love is working double shifts on sub-par pay

Fri, 03 Oct 2008 22:50:06 EST

love is working double shifts on sub-par pay
when the silence rains down, and little kids stop giggling
i can't rediscover the eroticism in the voice of a virtual sibling
heavy hands catch a melting face from frowning

if love is so damn driven to save me, why am i drowning
why am i asking questions of someone that's too tired to care
why am i laying down into the young fire, like firewood that used to be a chair
why do i let you play with my hair, when the vodka has left without tipping

what is a man's hope left to do when it is done dripping
well it just spreads into a puddle of oily cynicism and spite
leaving a russian speaking pinocchio, except much less polite
to manufacture dreams that shake the foundations of reason

is it treason
or is it fate
love, the underpaid
illegal worker
does (like me)
nothing to stop her
as she slides into the grave
so cheap and valuable is love's labor
it seems it's nothing less than a slave

Poetry: escape is in the knowledge of how to divide life in half

Wed, 01 Oct 2008 18:51:30 EST

the death row is an unfunny joke
match box with burnt out matches
the bug's almost dead, yet still it scratches
at the walls that keep it in
because some long haired jew said that murder is sin

each mumbled syllable promises riches
the memory gap is just where the brain itches
recounting days left for squeezing the blood from the cloth
escape is in the knowledge of how to divide life in half

Poetry: living in a bubble bath

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 03:43:19 EST

pretend away the dissatisfaction
of living in a bubble bath
but acting as a victim of poseidon's wrath
in an artistic approach to getting laid on a tuesday

will i sleep with a dozen girls or one
before this month, year, century is over
and will i be a man that needs her
or simply settle to summon one such dull verdict

my winking eye is symptomatic of an addict
with pants eternally too small for misconceptions
i'm pissing words and thankfully noone is watching my actions
because weakness is the theme of my bathroom library this month

Poetry: the second to last cheese string strand

Mon, 29 Sep 2008 20:34:34 EST

back to the madness of hazelnut tea
tastes like a rectum, but gets me from A to B
with minimum tangents on deliberate doubts
losing the rumbles, but winning the bouts

what are your specials today, if i may inquire
it appears that you have seated me, intentionally, by a fire
maybe to warm me with a homely resurgence of pain
maybe to unclog the vocal chord drain

strum the lung and heart strings that are youthfully ringing
numb the scarred wounds that somehow are still stinging
blow me in front of your mexican friend
peeling away at my love like it's the second to last cheese string strand

Poetry: a panel of experts

Sat, 27 Sep 2008 01:21:19 EST

to sit on a panel of experts
is what i imagine a threesome to be
everything is so much about "me!"
and yet, somehow we share, with masterful subtlety

of course the word "expert"
is a lubricant for a quickly approaching meteor
a classification that is an open door
to some cancerous outgrowth of a bureaucratic convention

and with the best of intentions
i attempt to play this hilarious role
like a child blowing air into a beach ball
waiting for the magic to appear

here and there i fall victim to a judgmental ear
without the slightest hint of sweet success
in my asexual desire to undress
the audience of nerds awaiting free food on a friday evening

life is a cosmic joke
we in this room are just another punchline
and the rest of the story drowns in the half bottle of red wine
that's waiting for me in the arms of an innocent israeli woman

Poetry: the moral doctrine of rabbits, roaches, and toads

Thu, 25 Sep 2008 11:32:29 EST

the american way
the stampede towards freedom
if them colored folk won't join us
hell, brother, we don't need 'em

let the worker be our voice
with english as a second language
louder than the wall street noise
and cheap enough to carry luggage

put the middle class where it belongs
at the service of the saudi princes
and conglomerate ceo's
raised on the shoulders of confederate dunces

don't let government near our roads
our towns in hurricane season
our pregnant women, our jesus, guns, and boats
drown it in a bucket
and god help us if even one bureaucrat floats
they'll just build the damn thing over
from the moral doctrine of rabbits, roaches, and toads

Poetry: the vastness of unrealized glory

Tue, 23 Sep 2008 20:42:57 EST

my aim in life is to be a chapter
in a broken man's first and only autobiographical novel
that will dig at my leftovers with a rusty shovel
with claims to know the pain i've caused
stuttering around the truth without pause
and letting the reader, if one ever is found
to rediscover something profound
in the absurd contradiction of this subplot of his story
and quietly ponder the vastness of unrealized glory

Poetry: when a man is to be fed

Mon, 22 Sep 2008 21:53:49 EST

health and habit stretch the skin
spread it around real thin
with shreds of tangibles rotting
under a weekend full of promises and dreams

nothing's worse and nothing's better
like when a man is to be fed
the romance of lunch meat
the orgasm of bread
the purpose of pickles
and yellow middle-eastern spread
that's all a man has
and is all he's ever had

Poetry: worn-out like a dog's drool rag

Sun, 21 Sep 2008 14:02:41 EST

worn-out like a dog's drool rag
calling on gods to hand down a smack
to the head on a non-cooperating neck
watching the deadline sharpen its axe

don't believe the beer drinkers
with their hearty southern laugh
when they bark they had enough
of being led by dog leash to the slaughter

this girl is somebody's sweet daughter
and if she was nothing more than bait
for trapping the mad bull the stray cats call fate
between two powerful legs, so be it

frat boys are rolling in with fat kegs
metaphorically speaking, i say thanks
because the pressure of the self-imposed meat grinder
is done squeezing out pages for the research binder

somebody please shovel out a deep unforgiving hole
for whom the maddening silence of the deadline tolls

Poetry: wicked old chair

Sat, 20 Sep 2008 02:39:30 EST

one of these days, you wicked old chair of mine, you will fail
in supporting this torn-up piece of animal corpse
without receiving even the slightest excess of force
you will fracture along a long-envisioned inner crack

propped up by three wounded ikea legs
revenge with side of freshly cut-up bleeding meat
just imagine, old buddy, how perfectly sweet
the unbounded flavor of finally returning the overdue favor

you could've been a part of a white picket fence
if not for me, who took a chance on you and i
amidst an ever-changing one-bedroom pig sty
working for years along an elaborate plan
patient but eager, each other's only desperate fan

Poetry: assumptions are none

Thu, 18 Sep 2008 00:00:00 EST

conclusions are illusions
chased with a sleeping pill
running out of time to kill
and then running out of ketchup

assume and boom
you're back in the womb
struggling to find
a fire exit to climb
to the roof from which death is that much nearer
and where finally a man can enjoy his damn beer

no need to argue
i've lost count of the score
i forfeit, or if you wish, let's call it a draw
anyway, i don't want to play anymore
you cheated, i cheated, big whoopsiedoo
let's shake our soiled hands and call it
a sort of rotten cheating whore truce

forgiven, forgotten
we're back to square one
where conclusions are real
and assumptions are none

Poetry: until there's no voice left to scream

Tue, 16 Sep 2008 02:09:26 EST

let us say for the sake of argument
that by drinking and drinking and talking for hours
we can through osmosis arrive at the truth
it'd be a hell of way to reclaim our youth
we wouldn't need years of living to live
no need for earned wisdom, it'll come as a gift
just drink and drink proudly, singing along
deconstructing with passion the system
that now obviously would appear as fundamentally wrong
injecting a new purpose into the existentialist theme
taking apart moral constructs with nietzsche and jim beam
making frankfort, kentucky the home of the revolution's queen
drinking and drinking, until there's no voice left to scream

Poetry: what kind of meeting is this

Mon, 15 Sep 2008 20:50:09 EST

what kind of meeting is this
i came here to make progress
not to take a piss and compare
stare and dare

some here are grinders
chewing on newly-purchased glass shards
some here are dreamers
proudly dealing themselves shitty cards

and there's never a leader
to enter the room
just when we need her
or god forbid, him

watching the watches
like soviet spies
killing off seconds
under a polite nodding disguise

and always one person
typing away
in case the sages of history
wish to remember this day
this hour, this minute
this meeting of few
the glory of progress
the likes of which only we knew

Poetry: out of reach of common man

Mon, 15 Sep 2008 11:57:39 EST

the world just may have been ours
for that moment, but we had to give it up
and it hurts to admit that i screwed up
but i did, letting the world go

spin around on the little ground
that can still be called our home
dead end friends with mouths full of foam
pave the back-way to the lake of dreams
where life is something that always seems
just out of reach of common man
veins full of liquor, stomach full of ham
digesting to the one-two of their out-of-tune jam
waking the neighbors, just as fallen trees
scream for attention "somebody help me please"

dip my head in the water
is this a fountain or a lake?
what other purpose can i fake
before the monster comes out for its early morning snack

Poetry: the untouchables of my formative years

Sun, 14 Sep 2008 22:55:56 EST

the bookcase holds my friends, my enemies,
the untouchables of my formative years
with last words that can bring on tears
from the brief introduction to the deep unknown

they no longer wait for me there
like ex-girlfriends that learned to move on
whether they are too broken or too strong
they hold their breath when i turn their pages

i sit down to write with a sad sort of smile
about the heartache i found on first losing meursault
and the few words that spill out reveal a pathetic flaw
in my self-indulgent philosophy-induced suffering

Poetry: goodness as an axiom

Fri, 12 Sep 2008 22:34:11 EST

don't take my words about treason
to mean i'm likely to deceive
or laugh at you if you believe
in goodness as an axiom for human existence

of course there might be some vile reason
behind my saying things that hurt
most likely it's just how i flirt
in the context of war to gain another man's approval

but if what i have said still stings
when the two advils fade after six hours
you should leave me, and return only to put flowers
on my grave if i happen to be the first to die
the final proof of love between you and i

Poetry: define the way your wine glass shatters

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 22:15:59 EST

i'm in perpetual search for dostoevsky
in the chips aisle of seven eleven, or instead
in the crack of a beautiful woman's back side
but it seems he's always a step ahead

he's been everywhere i've been
but he's managed to live it in style
somewhere between god and middle class denial
finding the time to drink, and i mean really drink
returning home, and finding the will to think
and i mean really think, and finally the optimism
of writing on a piece of paper

how does one summon brilliant stupidity
of writing like none of it matters
and yet not letting the claim's validity
define the way your wine glass shatters
when either drink or hope run out
and there's nothing left to write about

Poetry: life's too short for cacti

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 12:29:17 EST

writing the same old thursday poem
about an upcoming saturday date
and, lovely reader, we both wait
for an inevitable cynicism of sunday morning

after whole fish and white wine
we'll trace the intricacies of center philly
with four anxious feet, talking silly
until we end up in my bed
satisfied but empty
from the mix of sweat and cold
of the air conditioner hum
that's barely there and yet is brutally bold

i've been with just enough women
to suspect i've been wrong
searching for someone that didn't belong
standing out like a cactus
in an air conditioned room
yet sure in herself, like the writing on a tombstone

maybe they don't make them
like they used to before the war
or maybe i could've found her, if only i searched a little more
but the years are flying, and the desert is dry
in such storm-ridden weather, life's too short for cacti

Poetry: unreasonable drought

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 02:16:32 EST

don't read old love poems
they are either terrible poetry
or are about times much better than now
or both, most likely, given how
you probably have become an unbearable asshole
this is usually welcomed by no one
and thus you have more time to yourself
for spoiling perfectly good paper with your thoughts
and thus your poetry becomes
less like an unused penis
and more like an overused, broken penis
void of purpose and soul
vulgar, smelly, and old
but mostly serving as a sort of urine sample
for a good dozen years later when you're divorced
and the vodka runs out of brain cells to trample
you double click on a folder titled "crap and things"
to the sound of god's loud sarcastic clapping
another perspective on the years pours out
and a desert no longer is defined by unreasonable drought

Poetry: before nature updates its log

Wed, 10 Sep 2008 22:51:36 EST

where is that mythical second wind
when i'm working a heavy bag
fists and wrists, i think, are numb
but then again a dead dog
may give its tail one last wag
before nature updates its log

how am i supposed to win
when i'm slow-dancing
with an eighty year old woman
as my pouring sweat is ruining her dress
each punch is a kiss
meant to impress
a feeling of such magnificent force
that the gods would come down running
and then say "ah, yes, it's him, of course"

but instead the mirrors fog over
from my leaning stiff and lifeless corpse
and though the blood may still be flowing
the brain has long ago filed for divorce

Poetry: leave the back door open

Tue, 09 Sep 2008 21:53:29 EST

i felt the echo of forgiveness on your lips
except that i didn't come here to be forgiven
i came here to try and forget
all the men with whom you've been sleeping

the contradiction of such intention
can tear a thinking man to shreds
or instead leave the back door open
and let the years slowly fill his head

Poetry: this is where the room gets quiet

Mon, 08 Sep 2008 23:07:00 EST

how do i fit into a box
that's awfully tight from all directions
is it through psychoanalytic introspection
in hope of castrating away my ignorance

or should i give hate speech a chance
publicly decline to read a toni morisson novel
because a nobel prize is for a man
not just, here you go, m'am, what the hell

this is where the room gets quiet
as if your grand daddy didn't fly the flag
of a confederacy that had no place for muslims or a fags
we're now in polite company
no racists or sexists anywhere the eye can see
the african slaves of the twenty first century
are what i'm trying to find in the mirror
by asking the questions i don't want to hear
facing my hatred, because for everyone, trust me
some hatred is there, you can hide it or fight it
in any case it won't disappear in life with no meaning
beyond a drive to survive, by sharp-dressing monkeys
waiting next to a burning cross for god's open arms
or as children, father frost's

Poetry: will the stab victims stop twitching

Mon, 08 Sep 2008 20:54:45 EST

will the stab victims stop twitching
if i turn down the heat?
start behaving like medium-rare meat?
doesn't matter, sadly, because i won't

i believe in a tortured path
paved with god's glory
and god's holy wrath
it will eat away at your body
but your spirit will thrive
from the darkness of hell
to where all white christians rise
so that country may prosper
and the people rejoice
as long as the impure
will have severed vocal chords
and thus, no voice

Poetry: a foreign gym

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 21:06:19 EST

met a girl at a foreign gym
with nothing to say except "wow, you're strong"
and to what man do those words
not form a chorus to a beautiful song

of course i gave some modest response
devolving the present but unspoken theme
playing with her the over-played game
wondering whether her husband's name is michael or jim
and whether there once was a time she really loved him

Poetry: cheese tray

Sat, 06 Sep 2008 23:16:08 EST

don't let rats get to your cheese tray
and then call me as you try to pull it away
reading out to me the wiki on the muroidea superfamily
through tears begging me to understand
exactly why innocence no longer is a valuable brand
for a twenty year old with perpetually nothing to wear
cheese balls perpetually melting as the long-tailed rodents stare

the romantically-flavored humor of fruity drinks and tipsy winks
no longer inspire in me a good-ole country boy fascination
and to fall into a hot humid trap, escape from which requires castration

so excuse me as i end the call, despite my resolution to appear polite
i've now discovered that a man must do what he knows is right
before life runs out and leaves only a "no, please"

it's too late, darling, to save the cheese

Poetry: even rudeness begs for a chance

Sat, 06 Sep 2008 02:36:06 EST

wait for a man's kindness
and you'll be on your ass for months
until it grows so painfully numb
that even rudeness begs for a chance

but drive a fist through a man's fat face
and you won't have to wait for warmhearted praise
it will flow like the mercid river
from the lips that crack and shiver
as the man's fear reverses the chase

Poetry: one kingdom

Fri, 05 Sep 2008 01:16:28 EST

after hours in the city
horny drones march up and down in self-pity
looking for a diner or pizza joint
staring stubbornly into the great unknown
with genuine hope to get anonymously blown
in a place within reach of public transportation
anything anywhere except to wake up alone
with no source of romance outside of slow masturbation

waiting for the rags of rape and plunder
to shed themselves quietly with the dawn of old age
taking with them the leftovers of the freudian rage
leaving a possibility of contentment in a fresh cigar
searching in a spiral for the place i parked her car

there will only be one kingdom that i as a man will rule
living life under the flag of freedom is living like a god damn fool

Poetry: the philosopher king

Thu, 04 Sep 2008 13:11:20 EST

philosophers are easy targets for punches
they always come to these bars alone
having locked themselves for weeks in their home
they emerge out of darkness to order a beer

it's hard to know whether it's good manners or fear
which stretches their innocent smiles with no teeth showing.
give me a couple of shots and the gods of justice will come calling
for the philosopher king to rain down on weakness

the night explodes through the minutes
with no acknowledgement of my confrontational stare
until it's too late to wake from the nightmare
which happens to take the form of a defeated drunk

Poetry: when language outpowers reason

Wed, 03 Sep 2008 18:48:17 EST

when language outpowers reason
i feel my big toes tingeling
with fear of what the news will bring
when i turn the tv on this evening

i stand before the wall of emotion
summoned by people that like the smell of a burning book
i drill an opening through quiet introspection and have a look
beyond it i see almost nothing, smoky and dark
a few floating victims awaiting a shark

Updates: Fixed the Music Page

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 19:33:53 EST

Added the very excellent www.flashmp3player.org to play some of the songs directly from the site.

Poetry: immune to changes in the weather

Mon, 01 Sep 2008 22:26:40 EST

i've been engulfed in flames for hours
from boiling coffee on my tongue
each moment, struggling to become
immune to changes in the weather

i wouldn't call it an accident
but i just now fell down the stairs
a couple of steps, enough to bloody a chair
when i attempt to return to a sitting position

and my poetry (do i still insist on calling it that?)
has turned like the eyes of famine victims at lunch
to the topics of sitting, typing, and such
giving the one remaining reader a damn good reason to depart

don't look back, reader
i won't take it to heart