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

Poetry: cracked blues eyes from a skull-shaped pot

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 14:16:04 EST

human brains i love the most
are over sunday's whole wheat toast
bleeding from the frontal lobe
leaking out the unfounded hope

chase the breakfast with a shot
of cracked blues eyes from a skull-shaped pot
with a milky foam of texts and calls
that grew with every lie we told

brush my teeth, start the day
search for delicious-looking prey
buy them a drink, tell them a joke
and give their long hair a gentle stroke

Poetry: between an empty bar and a welcoming ditch

Fri, 05 Mar 2010 11:10:18 EST

imagined walking on warm sand
which we don't get much in this sort of town
if it ain't concrete, it's cold and brown
and you can't plant feet in that sort of muck

chased a dream i had of flying
and i chased it off the bridge
between an empty bar and a welcoming ditch
life defined by a fear of dying

Poetry: wrong number

Thu, 04 Mar 2010 01:01:40 EST

i almost didn't make it
another memory went by
like roaches on my kitchen counter
they quietly refuse to die

i told her daughter stupid stories
from a b-side neil young song
and i told her that i loved her
and she told me i was wrong

Poetry: the scene on mars

Wed, 24 Feb 2010 12:01:43 EST

stepped around garbage
found the sink
drowning a plate
in standing water

and this i imagine
is the scene on mars
under all that hard icy surface
deep in the darkness
of a rented space

a creature unlike any
that hollywood has ever imagined
(mostly because hollywood is
far too imaginative)
walks around in sweat pants
and a free shirt
from an old conference
on plasma science

the search for "extraterrestrial" life
for me is just the search for self
the longing of a cockroach
to share a sugary meal with another cockroach
before parting ways
in search of humid darkness

Poetry: while your husband is at a conference in vegas

Tue, 23 Feb 2010 17:00:51 EST

don't forget me when you're wealthy
half-naked smoking in a mansion on a hill
with yellow walls full of time to kill
while your husband is at a conference in vegas

call me, spill an absurdly honest stream
about being confused, mad, and home-sick
as all of us will get some time
call me, tell me you used to be mine

sheep will find a wrinkle growing
and try to pretend they never knew
that the shepherd needs herding too
despite the inevitability of life ending

Poetry: couple hours will do

Sat, 20 Feb 2010 00:03:10 EST

i was promised admiration
when i first entered the womb
then there was smoke and a boom
and somehow the smiles faded
calls continued before they stopped
and the egg chose not to drop
with a checkbox love had stopped
except on weekends from twelve to two
couple hours, she figured, will do

Poetry: the restless miracle of a sunset chance

Tue, 16 Feb 2010 18:26:14 EST

walking along rock bottom on a tuesday evening
i was surprised to meet every guy i know
each had an excuse about this or that girl
and how the changes they made were life-changing

the restless miracle of a sunset chance
was that guys too busy to find their time
were meeting at the corner of bitch and whine
to mumble the epic of their untold greatness

i put throbbing headphones in my ears
and tightened the scarf around my neck
this sausage crowd was a pillaged wreck
that not even sea beasts would scavenge for dinner

Poetry: one more goodbye

Mon, 15 Feb 2010 16:52:11 EST

before i search the snow for cab tracks
let me say one more goodbye
not worth staying long with wise cracks
when all i want to do is die

phone is choking on a beer
a girl is waiting by the door
she's not single, but i don't care
though i wish she'd visit more

Poetry: in celebration of female fortitude

Wed, 10 Feb 2010 17:52:13 EST

the silence, like fat-free ice cream,
ruined the possibility of great morning sex.
the dirty old snow kept falling, despite how i felt
about the separation of loved ones in camus's "the plague"

thought about an ex-girlfriend as i drooled discretely
on the rough surface of hardcover "lolita".
the thought of her settling for a simpler man
made me want to drink a whole bottle of cheap champaign
in celebration of female fortitude

Poetry: so i ask you to get me a beer

Sun, 07 Feb 2010 14:15:48 EST

when the mirror spills its stains
and smiles turn away with aims
that stretch beyond the world i know
i have too many miles left to go

your talking's keeping me awake
over the calories in the wedding cake
so i ask you to get me a beer
which makes it easier to care

Poetry: short people in big red shoes

Wed, 03 Feb 2010 03:43:26 EST

the clowns came
and drank my beer
i knew they would
from the urgent despair
forming a friendship
out of a broken chair
us short people
in big red shoes
painted faces
with drawers of screws loose

i'll insist that they leave
they will
but will come back
to chat up over sex
and a cold glass of jack

Poetry: the place where daddy goes to drink

Sat, 30 Jan 2010 11:34:30 EST

the place where daddy goes to drink
is filled with maggots, novels, cheese
a woman smiling on her knees
with the roar of trains returning home

the man wishes to be alone
don't follow him into the ground
there digging now is not allowed
as it disturbs the sleeping dead

daddy has a severed head
don't kiss his eyes, he's going blind
flipping through questions, failing to find
the conversation that leads to bed

Poetry: amidst the honesty, there's truth

Thu, 28 Jan 2010 08:12:25 EST

you got to put the time in
and eat soup from the can
work the corner for the man
and leave the habit home

wake up with blood preheated to hot
close your eyes when you are dead
she's got a look, kissing your head
the snoring genius half-emptied

don't smile when they smile first
and ask about your parents and your weather
pick a friend, and fight together
the evils of the smiling world

never leave unfinished bottles
they'll come back to finish you
amidst the honesty, there's truth
but too scarce to be trusted

Poetry: the end of laundry

Wed, 27 Jan 2010 14:13:41 EST

the end of laundry
and flipping through pictures
remembering days
when clothes were clean
when coffee was made from coffee beans
and it wasn't so strange
to eat steak for dinner
jokes were simple
rarely clean
so was the sex
and the favorite jeans
you would get jealous
i would get mean
and we'd scream random nonsense
over the washing machine

Poetry: hungry wolves around the meat

Mon, 25 Jan 2010 23:54:55 EST

a peaceful silence takes the mat
doesn't seem to notice that
the russians are screaming half-sense
about grip and posture

the alpha male jungle culture
that will test the dormant will
and the predators urge to kill
on a sunday after lunch

cute girls speak canadian french
one invites me to montreal
smiling like a barbie doll
and i'm reminded of nature

hungry wolves around the meat
caring little of defeat
that happened minutes earlier
in battle

Poetry: love is simple

Sat, 23 Jan 2010 00:42:39 EST

i dropped a bowl of soup
and realized that love is simple
wrote a letter to my grandmother
and the choke in my heart
collected a new vascular meaning
a skipped beat marks the beginning
of a small discomfort that distracts
and sweeps up simple little facts
about love and life and longing
and the chances missed too soon
demanding the return of the silver spoon

Poetry: a hobo loudly discovers phlegm

Tue, 19 Jan 2010 14:25:20 EST

a couple waits on sagging cement
for a taxi to appear
four feet of a broken chair
that's still too new to throw away

foreign trees clinch on to green cards
and let dogs piss all over them
dreaming of their motherland
and the childhood it gave them

a hobo loudly discovers phlegm
and deposits it before me
i decide to let him be
since we're all of us still learning

Poetry: once silenced, she begins

Fri, 15 Jan 2010 15:42:41 EST

my sharp innuendos are rusted
my jokes are dark and slow
most books on my ikea shelves
she doesn't even pretend to know

and once silenced, she begins
unraveling fictions from the past
to the sparkle of ice in the tonic and gin
and the unspoken truth that the moment won't last

Poetry: the best and worst of human nature

Wed, 13 Jan 2010 13:28:00 EST

the best and worst
of human nature
can be found in one
untagged facebook picture
and though you may leave
the computer screen
google knows
where you've been

Poetry: you're everyone's favorite guy

Wed, 13 Jan 2010 13:27:03 EST

it's probably best
to leave on a high note
but who wants to leave
when the notes are high
and you're everyone's favorite guy
the very best thing
since last week's girl
deep-throated a hot dog

Poetry: a young man is god

Tue, 12 Jan 2010 22:01:22 EST

stories of children
of family life
of kittens and puppies
and pleasing the wife

and suddenly tape
full of selfish blood
is a scarlet reminder
that a young man is god

Poetry: like anxious rabbits

Tue, 12 Jan 2010 15:07:58 EST

i passed outside
a carnival ride
where many men waited
full of sadness and lies

looking up
like anxious rabbits
before sunrise
at spring time

i walked to the end
with a flower in hand
that a homeless man
sold me with a smile

and i wondered when
the line would end
and i'd get a chance
to laugh for a while

Poetry: we finish the bottle together

Sun, 10 Jan 2010 21:12:03 EST

i'll run for a while
from life, from having to feel
the turn of a smile into a smirk

the devil steps from behind the curtain
and offers a joke
that's the kind of funny
that needs a shrink

i offer the devil a drink
and we finish the bottle together

Poetry: but the writers never change

Sat, 09 Jan 2010 12:20:17 EST

jealous writers all around
on the bookshelves, on the ground
in the bathroom, on the fridge
perched on every unwelcome inch

how am i supposed to rest
much less think, write, and piss
when all these men and anxious ladies
wearing frocks and old-time panties
are longing to be understood
opened, touched, and again consumed

outside, the readers are running wild
another husband, another child
but the writers never change
never die, never age

Poetry: reading nietzsche into the evening

Sun, 03 Jan 2010 21:46:47 EST

i have late night conversations
with a teen from down south
she puts words into my mouth
and i go to bed alone

wake up, turning
wondering if i'm still in love
fully, half-in-half
or not at all

the dogs are wearing sweaters
facebook couples kiss wall-to-wall
and i check that i still have balls
by reading nietzsche into the evening

with a lamp that's almost a lady
and a chair that's almost a horse
i breath the free of the great indoors
and continue proudly proclaiming contradictions

Poetry: breaking promises and plans

Sat, 02 Jan 2010 02:48:58 EST

they name streets after trees here
so the way back home is always through a god damn forest
and the freezing wind laughs its ass off at the fact
that new love always feels so new and different

and no number of letters to grandma
about how i'm finally becoming a man
will stop me from breaking promises and plans
and taking the people that love me for granted

Poetry: nights of red cups

Wed, 30 Dec 2009 11:20:36 EST

nights of red cups full of gin
to make sense of the out and in
anyone that tries, tries too hard
each word is soft before it's smart

the road waits for the broken dogs
that chew their bone but don't get off
and so they jump out into the sun
and noone notices they're gone

Poetry: an ever-shrinking ship

Tue, 29 Dec 2009 14:47:24 EST

a trickle from something like rain
chose to end a unsettled day
in what i think most resembled a boat
in the middle of an unsettled ocean

a couple aggressively making out
tongue knee-deep in each other's mouth
disregarding my jealous daze
over major concerns of a philosophical nature

and there we were, three sailors
on an ever-shrinking ship
i felt an ache in my aching hip
turned over hoping they'd disappear

Poetry: the hope of an aimless pursuit

Mon, 28 Dec 2009 11:58:54 EST

forgot to bring my ipod
as i walked to work
and in the silence i discovered
that my brain was capable of sadness

in order to stop myself
from collapsing quite rudely
i bought a soft pretzel
and returned the smile
of an absurdly blissful clerk

i look back at the line of furry coats
a line stretching from siberia to new york
each furry link with impatient twitches
warming the hope of an aimless pursuit

Poetry: no way around growing old

Sat, 26 Dec 2009 09:30:15 EST

had an elf on my ass for days
checking numbers, in a number of ways
the vicky, the maggie, the vera, the jen
demanding the where, the how, and the when

"it's just procedure, you understand"
scribbling notes with his small hairy hand
texting his boss the stats and the odds
strangling a cellphone with quick little nods

"i'm afraid this year you've been especially bad.
you ran, you cheated, you failed your dad"
and with that, the midget closed the book
ignoring my pleas for another look

despite the beer being cold
there was no way around growing old
i promised i can change, i can learn,
but i knew next year he wouldn't return

Poetry: disinterested people

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 21:03:34 EST

i was surround by disinterested people
when i mistakenly began to wonder why i was disinterested myself.
unfortunately i had noone around me
who was interested in talking about it

and as luck would have it
i spent several years in that place
where people don't care to talk about it
except when drunk, and with a fiery spite
reserved usually for the politicians

it seems momentum of a social kind
has made me a kind of dirt puddle after the rain
that passersby avoid as a matter of habit and instinct
except for slutty girls in rain boots
and tenured outliers that have long stopped caring
about a little dirt on their clothing

Poetry: drowning without you

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 02:15:33 EST

i almost ripped my shower curtains
trying to get out of the tub
so in a way, you could say
i was drowning without you

someone stole all my soap
no suspects, just a cellphone full of leads
based on hair pins and needles mostly
but i'm getting old and cynical
so every face is beginning to resemble a haystack

i fall in love
every time i see your ass in a dress
which reminds me
of the plumbing in the kitchen
since it takes about as much time
for the water to go down
as it did for you to figure out
that this was one sinking ship worth abandoning

i was way ahead of you
roaming the soup sections of grocery stores
in search of a replacement to your cooking
but in the end
all i found there was soup

Poetry: our inevitable doom

Mon, 21 Dec 2009 14:15:21 EST

i'm ashamed to admit it
but i watch c-span 2
cowboys, racists
and one confused jew

just for the days
when i casually tune in
and spit out my protein bar
with a "where's this guy been?"

but those days don't come often
as hookers moan in hotel rooms
and excel plots of rising taxes
prove our inevitable doom

and i feel i know the meaning
of the words each mouth will speak
but still i feel they're worth believing
if the choice is between dead or weak

Updates: Design changes to the poetry page

Sun, 20 Dec 2009 16:24:02 EST

Included social bookmarking "share" button that let's people (and by "people" I mean me) put the poems on Facebook, Twitter, etc. Also, added navigation options. If you're still reading this, get yourself a strong drink, it's on me.

Poetry: as obese bearded men lurk

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 16:17:01 EST

spent ten hours
fixing problems
as obese bearded
men lurk

like a lonely
jewish mother
crying over
lukewarm pork

and i know snow
has no religion
like the dirt
on a persian rug

i resort to shots
of freezer vodka
when mom
is not around to hug

Poetry: looking through the yellow blinds

Thu, 17 Dec 2009 03:08:55 EST

i imagine smoke stacks
and epic loneliness
of a man that quietly
carries laundry into the night

laying on the couch
writing down this "poem"
looking through the yellow blinds
that may have once been white

there's parking tickets out there
and cheating boyfriends
and phd dissertations
that take seven years to write

and i'm always one sprained toe away
from black and milds
and a melancholy stroll
in search of a fight

Poetry: a hard thing to do

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 09:09:48 EST

it must be a hard thing
for a jahova's witness to do:
ring the bell
of a self-righteous atheist jew
whose fridge is a night stand
for vodkas and gins
and whose sweat pants have witnessed
all seven deadly sins

Poetry: from the comfort of my chair

Sun, 13 Dec 2009 03:20:58 EST

i live a double life
the second is full of giving
a starving child in africa is still living
because i wake up at six a.m.
or so i've recently come to believe

when i run the same three miles
in the dull hum of the gym
i picture him, my little brother
and the thankless job i do for him
when i finish washing dishes

and just when my ass itches
i scratch it with a smile
knowing that there is that child
that i brought warmth to
with my ways

after all, i fill my days
with seemingly selfish pursuits of meaningless dreams
but don't you dare think it is as it seems
the world bleeds and i am the band-aid
that covers its wounds from the comfort of my chair

Poetry: the pizza joints are out of cheese

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 13:07:28 EST

we never send hateful emails anymore
what happened to us, me an asshole, you a whore
did we wake up respectable beings
and decide to try and keep it up
so the screaming world may at once shut up

i don't think so, and you know
when the bars close, and the bell tolls
and the pizza joints are out of cheese
you'll be coming to me with an "i hate you" and "please"
and it always warms my heart to feel
something so bitter that it almost tastes real

and today for a million dollars
you wouldn't do what you've done a million times for free.
i can count on you to be an impulsive spoon-full
from a boiling pot of venomous snakes and cute furry hamsters

Poetry: a garden of mold

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 11:13:13 EST

when you ran out of slutty
and i ran out of bold
i put them old shoes on
as the story was told
in a voicemail stroll
from hot to cold
as my life and kitchen
became a garden of mold

Poetry: peanuts

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 03:14:35 EST

i couldn't taste the peanuts
in the peanut-flavored protein bar
and i knew i went too far
and left too many friends behind

my hands grew small
my feet grew narrow
no cockroach welcomed me
back to the shadow

and the daily flings
tended to the most
put on their coats
and thanked the host

Poetry: happy flames

Sat, 28 Nov 2009 17:15:25 EST

engulfed by happy flames
that folks are a bit too happy about
and even lady "friends" call to tell me
they have no doubt
that i deserve to burn in hell

well...

i make for descent target practice
for folks that don't like to be shot
and i'll admit i deserve what i got
and they are only too happy to keep it coming

Poetry: i'd like to be the one to kill it

Fri, 27 Nov 2009 19:51:57 EST

i keep on prodding
that old dying horse
it must be whisky-derived angelic hope
or remnants of innocent remorse

but the horse
is bleeding still
and call me a hopeless romantic
but i'd like to be the one to kill it

to be the last man
to stand over its meat
and spill an ironic salty tear
over the rare chance to admit defeat

Poetry: for a friend i've forgotten

Fri, 27 Nov 2009 01:36:47 EST

i've worn the day
cold shoulders shrug
as the sadness
melts the sweating mug

i'd rather be sleeping
than falling asleep
when i'm sinking down
and the fear's knee-deep

cracked open my eyes
to peak around the bend
and wrote a note
i'll never send
for a friend
i've forgotten

Poetry: which exgirlfriend hates me the most

Thu, 26 Nov 2009 17:10:59 EST

i'll take this silence
to a deserted island
and i'll make it grow

i'll change clothes
and i'll go
and i'll write poems
and noone will know

i'll leave behind my mp3's
long walks
that freeze
while sweating

no more waiting
while coffee burns
confident lips

my life is a party
where noone brought chips
but everyone brought dip
and everyone has a cup
with warm vodka
and a toast

as i wonder which exgirlfriend
hates me the most
because that's the one i'll always call
when my veins pump alcohol

Poetry: more than five minutes

Wed, 25 Nov 2009 17:30:05 EST

a poem that takes
more than five minutes to write
never had anger
never had spite
never knew how the late afternoon feels
when its balls still burn
and its head still spins

Poetry: waiting for 40

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 14:27:23 EST

it's hard to admit it
but i hit my peak
i learned this while swaying
grasping a leak

waiting for 40
and anything else
that could take me home
and help me undress

i was saved without drama
without a tragic chase
while drunk texting jenna
when i meant to text jens

saved by a drunk penn girl
with a side of gay friend
which was perfect, it turns out
as a means to an end

she gave me her number
right there on the bus
and texted within the hour
"still need help to undress?"

she was joking of course
and i pretended to know
that i knew all along
i'd not sleep alone

Poetry: but it's true

Sat, 21 Nov 2009 01:06:16 EST

the hard thing that'll come of living
is the price i'll have to pay
for having gone so many years deceiving
myself like i'm a husband in a god damn shakespeare play

there's girlfriends i didn't care for
and girlfriends i never learned to love
i know it sounds like i've drank enough
but i haven't, and it's friday, and i should be drinking

i'm one hundred pages into a book on world war two
and the two girls next door are singing
i'd hate for it be true, but it's true
but the end to this is never ending

Poetry: because she is motherly and caring

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 16:33:44 EST

in the corner
stands a plant
bought on sale
which the folks here
all forget

they let its beauty
tell the truth
of conquering wild beasts
in its rain forest youth

but the strangest
thing of all
is that the plant
needs alcohol

the secretary
doesn't mind sharing
empties her flask because
she is motherly and caring

Poetry: the visitor

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 04:50:08 EST

the devil came
the devil went
everyone knew it
but not what it meant

and then when silence
covered the town
everyone wished
he still came around

Poetry: a chance for the cannon

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 02:16:07 EST

the battle was lost
they day it started
but anyway it went on
for a while

both sides
were in denial
about victory
in war

i slept quite well
even began to smile
when things were quiet
for a while

but that was just
a power nap
a chance for the cannon
to refill with crap

Poetry: learning proper ways of speaking

Sat, 14 Nov 2009 23:36:44 EST

learning proper ways of speaking
to a drunk man on the street
is a journey of measured seeking
of the rhythm in his off beat

the low-bass screaming is quite common
as a show of fearful rage
trying to impress a swaying woman
without having to engage

friday night, i'm wearing sweat pants
walking laundry in the parking lot
two big drunk guys give me a glance
and i raise them with a big smile and a nod

Poetry: as the old bastard grinned

Sat, 14 Nov 2009 04:44:26 EST

i walked a bit
in an old man's shoes
didn't find in it
much calming truth

moments of sadness
and bed-ridden doubts
no reason remained
to wander about

i wrote a few emails
and went on a "walk"
with a girl that i knew
wouldn't care to "talk"

when the stomach ache settled
and the shoulder pain dimmed
i took off the shoes
as the old bastard grinned

Poetry: the petting of cute dogs

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 22:06:32 EST

i've lost the patience
for fruitless flirting
and the petting
of cute dogs

now i'm afraid
to face the moments
when i can't smile
at the absurd

like the idea of a marriage
or the taste of cottage cheese
and the afterglow of witty banter
that abruptly ends with "please"

Poetry: trip to the kitchen

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 23:35:31 EST

i drank and called a friend of mine
amidst the party's slow decline
towards the lonely sunrise trip
to the kitchen for a sip

she didn't answer, she didn't know
any good reason for me to call
and may have laughed about it all
with another guy over a cigarette

i pour myself another cup
while windows age with a warm "what's up"
because the last thing i want now
is another stubborn field to plow

Poetry: if some hole is bleeding

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 00:14:48 EST

i get little respect
in the doctor's office
when i'm telling him
about my problems

he nods to make me think
he's listening
and then procedes
to rub my shoulders

as i get older and return
i suspect he'll show greater concern
when the shoulder is fixed in place
and wrinkles write pain into my face

or if some hole is bleeding
or a new hole has formed
or if an expensive scan of my cynical brain
reveals parts that may have been misinformed

Poetry: gave up stretching

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 13:13:02 EST

i gave up joining
groups and clubs
and friendly girls
in moulded tubs

i gave up chasing
half-freak-half-nerds
and throwing stones
at armoured birds

i gave up stretching
and vitamin c
and looking for tape
when i happen to bleed

i gave up trying
to be honest and good
and settled for acting
just a little less rude

Poetry: the shared mistakes of old age

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 01:11:20 EST

stood over the toilet
in the women's bathroom
and memories came rushing out

from the time of freshman dorms
to the shared mistakes
of old age

and the sudden urge to call
a girl i can recall with a smile
overtook me

the words i didn't have
didn't leave my mouth.
i was trying to be quiet.

walked home to
'against the wind'
and finished the night
with sit-ups and nietzsche

Poetry: bold words trail behind

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 03:36:47 EST

bold words trail behind
as if i hadn't lost my mind
as if i didn't know they were harsh
and would hurt
when i wrote them to you

and when i wouldn't hear back
well, i knew that'd hurt too

don't worry
i've already moved on
i don't remember your favorite song
and if i ran into you
on a crowded street
i wouldn't remember
why a man might ever cheat

Poetry: free of change

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 01:53:09 EST

i noticed that
my clothes were cleaned
my papers "organized"
into neat piles

and later
i noticed
my nietzsche
was light

i knew then
that this
was worth
the fight

Poetry: until the beasts agree to eat

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 22:00:50 EST

half-neutered dogs
victims of a smoke break
impatiently waiting
for a vet to drop by

self-aggrandizing fear of death
helps the days go by
slowly but surely
as surely as an erection

the butchers roam
offering slabs of aging sirloin
until the beasts agree to eat
not letting on that they've been beat

Poetry: at forty dollars a bottle

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 08:57:02 EST

put me on tv
i'll say a couple words
about how my neighbors keep changing
locks on their doors

shallow relations
never finished one
all they are good for
is learning to run

who wrote the phone number
on my apartment wall
and why don't you pick up
when i call call call

it must be the same witch
that's drinking my jack
at forty dollars a bottle
you must be great in the sack

Poetry: i guess you too had debts to pay

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 22:46:31 EST

i was scratching my ass
when our eyes met
and felt
what you may call regret
but you smiled anyway
i guess you too
had debts to pay

Poetry: senile cynicism is only one bathroom trip away

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 02:57:59 EST

toilet paper stuck to this man's shoe
was a white flag of surrender
and i felt his pain
his desperation
the longing wrinkles
on his tired face

he ran that flag as a hero does
unintentionally, just doing his job
warning the unprepared single women
that the plague of old age
and senile cynicism
is only one bathroom trip away

i will be that man one day
walking back to my table
with a disappointed grin
breathing an out-of-shape hymn
for the class of withering perverts and dogs
that linger at the edges
of passion and nap-time

Poetry: until i learn to ask for nothing

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 15:37:06 EST

teenage girls
are no longer in my age group
and short skirts are only
a means to an end

cigarette smoke in my face
is a staple
along with cheap diners
and never-to-be-paid debts

dirty comments
on facebook status updates
fill the need
of an empty touch

and what i ask for
always becomes too much
until i learn
to ask for nothing

Poetry: a satisfactory level of comprehension

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 01:23:32 EST

i am in academic paralysis
over an ikea table
puzzling through a paper
that requires a man
to give his left testicle
in order to achieve
a satisfactory level
of comprehension

i get the contribution
and the gist of the approach
but if you were to ask me
to return next morning
with working code
i would humbly slip out
back to my humble abode
and drown in the bathtub
with a toaster floating by
after i write
a brief note of goodbye
to all the folks
that may follow me over the cliff
in the same hopeless endeavor

Poetry: the whiskey stains on the coffee table

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 02:04:19 EST

i reevaluate the use
of used-up rags
i used to clean
the whiskey stains
on the coffee table

i toss the tiny thong
and fancy bra
out with the shopping bag
full of toothpicks
and an empty pack of slims

most of my days
are spent typing, reading
face down sleeping
on the desk
full of coffee and stress

so i ignore
the stories rotting
right across
the apartment floor

i open and close
the apartment door
and that's the extent
of the connection
i share with the space
that i call my home

Poetry: nobody here is special

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 23:11:28 EST

nobody here is special
by definition it's a meeting
of mediocre minds
the kind that do not cross
state lines
when they happen to disappear
and so i fear
that i may not find
a reason to exist
and yet to succeed i must persist
without such a reason

it's a catch 22
without a catch to it

i used to write
about far away gas stations
with lonely girls
ringing up my lukewarm soda
somewhere in tennessee
or south dakota
as i make my way west or south
i dreamed of tasting that broken girl's mouth
and now that i have
i can die happy
with a wrench in my hand
fixing my sink
without being someone special
without wasting too much ink

Poetry: i at once must retire

Sat, 10 Oct 2009 23:27:22 EST

every time i read poetry
by people that graduated from a school
i realize how cruel
my brain must be
to make me want
to continue writing

i know i know
it's just a thing
i do when i'm down and/or tired
so no need to announce
that i at once must retire
into the darkest corner
of the already dimly lit room
every time i encounter
self-doubt, shame, and/or gloom

still, i wish
i could make less sense
thereby creating a sense of wonder
with language roaring (like nineteenth century thunder)
describing, still, the same old shit

Poetry: don't bother running

Sat, 10 Oct 2009 02:32:13 EST

don't bother running
i've been here before
and you know i know
why you opened the door

why the quirks
of misfelt mistakes
hide behind
brand new drapes

and the sweet goodbye
of approaching night
makes me wish
that you were right

Poetry: when i stop writing

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 23:58:11 EST

giving up is so easy
when my shoulders are numb
and i feel dumb
writing an apologetic email
about all the ways in which i fail
and still continue to hang on
when the pull of a petite arm is strong
the beer is flowing
and an empty bar fills with a tom waits song.
is this the price i ought to pay
for having done wrong?
i became another facebook name
persisting in the void between
untagged and tagged again
and so on
you continue responding
in the coldest way
looking forward
to the day
when i stop writing

Poetry: the smell of peeling tires

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 04:48:32 EST

tilted to the left again
on a thursday 4am morning
i was reborn yearning
with a useless text
full of useless words
like poorly dressed nerds
out in a college bar
looking for company
from girls whose names
form a melody
that's more genuine than the hookers
on the vegas strip
i had to piss
so i did
i had to sit
so i slipped
and woke up in early afternoon
wondering if the stranger in the kitchen
will be off to work soon

i'm only surviving
amidst polite discourse
chores and desires
and the smell
of peeling tires

Poetry: despite all these poems

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 14:08:47 EST

my poems may upset pseudo-girlfriends
and faculty members with time on their hands
but really, darlings, give me a chance
i have much more than bad poems to offer

i cook on the weekends, i photograph nature
i run when the sun is engulfed by the clouds
i smile when my brain is full of fears and doubts
and i'll fight for an idea, even if it's wrong

i'll send you a postcard when i'm in a far-away country
when the last thing (you'd think) on my mind would be you
but that's when you'll discover, if you wait and pull through
that i may be alright, despite all these poems

Poetry: the trick to dying politely

Tue, 06 Oct 2009 21:39:39 EST

the trick to dying politely
is to die on a thursday night
because resource overconsumption on the weekends
is just not very polite

also try respecting women
since apparently that's the best form of birth control
according to a thom hartmann book summary
that i read last night on amazon

but if love of women and suicide
are two things you consider a bit overkill
perhaps you should sigh softly when pumping gas
and drop a tear for the earth as the tank hastily fills

Poetry: things that last forever

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 21:20:22 EST

there are things
that last forever
and one day don't last
forever anymore

it's a kind of
change of weather
and all one can do
is explore and explore

i took up, for example,
an ironic endeavor
of working through a problem
i couldn't solve before

and each night i pass out
with the promise of 'never'
and wake up to the promise
of another fruitless chore

Poetry: some more stupid crap

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 21:29:19 EST

i'm angry
that's the poem
but i think i'll write
some more stupid crap

you're asking me
to be a polite poodle
on some feminist
wine-sipping lap

made to feel
like my words are worthless
and only because
once or twice i lied

excuse me for saying this
but at least i tried
to make the impossible
seem worth a thousand plane rides

used tampon
half sunk in the toilet
is just about
the right metaphor

oh the many ways
i fail the phrase
"i love you but
i can't do this anymore"

Poetry: half-eaten apple

Wed, 30 Sep 2009 09:01:11 EST

i stood and watched two brown eyes
half-eaten apple in my hand
a charming snake in squirrel disguise
convinced of fate until the end

my knees were buckled, i saw the sun
rise over an empty city street
and pain rushed in from all that's lost
before i could even move my feet

Poetry: the smell of fresh regret

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 15:03:34 EST

time slips by
through viscous mourning
and the smell
of fresh regret

there will be
no need for folding
i've already
lost the bet

Poetry: a few folks will laugh

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 10:52:55 EST

a few folks will laugh
at the beginning
before they start
to understand
i'm not the kind of man
that takes too well
to others laughing

so some will leave
and some will linger
as i spread out on the couch
full of miserable doubt
about the future of a life
that has no beautiful beginning
nor a beautiful assent
to the perfect human being
i could afford to be
and still pay rent

Poetry: waiting for your plane to crash

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 21:41:15 EST

i have a hole in my shirt
and you have a hole in your skirt
i'm wiping off sweat
pondering symmetry
through the smell of a cigarette
at the entrance to my building
two girls are coloring hair
one of them stares
in too much pain to smile
i'll throw on the ice
take advil and try to be nice
when i walk the trash
alone out of season
waiting for your plane to crash
in the woods of south jersey
where i can search for your remains
your friends might say i'm stupid
but that's because they use their brains
when it rains in west philly
i crack my lips and take the cold
it may not be what it should be
but it's a place where i grow old

Poetry: the urge to be kind

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 10:55:37 EST

i noticed little changes
in argumentative exchanges
over the phone
the unknown starring blankly
into four fixated pupils

separation had no more reason
than pre-world war II soviet treason
or the flames that burnt the witch
spooning in a philly ditch
i discovered the urge to be kind
and let the past fall behind

Poetry: pancake parties

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 00:48:01 EST

i don't attend pancake parties
unless i'm told of tasty low-carb snacks
just like i don't pay half-naked women
for no-gi grappling with my lap

and when i catch an asian bluffing
i will raise him every time
because the road to death is full of stumbles
and i'm a speed bump kind of guy

Poetry: don't try to reason with a woman

Thu, 24 Sep 2009 11:47:26 EST

don't try to reason with a woman
she'll cry and leave you every time
i did this once, i don't know why
but she stuck around anyway

that's how love turns down the days
when doubt shakes the fragile heart tubes
and as i look from boobs to cereal to boobs
i smile to think that love isn't waiting

Poetry: no one told me there'd be whole wheat bagels

Wed, 23 Sep 2009 23:05:47 EST

no one told me there'd be whole wheat bagels
and bowls of fruit salad with pineapples and grapes
grown men in suits, laughing like apes
over some joke about sex with someone's mother

no one told me, so i didn't bother
showing up until the end
and so now, out of fear, i wake up early and i attend
each such gathering of apes in search of breakfast

Poetry: searching for a pocket in pocketless jeans

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 05:38:06 EST

faithful boyfriends
march to the beat
of a beatles song
with a sad melody

and somewhere in the middle
of the ant colony
despite all common sense
marches old faithful me

right up to and over the casual cliff
flopping like fish
out of the freezer
and onto a home-cooked dish

a comma in a poem
about an innocent dream,
and the memory of a hand
searching for a pocket in pocketless jeans

Poetry: your pink luggage must go

Fri, 18 Sep 2009 23:27:35 EST

i end each week
with the woman i love
in a pool of blood
and a misfit glove

explaining away
things i can't explain
not promising change
but not staying the same

exhausted in boxers
with tears in my arms
failing with truth
and the old russian charm

in the shadow of knowing
that your pink luggage must go
and the goodbye of betrayal
may be saved by hello

Poetry: as wallets collapse

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 15:44:22 EST

a sexist wearing pussy-eating shades
half baby, half whore talks fantasy trades
in a town where vagina flowers with ease
i manage to find my cold bed in peace

taxicabs moving slower than feet
glow-in-the-dark signs scream "cheat, cheat, cheat, cheat"
fake tits expand as wallets collapse
i drink gallons of beer with the snakes and the rats

Poetry: it's a good thing that winning is hard

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 15:41:07 EST

winning may be
the worst thing that can happen
to a drunk russian
with a credit card

so it's a good thing that winning is hard
especially when i have trouble
not saying "all in"

Poetry: muscle tone

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 15:39:12 EST

escalators
take old women
up and down
to the shops

they squeeze my arm
and give me props
on the size
of my biceps

i smile politely
and walk away
pondering
the inevitability of the day

when i'll be a husband
drinking at home
my withering wife shopping
rubbing young firm muscle tone

Poetry: i need the way you laugh at me

Sat, 12 Sep 2009 17:27:40 EST

i need the way
you laugh at me
when i take myself
too seriously

i need the way
you don't wear your dress
when your head
rests peacefully on my chest

i need the uncomfortable
eighty degrees in your bed
so i can't sleep
and watch you sleep instead

i need the way
you wear a gi
for your love of judo
more than your love of me

Poetry: a proper reason to breath

Sat, 12 Sep 2009 17:23:49 EST

i mostly grew up properly
there was my brother
there was me
my grandma, mom, dad, and dog
and a quiet refusal
to sink with the rocks

i write this poem
in a public bathroom stall
while casual boyfriends
answer casual calls
they too mostly grew up properly
and still too struggle
for a proper reason to breath

Poetry: anxious little devils

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 02:06:46 EST

messages that get
to the core of my flaws
are like anxious little devils
with anxious little jaws
that gather inside
my big pumping heart
and feast on it wildly
until it crumbles apart

and all that's left
when i plump into bed
are big hungry devils
in a small hollow head

Poetry: a car wash for the devout

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 01:49:20 EST

i've dug a hole in the ground
laid down
looked around
and waited for the bugs to come.
they came, ate some parts
and didn't eat some

it was all in good fun
chewing, believing
that there's someone
waiting up on a silvery cloud
running a car wash
for the devout

an old gambler
in a white cowboy hat
bought me a drink
and chewed the fat
while girls in skimpy skirts
flew past
looking for a man
to be their "first" and their "last"

Poetry: the rules are such

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 02:35:57 EST

i want too much
and the rules are such
that all the things i touch
i destroy

but i continue on
growing strong
forever as long
as you once loved me

Poetry: some poems will never be written

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 02:16:42 EST

some poems will never be written
because they can't be read
before i am dead
and have a chance
to be forgiven
or at least
misunderstood

Poetry: who gave birth to these people

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 02:48:13 EST

i push my way to the bathroom
and i'm surrounded by armchair activists

not the people
close to me

just the ones
at the edges

trapped in the corners
with a glass of wine

talking about
israel and palestine

and turning down real alcohol
as if not-drinking was a real option

who gave birth to these people
and why weren't they given up for adoption

Poetry: the day starts and ends behind a computer

Tue, 01 Sep 2009 23:15:02 EST

i stood at the corner
of market and 3rd
brain filled with dirt
and seven dollar drinks

thirty something suits spread around winks
to chicks in jeans
in their late teens
because they can't hear a thing they're saying

the day starts and ends
behind a computer, working quietly
there used to be a girl laying nearby silently
a trophy for all that winking and drinking and lies

Poetry: the way it ought to sound

Tue, 01 Sep 2009 00:50:41 EST

flawless logic's not for me
it lacks that certain empathy
which helps a broken man find peace
or bag a resisting sorority tease

i'll jot a lyric on a post it note
put it in the pocket of my winter coat
so that when winter rolls around
i'll know the way it ought to sound

a thank you from a neighbor
and a smile from a stranger
are all reasons that i call
when i hear my heartbeat stall

Poetry: when the birds fly home for the winter

Fri, 28 Aug 2009 12:25:29 EST

i'm loosing facebook friends
of the female variety
it seems that some form of anxiety
is fueling the fires on the bridges back to me

i'm not looking for attention
not even a little healthy tension
i just want to be alone
when the birds fly home
for the winter

Poetry: i romanticize chairs

Thu, 27 Aug 2009 22:33:14 EST

i romanticize chairs,
roaches, awkward stares
and other things about which
no one else cares

like a man amidst plague
i mostly remain vague
internalizing my affection
so it doesn't become fake

so it doesn't force me
off my white horse
into the mundane mud
of habits and chores

Poetry: objectivists are like mosquitoes

Thu, 27 Aug 2009 10:23:01 EST

objectivists are like mosquitoes
they bite and they suck
the life out of victims
that don't have the luck
of a life that allows
them a chance to succeed
so the objectivists suck
and the victims bleed

old ladies with bug spray
run around the room
mumbling something about jesus
and fine french perfume
chasing the golden devil
out the stubborn few
that do just what old ladies
demand they cannot do

i'm sitting by the fire
mosquito on my arm
laughing about jesus
and all that do me harm
mad with the tingling
sensation of pain
a predator content
with being the prey

Poetry: empty seat

Thu, 27 Aug 2009 10:21:34 EST

looking for a table
i found a chair
wearing one-day-old
underwear

sat down
and opened a book
on page one
fell in love with a girl
when it was certain she was gone

the peaceful motion
of her waving hand
was one facebook update
from being the end

the monotonous drum
of crowding steps
built up to the thump
of my vascular collapse

with blood sprayed like sprinkles
on a vanilla banana split
strange that no one gave a shit
they just half-mumbled and chuckled
and an old drooping man took my now empty seat

Poetry: forgetting to add whip cream to a caramel drink

Thu, 27 Aug 2009 10:19:40 EST

a flaming manager of a man
busts in with a smile and a joke
while the minion workers choke
on the possibility of their life changing

granted, it's a Starbucks job
not a vice presidential post at AIG
not exactly a stressful excess of responsibility
and the pay is pretty much rash-like

but they scramble anyway
forgetting to add whip cream to a caramel drink
most will now require a shrink
to help guide them through the recovery process

i come to the counter
speak steady and slow
order the simplest thing that i know
and they get it for me like they're getting head

i hope these poor people find peace before they're dead

Poetry: harry potter

Thu, 27 Aug 2009 10:17:46 EST

a woman asked me at the gym
if i was ever compared to him
who waves a little wand around.
i let my eyes drop to the ground

she spoke to me with large fake breasts
and though i tried my hardest best
my magic powers failed me
in casting a frost spell on the enemy

i was doing snatches with the 80 bell
"snatches" being an essential element of a gym rat's hell
enough to chuckle when she strolls
enough to drop a third testicle

after that we didn't speak
only an occasional mirror peak
at my introverted sweat-drenched self
half boy magician, half ogre, half elf

she left with a "have a good workout" goodbye
as if she didn't just watch me in skeptical doubt
for a half an hour at least
as i turned from prince to lizardly beast

Poetry: giggling french girls

Fri, 21 Aug 2009 09:58:41 EST

giggling french girls
in their late teens
speaking about where they're going
and where they've been

making a comment about
annoying me
i smile, they giggle
and we drink our coffee

just when i find
a good woman to keep
the brainless charmers
come to the surface to feed

and i wonder if miles
(a couple dozen or more)
can keep a good woman
from straying out from shore

the french girls jump up
and run out to singing and moans
an old man takes their place
and i feel at home

Poetry: a little show of human nature

Thu, 20 Aug 2009 01:49:51 EST

a couple is fighting
outside.
a starbucks window between us

i am happy
to be able to do what i love
while a couple is fighting

and noone told the girl
that she is dressed like trailer trash
in a town where a sense of fashion is essential

maybe that's what they're arguing about
while i type and type and type
and smile because they're still fighting
twenty minutes later

van morrison plays softly on the speakers
and a black man claims to be turning 72 in october

i don't pay him any attention

i don't pay attention to anyone
unless there is glass between us

i'm a monkey at a type writer
in the kind of zoo where i can come and go as i wish

and perhaps serve as a little show of human nature
for the couple still fighting outside

Poetry: people aren't afraid to be themselves

Thu, 20 Aug 2009 01:47:00 EST

in starbucks, reading the cup:

"you
are a pioneer
in using recycled cups"

"everything we do, you do"

a man in a trench coat
sunglasses
suitcase
sits on a bench next to a thirty-something skinny girl
licking a lollypop

i'm not kidding

they are both smoking now
under a "no smoking" sign

you can't make this shit up

everyone seems to know the girl
everyone seems to know everyone in fact

we're living in a time
when people aren't afraid to be themselves
mad, insignificant loiterers
at a starbucks

did i arrive here in this strange town
in the middle of a convention?

what is a black girl in a short pink skirt doing
talking about "3 on 8" with a mexican in dirty boots?

the skinny girl just moved to a table
next to mine
it's just the two of us
and she asks "i wonder if we can smoke on the patio"
but she isn't looking at me
there is nobody else here
the convention moved on
and i answer, under my breath, "i won't stop you"

she may be a prostitute
she may be high
she may be momentarily shy
but i can't help wondering why
women continue to throw themselves into the cage with lions

i return to work:
where i can be myself

Poetry: part with a melancholy smile

Tue, 18 Aug 2009 13:59:15 EST

copy and paste
lines from old poems
few folks read them
anyway

and my life
doesn't change
a stranger
at a dinner party

a stranger
on a boat
keeping socially afloat
through consumption of bad beer

in the bedroom
women come and go
asking for things they'll never know
leaving evenings broken on the tiles

i fall in love
i lose control
i promise nothing and give it all
and part with a melancholy smile

i only got
a few years left
a few more if i'm blessed
and then i'll quietly expire

a woman'll be waiting
at the door
she may not love me anymore
but she will still be there with a smile

or am i in denial
am i just a penis with a head
and a few clever lines i may've once said
to whet her appetite for power

Poetry: drown the day in emacs buffers

Mon, 17 Aug 2009 14:47:20 EST

i used to dream about fishing
looking out over the smiling sea
now i'm drinking shitty coffee
arguing that a man can never be free

i'll drown the day in emacs buffers
with a pause to drink and piss
closing the laptop when the code compiles
and going to bed in search of bliss

Poetry: the impatient glow of a flawed journal page

Mon, 17 Aug 2009 14:46:32 EST

i find god at 7:30
with the parting of the fog
coffee waiting bold and dirty
made to slow the speeding clock

7:31 and i finish a poem
in the impatient glow of a flawed journal page
sip the coffee and engage
tearing focus away from bliss and rage

Poetry: proud monkeys with coffee and scone

Mon, 17 Aug 2009 14:45:29 EST

smiling people, smart and dumb
make my eyes roll till they're numb
proud monkeys with coffee and scone
proceed through life together and alone

the sky condemns the wild road
but let's still walk it, while we're bold
and pretend blind fate conceals a chance
that a fighter may get lost in a simple six step dance

Poetry: little troubles in a cup

Mon, 17 Aug 2009 14:44:35 EST

i'm in the jungle of thoughts
dreams of roses and palm trees
crowded new york city streets
a strong woman on her knees
hum of birds and happy men
dragging tanned feet through the sand

denial of death gathers up
my little troubles in a cup
not willing to wake up, i wake up blind
and dream that you and i don't fall behind
as you melt into my hand
and i drag my burnt feet through the sand

Poetry: train station benches are made for smooth-talking lawyers

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 23:25:29 EST

train station benches
are made for smooth-talking lawyers
and the tom sawyers
of this world

i'm just a huckleberry finn
exchanging glances with a black guy, let's call him jim
that has worked at the subway
for as long as they were out of honeyoat bread

it's the smallest travels that change me
dragging my tired ass to the seven eleven
learning the solo to stairway to heaven
adjusting my jeans while women chatter about work

i turn the french existentialist masterpiece back on
listening to the ipod struggle to keep up
sucking the life out of an ice-filled cup
and hoping the sun will set before my dreams expire

Poetry: when i let a woman pick out a tie

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 15:28:20 EST

i recently watched my balls go by
when i let a woman pick out a tie
for me to wear to a formal event
and i wondered where my balls had went

leaning back in a folding chair
i listened, actually listened, and actually cared
about what she had done that day
as i waited for my balls to find their way
home

Poetry: the hope that shredded doubt

Sun, 09 Aug 2009 23:23:48 EST

i left a trail of mediocre work
behind for the wolves to starve on
and wonder what kind of man has been there
and how he had gone

in spite of the critical comments and glances
from the most-likely-to-be-successful crowd
i went on doing what i knew was most likely to be fruitless
but i felt i owned the hope that shredded doubt

over cheap wine with predators and prey
i played with the power of clashing worlds
and danced around the topics of the day
leaving little for the wolves when i went away

Poetry: manipulative facts

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 18:00:58 EST

i write comments on republican walls
with a tone of polite and distant wonder
much different than my style of pillage and plunder
that i usually employ against manipulative "facts"

and there is nothing wrong with crawling on the floor
in search of stale crumbs from the elitist tables
repeating (like the animal farm sheep) the morals of contradictory fables
fabricated by people with little sense of long term economic growth

but it's not for me
i like to be
healthy
not hungry
happy
and free

i like to own
all that i payed for with my sweat
and no more than that
because i still have to repay the chimps in prehistoric caves
as well as the american indians and the american slaves
and all the tortured souls on city streets
that reach out their infected hand for something to eat

Poetry: things will end badly

Thu, 06 Aug 2009 20:56:49 EST

it keeps being said that things will end badly
and lately i've been beginning to forget
that every moment i love now is a moment i'll regret
and a strawberry protein shake reminds me

somewhere there's a group of hot girls on the train
and i'll live on without ever knowing their names
because that's the way of these little things
that come together to form a feeling

Poetry: conan o'brien

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 07:54:30 EST

conan o'brien has been
my late night physics homework companion
and the northern star
of my coding journeys
across the object-oriented oceans
of template-based functional programming dreams
where nothing is ever as it seems
and debugging is just about as easy
as selling peace to the republicans

i would get coffee and a snack
watch his big red hair make a crack
at intellectually-lacking blond celebs of the time
and despite a tired troubled mind, i'd suddenly feel fine

the productive hours lose their steam
and the brain is just not as good as its been
i shake it off and i fight through
knowing that the big dancing irish stick figure can make me as good as new

Poetry: the pleased poodles drool

Tue, 04 Aug 2009 10:27:33 EST

i'm part of someone's lie
to her mother
what's the worth of truth
it's too much a damn bother
for weekday afternoons
when the roses bloom
and cellphone reception
is more exception
less rule

the pleased poodles drool
caught by the breeze
from the alaska-chilled ocean
while the over-tanned owners
ponder an impossible notion
that somewhere across the country
there's a grad student
trying to be heard
practically yelling over the voices in his big hollow head
that come to visit for a chat
when light beer tips its hat
and all that remains is vodka, pussy, and quiet conversation

Poetry: the rare place where a man can be free

Mon, 03 Aug 2009 08:06:46 EST

polite nods and no one mentions the obvious
disregard of human life in the third world
a bowl of jelly beans encircles the room
and the ivy leaguers hug it out in the cocoon

you can have the red ones, you can even have the blues
but lord, get off my ass with your theory of sugary hues
because the carnival of false debate is not made for children like me
i make my way to the bathroom: the rare place where a man can be free

Poetry: bills and tokens for the trip

Sat, 01 Aug 2009 13:37:50 EST

a piece of me is in the corner there
another piece is in the trash
my apartment floor is paved in cash
bills and tokens for the trip

i don't know if i'm going
i don't even know where to
but you're something to pursue
and so there's no choice but to keep moving

Poetry: the night knows

Sat, 01 Aug 2009 04:44:06 EST

the night brings a little regret
a little madness
a little anger
and usually sadness

the night knows
you went to bed alone
you could've gone with someone else
but you didn't, the night knows

and in the morning
you forget
all the passion
of the night's drunk facebook chat

and return again
to the hot humid day
where you can expect
(but don't need) to be saved

Poetry: the days will gather in a telephone booth

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 14:36:01 EST

lies have damning consequences
but that's no reason to tell the truth
the days will gather in a telephone booth
and wait for the inconvenient call that ends them

i once was asked how i keep my hair so soft
i laughed it off, and smiled politely
doing the things i wanted to do, but lightly
so as not to upset the fragile balance of the world

Poetry: in the shadow of the couch

Thu, 30 Jul 2009 08:37:57 EST

in the shadow of the couch
where old mail holds demands
i rediscovered non latex condoms
and a pair of woman's pants

but i wonder if i waited
and let the years pay my dues
would i find my old friend couch
bring me things i could actually use

Poetry: the basics send me out to the blinds

Wed, 29 Jul 2009 10:35:44 EST

my very jewish family is in germany
and i'm listening to the history of world war ii
on audiobook, while trying very hard not to be a jew
because after three chapters on the holocaust
it is rather challenging to eat oatmeal in peace
without thinking of the final solution and the middle east

these days only the basics send me out to the blinds
looking deep inside the cracks to the tarred street outside
it's just too easy to hide from the world of injustice
when there's food in my stomach and messages from teenage girls
deep within my self-indulging interwebs and facebook status updates
as if all there is to suffering can be heard in a song by nick cave or tom waits

Poetry: the top ten of any list

Tue, 28 Jul 2009 20:51:06 EST

i pondered as i waited in line with a banana
whether i am in the top ten of any list
and whether such a list could realistically exist
and who would put together the committee to oversee it

because if somebody would tell me each monday
where i stand relative to the previous seven days
i think i could be a better man in so many ways
just by gradually climbing up the fiercely-debated ranks

as if tumbling down the stairway to heaven
i would count down from seven
waiting for monday promptly at noon
knowing that i could be a better man soon

Poetry: but i have emails left to send

Tue, 28 Jul 2009 00:52:48 EST

leaning, almost inclined to find comfort
in being twice the weight of a girl
who i am destined to spend half my time taking apart
starting between her perfect legs, and ending at her vapid objectivist heart

multiple parts of my body are sore each evening
for different reasons with different ideas for numbing the pain
i stand in the hot shower waiting for the hour to expand
but i have emails left to send
and a thesis to defend
and a thesis to defend

Poetry: the biggest fears

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 07:12:16 EST

the biggest fears
and bleeding doubts
were all that the sunrise
was about

until the moment
that you called
and with a sleepy voice
made big seem small

Poetry: her absence

Sat, 25 Jul 2009 16:56:14 EST

fell into the trap
i set up before
i ever could imagine
it being a chore
to put out fresh meat
into the steel jaw
with the falling sun
and an unlocked door

a beer-induced yawn
over words i'll never know
because i'm forever lost
in the afterglow
of her absence

Poetry: sexual history

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 03:37:16 EST

i know it now
the thick and thin
the times he left
or you left him

i know the numbers
twenty, eighteen
when you were a slut
and when you were a queen

but really
i don't know a thing
besides that maybe you believe
in this unlikely little fling

Poetry: a senile ferret in my pants

Thu, 23 Jul 2009 23:04:22 EST

i put the chains around my neck
a boulder on my chest and back
a senile ferret in my pants
and gave that dying beast her last and only chance

the children ran and smiled at me
like the stars in the sky of a high school memory
and though the tingle scrambled up my spine
i knew i would survive just fine

Poetry: the gazelle returns to the lion's den

Wed, 22 Jul 2009 02:07:18 EST

it seems i am the first guy a girl might call
when her boyfriend leaves her crying locked in a bathroom stall
with mixed drink in her hair and lipstick on her chin
at three at night something tells her "why don't you give alex a ring"

there's not much to say aside from the sobbing hello's
waiting for the words that reaffirm our classical roles
for me to fight the boyfriend, get breakfast at a diner
dig her dirtiest secrets like a god damn coal miner

something in the poems i write speaks to her fears
that an asshole like me is all she has when comfort disappears
and radiohead with vodka don't numb the senses any more
and so the gazelle returns to the lion's den to once again hear him roar

Poetry: a crowd of voices that wouldn't shut up

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 11:56:13 EST

i left my mind
in a paper cup
in a crowd of voices
that wouldn't shut up

my head fell back
the cat calls dropped
and i swear i saw
a milipede nod

the hours grew thin
and the visitors wild
i searched the horizon
for one of a kind

small tits tight ass
and the curves in between
and all the pussy
a man could find in a dream

Poetry: the ingredient list

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 01:30:12 EST

the ingredient list of a protein bar
is my salvation from the inability to breath
when i think of your knees, your nails, your teeth
and all the insignificant perfections of your body

i waited impatiently face down on your back
ran across your stomach and your hips
climbed onto your chin and over your lips
stayed, and lost, and lost, and gained

and in the end i left for breakfast, unexplained

Poetry: in a town of poison and overcooked dreams

Mon, 20 Jul 2009 09:33:28 EST

how am i
supposed to write
bad poetry
about easy women
when all i want
is a complicated
objectivist
with a beautiful ass

i'm being crass
of course
because
it may be the last thing
i have to hold on to
in a town of poison
and overcooked dreams
lean turkey and green beans

Poetry: the zoo cage with no visible creature

Tue, 14 Jul 2009 11:02:59 EST

my bed has become a sub-par surface
on which to do the things that people do on beds
but i am not a man that follows trends
and will continue to sleep and .... badly

like the zoo cage with no visible creature
i will consistently leave myself and others wanting more
until the day a tyrannosaur
emerges out from a barely noticeable berry bush

Poetry: on a phantom limb

Sun, 12 Jul 2009 11:06:56 EST

faith may have a cost
in the brain cells lost
through saltating
overconsumption
of fictional truth

but if a man holds a shotgun
and walks with a limp
busts down saloon doors
and laughs like no chimp

like his daddy
and the tough men before him
he can walk a proud line
on a phantom limb

Poetry: no desire to mingle with the devil

Fri, 10 Jul 2009 09:31:16 EST

am i an insecure manipulative asshole
or is that just something that appears to be true
while deep down i'm a caring honest hasidic jew
with no desire to mingle with the devil

i ask that question over the phone
while barely hearing the polite negative answer
and i say softly, slowly, hold me closer tiny dancer
i've had a busy day today

Poetry: painful facts

Fri, 10 Jul 2009 03:04:42 EST

i think of how much of a miserable creature
bukowski was in the prime of his life
moving from job to hooker to liquor to beating his wife
weeping like a giant baby, half-naked on a bug-infested couch

and here i am, thinking this
while sitting in a chair brought from the midwest
by a girl with no sense of direction, but perfect breasts
writing out painful facts in brief facebook messages

and the poem turns against itself again
mid-sentence with the opening movement of a cellphone ring
trapped into the half-naked knowledge of not knowing anything
not about bukowski nor women nor painful facts

Poetry: my date with destiny

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 13:30:39 EST

woke up to face the morning
hung over from work
found a dead two inch roach
that came all the way from new york
he's crispy and tired
and dead as dead will ever be
he'll be here next week
to watch my date with destiny

Poetry: to go beyond the obvious

Wed, 08 Jul 2009 10:25:37 EST

who the hell am i
to answer questions
to make presentations
in front of people
that wake up in suits
go to bed in suits
and eat breakfast
with the melodic punditry of cnn
humming in the background

who the hell am i
to argue a nontrivial point
with the use of waving hands
and flashy powerpoint
to go beyond the obvious
into the realm of the absurd
a predator jogging with the herd
it's not that i want to eat them
i'm just following my dream
my intellectual momentum
my monotone whim

Poetry: flashes of genius

Wed, 08 Jul 2009 00:13:59 EST

flashes of genius
and a genius is gone
and i feel a little more alone
a little more unsure
of all the things i've done
and whether they'll endure
whether the beer in my fridge
is more meaningful than my work
whether burning the bridge
will feel good or will hurt
whether i love you
or i just want to be loved
whether the smile on your face
means that you want it rough

Poetry: i'm glad you make more money than me

Tue, 07 Jul 2009 03:04:34 EST

i'm glad you make more money than me
so finally i can be
grammatically incorrect
and still get respect
from the other elitist phds

i'll throw down twenty dollar bills
choke down green tea and caffeine pills
walk through the drexel campus
on my way to a upenn coffee shop
with my ipod blasting dead prez's hip hop

please, everything on my sandwich
except cheese
i'm watching my figure
especially the parts you'd want to squeeze

Poetry: your innocence is safe with me

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 21:59:01 EST

your innocence is safe with me
the flowers watered
a girl's number not dialed
the silent and the violent
not seen by closing eyes

and the unlikely nature of a shark attack
or dying in a bathtub
makes the job
of winning your heart
that much closer to a primal need

Poetry: people aren't good to each other

Fri, 03 Jul 2009 17:53:58 EST

people aren't good to each other
in the loud college bar
in the pages of a dostoevsky novel
waiting for the train
cheating on each other in every possible way
they all say sorry, but it's never the same
after that
a man in a boiler hat
greets my shame in a store window
and just when i think i know
something about living
i find out that i have been deceived and deceiving
everyone in every possible way
i try to be a good man
but there's just not enough hours in a day

Poetry: on a whim

Wed, 01 Jul 2009 02:07:23 EST

behind the computer
typing typing
thinking about a dream

knowing that i'm the kind of person
who'd drive across the country
on a whim

Poetry: lost a bike, found a girl

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 22:29:35 EST

lost a bike, found a girl
tried to forget about it all
by running with the night

someone tapped me on the arm
i turned to see if they meant me harm
or if they wanted to really love me

and though the answer came and went
there are still emails that were never sent
waiting for my heart to burn with wanting

Poetry: because the moment is always watching

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 03:11:22 EST

don't wear a black shirt
on a sunny day on the way to a museum
of all the things you lost or never had
and all the feelings you feel when you see them

don't finish the beer if you want to survive
when the pause in the step of an aging chap
causes a murmur in the crowd
wondering what all the smiling is about

don't trust yourself to find yourself
when the bedmates from your past ignore the request of no touching
because the moment is always watching
waiting for you to run away with me

Poetry: an old couple trying to dance

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 03:00:19 EST

we should go to europe
we should go to france
drink, smoke, and laugh
at an old couple trying to dance

thru-hike the appalachian trail
lose the path, starve, and die
we should do all these things
before we run out of love or time

Poetry: despite the grandest of schemes

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 17:21:24 EST

i've been angry
i'm been half mad
closed eyes against the walls
laying still on my bed
throwing a half-empty bottle
taking back everything i said
tackling a frat boy
and whaling at his head

but i've also been kind
let a cockroach walk by
didn't give money to a hobo
but smiled and waved goodbye
held the door for a lady
that wouldn't do the same for you or i
and when asked about love
i said nothing when i wanted to lie

ashamed to admit that i've been broken
looking for answers in an oatmeal bowl
running from what was expected
with a child's false sense of control
felt little more than sadness
when holding the hand of a beautiful girl
and despite the grandest of schemes
never changing, except getting old

Poetry: a strawberry dipped in nutella

Wed, 24 Jun 2009 00:47:52 EST

critters rotting
in the cracks of a crack city
where existence is defined
by the spread of facebook pity

african witch doctors with beady eyes
sneak up one desperate inch
from the passenger-side window
squeezing conscience like a sponge

it's no place to close your eyes
and trust yourself to this strange fella
chasing all things psychologically unhealthy
with a strawberry dipped in nutella

Poetry: one and a half letters

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 03:06:48 EST

you know, sitting on my couch
is one and a half letters away from my ____
who said that pick-up lines
and fill-in poetry don't work

i know, it cannot possibly be the reason
for any sane human being to sleep with me
because how could you tell your boyfriend you're leaving
for a guy that writes this kind of poetry

Poetry: on the matter of my happiness

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 03:59:05 EST

i ran, sweating before i even began, with music
through a tunnel made of silver trees
my heart, as usual, a cheap trick-turning tease
giving away every breath for the moment

armed with an ipod and a credit card
two things i need to make it out at midnight on the road
amongst the homeless and the occasional dude with a blond broad
and nothing else but the heart beat of rubber rolling over concrete

the two times i act stupid are when i'm drinking and when i'm running
at both times the world makes sense, and means nothing, to me
at both times i rediscover the child that exists to exist free
of anyone's constricting point of view on the matter of my happiness

Poetry: because a half-naked chubby chick might be impressed

Sun, 21 Jun 2009 03:46:48 EST

shirtless guy
and there's charlie
looking wildly
for a fight

doesn't want one
but he'll fake it
because a half-naked
chubby chick might be impressed

i get undressed
get in the shower
wondering if i deserve her
or if i'm faking the whole thing

sidewalk scrapes sting
like the jokeless punchline
of being just another guy
that has no reason for tomorrow

everything is a reminder
that i want her
that's what the poem's for
stupid, i know

Poetry: if i fight for it

Fri, 19 Jun 2009 15:46:23 EST

i wrote a poem
i erased it
wrote it again
and again
erased it

was it bad?
not really
but it just made me look silly
maybe more than silly, pathetic
and also dumb

the right words never come
when i try to force a feeling
until my fingers start to get numb
and typing "love"
is as useless as looking for it
face down on a couch in my room

i can do better, i swear
i just never do
and that's why i'm never with you
when all i want it to be with you

but you could also argue
that i only deserve what i want
if i fight for it

the roaches look on with interest
waiting for me to get drunk
and clumsily eat a burrito
spreading vegan crumbs on the carpet
which is always an invitation for the fattest fastest one
to try to wake me up by tickling my big toe

Poetry: until they tell me that i'm leaving

Thu, 18 Jun 2009 21:05:02 EST

i've been accused of fearing commitment
when i don't hold on to a girl i don't love anymore
but that just means you've never gone with me to the grocery store
and observed the fact that i purchase the same exact food year after year

i've been living with roaches for as long as i've had a rented home
and i don't sneak out on weekends to mingle amongst another species of insect
and if i did i'd miss the little critters, embracing with peaceful silence the unspoken pact
of being together through all the shit of daily life, of growing thin, and growing fat

i stuck by gmail through all the taunting of outlook or yahoo nerds
from the early days of its humble beginning
we stayed together, fattening, thinning
not because i was stubborn, but because i was in love

and now that i can afford a $20 bottle of vodka
i frequently encounter the questioning eyes of men and women
about why i still buy $10 gordons, vladimir, smirnoff, seagram
it's because my feelings is what makes me human
not following some pattern of actions that dr phil described in a book

and also i really can't afford a $20 bottle of vodka
and all the roaches make me want to burn down the damn building
and i don't leave women, i just torture them until they tell me that i'm leaving
and i watch the mast of the ship disappear under the bubbles of the lukewarm bathtub water

Poetry: rain waits for you to step outside

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 01:42:03 EST

some days will test your ability to fake a smile
when even the roaches on the footsteps to your place
don't feel the need to run away when chased
by a man intent on killing roaches

rain waits for you to step outside
and walk just far enough into the scattering roach mob
before it unleashes with the ferocity of a ferret in a bathtub
leaving no part of you dry except the outlook of your future sexual relations

it's not like you have reasons to complain
so when you wish to complain you have to fabricate reasons
hunting for meaning in the age of american idol is out of season
so every pain you feel has to result in some orifice bruising or bleeding

and then there are the roses outside your apartment building
that somehow no one in this dirty ass city has cared to piss on
or maybe those roses have been blooming amidst a urine storm so long
that they don't know about peaceful living, but elect to live on anyway

Poetry: if you want to ever see your umbrella again

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 01:06:17 EST

if you want to ever see your umbrella again
you won't contact the authorities
with the story of what happened
between you and i last night

you'll have to lie to everyone around you
including yourself, knowing barely enough facts
to make it to my apartment every saturday evening
wearing the sluttiest piece of cloth in your closet

i'll light candles, mix cheap vodka with pulp-free orange juice
and joke lightly about things not at all related to what is actually on my mind
sitting on opposite sides of the couch
waiting for after drink four or five to rip off the little clothes you did wear

if you want to ever see your umbrella again
you won't tell me how special i am
or some other such foolish hastily-fabricated contradiction
you'll just lay there moaning, in the closed guard position
thinking but never speaking about the inevitable end to this blackmailed affection

if you want to ever see your umbrella again

Poetry: next door neighbors

Tue, 09 Jun 2009 02:19:04 EST

a cold vegetarian burrito
is not a substitute for a meaningful existence

which ever way you measure out the distance
a man travels in one stretch of life
you, like i, will surely come to the conclusion
that birth and death are next door neighbors
trading favors, facts, and tools
treating each other like gullible fools
raping the last shreds of a consistent moral system
when passionate arms swing freely, they twist them
and after (what used to be a legitimate) evening meal
the two trip over each other over who gets the kill

Poetry: waiting to be dead

Sat, 06 Jun 2009 23:12:10 EST

music inspires me to write
badly, after the tingle of coffee leaves my tongue
the rough fatherly voice of a tom waits song
changes the rhythm of a tired heart beat

and i write with force from toe to pinky
as a drunk camper should chop at a tree
letting his unfinished work soak in his pee
to the passing of tangentially relevant rays of sunlight

she will email me with a request
and i will put that request in my to-do folder
when all i want is to once again hold her
feeling the way i felt when we met

and if i ever have trouble sleeping
i'll stand in the poetry section of the library for five minutes
to the turning of tangentially relevant dreams into regrets
collapsing into the chair of a group study room

we would turn off the lights and resume
having sex under the table, with my hand over her lips
hoping that no loud moan slips
and forces us to go back to writing, fighting, cheating, waiting to be dead

Poetry: you're so pretty when you're unfaithful to me

Thu, 04 Jun 2009 00:46:51 EST

you're so pretty when you're unfaithful to me
so soft when wrapped around a half-naked dude
would you consider it strange or even rude
if i just stood here watching your hair fill up with sweat

i used to be a bit rough around the edges
and everywhere in between
thinking that a man can own a woman
without leaving a ship wreck scene behind

i was born blind and suffered for it
until my brother showed me a poorly-made german porn
my eyes were opened, my soul reborn
and never again did i take love for granted

i slept with have the needles in this hay stack
and still i wonder if we could've made a sweater together
unable to go out for a walk because of the weather
and too tired to watch another law and order episode

Poetry: a sign of spiritual decline

Wed, 03 Jun 2009 00:20:52 EST

no one wants to steal my bike
is it so obvious it only cost a hundred dollars
and that i spent so many hours
starring at it with venomous spite

the jehovah's witness looks at it as a sign
of spiritual decline
as i make it squeal like a pig at a slaughter
and worried parents somewhere put an arm around their daughter

the major mechanical flaw becomes real
if you, like me, have an ass of a seal
that can bring the aluminum down to its knees
or just put the back tire between your fingers and squeeze

i haven't tried going uphill
since the leaves have fallen taking with them the a.c. bill
freezing hell as the pigs floated on by
getting from point A to point B feels like a lie

Poetry: got into a rental with a couple navy vets

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 01:04:25 EST

two days ago, got into a rental with a couple navy vets
casual old folks, haven't seen war, just flew navy jets
chatted my ear half to death
about the design of trolleys and nuclear reactors

i don't see much people when i live the life i live
so an old engineer and pilot was a sobering gift
a story worth writing about in a poem
about real people, not a big-breasted girl with a drinking problem

except i wasn't much more than a shadow of a shadow
of an aimless scared kid, nothing worthwhile to tell or show
some days i feel like i know fear
but today i just don't know

checkered patterns of tired feet
sweep the bricks of a tired street
and the thought of war makes me ashamed
of bitching to my mom about "severe shoulder pain"

Poetry: the fourth leg of an unused kitchen table

Mon, 01 Jun 2009 01:28:59 EST

not every man is not a pervert
in the positive sense of the word
some somewhere along the line may get bored
of spooning with the girl that calls him "sweetie"

but not me, i like my spooning PG
crawl up under the blanket with a book of poetry
condoms on the night stand, listening to her breath
knowing that the thick walls beg for a girl to be screaming

maybe it's because i haven't felt love in months
but i miss a girlfriend's fragile touch like i miss comcast cable
the fourth leg of an unused kitchen table
and the olympic dreams of a middle-aged chinese gymnast

Poetry: the more i beat women the less they listen

Sun, 31 May 2009 02:04:48 EST

the more i beat women
the less they listen
and the more their tears glisten
with the rising sunday sun

and so they run
while i write poems about nothing
typing on a keyboard designed for an ass
drinking from a plastic cup
that desperately wishes it was a glass
in a gloomy darkness of an emacs buffer
knowing that half my colleagues have never suffered
the productive efficiency of a programmer's life

the more i torture women
the less they care
with speeches that don't lead anywhere
except an implied poetic threat that i should be dead in a week

Poetry: day-old band-aids on a bite-marked heart

Fri, 29 May 2009 01:40:32 EST

i take a chance
when i have no chance at all
it's stupid i know
but fear has great big jaws and it's chewing

i listen to camus
on my way home
it makes me feel alone
but i just can't help chewing

over the bricks of a shitty sidewalk
that sees the flirts bloom into sluts
i stumble, day-old band-aids on a bite-marked heart
i know how a moment ends, but how does it start?

Poetry: in the kitchen sink of my eastern european youth

Thu, 28 May 2009 00:39:56 EST

don't talk suicide in social settings
when the intellectual merit of death is undervalued
and everyone's penis is an epic statue
whose shadow is cast in the form of a poorly-stated opinion

and don't give into the desire to keep tumbling down
the spiraling stairway of humor that has lived too long in isolation on the edge.
every time you want to screw with a blond's head, head for the fridge
and grab yourself another beer, i know it's hard, i've been there and failed

that's why my phone is usually on silent
and i only communicate with the world through facebook and technical publications
because if i were let out into the wild bar scene choking on stupid conversation
i would end up in mount over a a political junky and go home early with a wasted teenage slut

they don't make them like they used to
in the kitchen sink of my eastern european youth
sex behind every dumpster and inside every telephone booth
and the tails of our romantic distribution disinfected by alcohol

Poetry: your last and worst choice

Thu, 21 May 2009 16:22:51 EST

i want to be the chuckle in the tremble of your voice
i want to be the sigh of being your last and worst choice

close the blinds before the drunk couples wake the roads
put your head on my chest and i'll tell you stories i've never told

my first night in vegas i chatted up a hooker at a bar
entranced by a romance that didn't leave a medical scar

but when the price for drink is five dollars a pop
there's nothing left for a man to do but smile and nod

Poetry: helpless

Wed, 20 May 2009 10:46:58 EST

is that jenna on your wall?
no it's not, not at all
but when i've tasted alcohol
and i'm standing in the bathroom
swaying gently in the wind
whistling songs of post-war russia
waiting for the yellow light to bend
helpless before the jessica biel poster
laughing through the teeth of a genuine smile
is that jenna in your bathroom?
yes it is, she's been there a while now

Poetry: the calls of love in the productive hours of the afternoon

Tue, 19 May 2009 16:40:49 EST

hard to be creative with a fever of 102
to be on top after a third of a handle with no food
a man is left to roam the streets
looking for a burrito with real meat
until the sun agrees to reheat the soul
with the early morning oatmeal bowl
and the tingling tap of a 100 pound girl's knuckle
on the window that forever refuses to buckle
to the calls of love in the productive hours of the afternoon
i ask when they are leaving, and they always answer "soon"

Poetry: just got done being young and stupid

Thu, 14 May 2009 01:29:50 EST

just got done being young and stupid
and right away i'm a silly old fool
swaying like two aging breasts on a bar stool
searching for a warm new bed to pillage and plunder

were it not for the occasional drop of rain
cactii would not survive the dry spell i've been forgiving
listening to long-form radio programs on gay marriage and sinning
while chewing on an apple worth more than my soul

Poetry: some suicides are never recorded

Thu, 14 May 2009 01:26:49 EST

some suicides are never recorded
the paperwork alone is worth that much more
and like the winter sand of the jersey shore
the dead are unofficially forgotten

they are mysteries that solve themselves
without a need for a detective with a kidney stone
most of them finish their journey right there at home
and without much to say beyond "i'm sorry"

Poetry: heavenly meeting of fate and chance

Tue, 12 May 2009 01:19:03 EST

the sun shuffles behind the tree
you chase the shadows as if you really have to pee
thank god the hardness of your step
gives your breasts another breath

where was i, where have i been
in all the years before you were eighteen
it feels unreal for me to feel a fatherly pride
that you, my future bride, would make one hell of a sex slave

we haven't met, or spoken since
that heavenly meeting of fate and chance
when i was washing my post-tournament judo pants
and you were washing something that i'm sure
would look good on you

Poetry: recovery effort

Sun, 10 May 2009 20:36:32 EST

recovery effort, day fifteen
i want to break someone's face with a bat
if you know what i mean

but the romance of pain is jaded
on a corner of walnut and twenty three
i want to break someone's face with a bat
because sometimes i need privacy

i'm waiting on a joke
to make my entrance loudly
and break the joker's face with a baseball bat
but the joker is always me

Poetry: i love women that can talk

Fri, 08 May 2009 07:54:01 EST

i love women that can talk
like the jaws of an african mammal snapping
over the tibia of a gazelle
the elevator ride to hell
with unfiltered conversation
about the state of our morally corrupt nation
and the dangers of second hand smoke
i love women that can talk

Poetry: in such difficult times

Fri, 08 May 2009 01:50:28 EST

nervous laughter crowds the halls
the dreamers write numbers on bathroom stalls
she blows kisses at the mirror
lovely eyes bask in the radiant chill of free beer

in a safari desperation
men search for a purpose of a home
not allowing the unknown
to stand between them and free beer

the two readers i once had
(an exgirlfriend and my dad)
will one day return to skim these pre-school rhymes
and wonder where i found free beer in such difficult times

Poetry: the computer-centric lifestyle

Wed, 06 May 2009 00:12:10 EST

life is funny that way
first it's the water under the bricks
then the bar fight that gives a man his kicks
and releases the regret from having done worse than expected

how many days have i stumbled off course
and toasted numbly the circumstance of near future
blaming everything on the imbalance of nature
and the momentum of a poorly mixed drink

i lost all intention of original ink
with the invent of the computer-centric lifestyle
whether i'm in sync with truth or in complete denial
the world will continue updating its facebook anyway

Poetry: practically rotting

Sun, 03 May 2009 03:26:00 EST

the fruit is hanging so low
it's practically rotting
the wine in this bottle is plotting
an escape into my mouth

kiss me and let's travel south
where the choir boys are fair game
and there's not post-sex shame
in drooling, sweating on a dirty blanket

i met a bartender who i've seen naked
and still i can't get a god damn drink
what kind of woman doesn't double as a shrink
and cuddle after she tires herself of screaming

there is no point to this poem
god i wish it was a joke
i think i'll take back the facebook poke
as the ultimate symbol of affection

Poetry: the first zipper failure

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 23:23:41 EST

chew on a nail
chew on a screw
maybe you'll find out
if chewing's for you

if you are the rupture
in somebody's vein
the wine glass boldly soaring
over a red carpet stain

the sperm and the whale
the chicken and egg
the moon and the vampire
on someone's sweet neck

the first zipper failure
on a girl's fifteen pounds of shame
the winner and loser
of every nonzero-sum game

Poetry: a wise old cactus in times of drought

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 01:18:41 EST

how many times can i begin again
before i give up trying
a moaned-out apartment is hiding
waiting to serve as temporary shelter

unattractive women on dating sites
keep sending me unattractive emails
so shoot me, friend, if the will to love fails
and i turn over to a comfort pillow of a girl

i limp up to the counter and wink
as if the poetry of spring season
gives a young heart a good reason
to be a wise old cactus in times of drought

Poetry: found garbage in the garbage can

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 00:38:55 EST

in the passenger seat of a toyota
saw a girl i used to see
funny how some memories
refuse to stay
but some will stay forever

one of those places
where i never belonged
and yet i felt i've done something wrong
to make myself feel
unheard, unhappy

i roamed the streets a bit since then
found garbage in the garbage can
some smelled like tuna, some smelled like ham
but overall, neither made
for appetizing dinner

i grew thinner and didn't shave
stopped telling women how to behave
except in bed, i freed the slaves
and found myself
alone, tired, happy

Poetry: let the demons rejoice

Thu, 23 Apr 2009 02:48:24 EST

i gave this sugarless coffee a chance
but there are enough dying children in the world
for me to suffer also
blindly without reason

so i go to seven eleven for hazelnut syrup
and run into a man wearing a bunny suit
in hot pursuit
of a cheap cigarette

i'm not being a south american surrealist poet either.
there indeed was a man standing by the banana rack
speaking with the clerk
and wearing a white rabbit costume

nothing in the vicinity was laughing, except the man's soul
he knew what he wanted, and he took control
like the dying children can no longer do
so let the demons rejoice in the black pool of my academic servitude

Poetry: a sexist poem

Wed, 22 Apr 2009 00:47:50 EST

i just finished writing a sexist poem
i write many such rhymes
but i don't own them

i float between justice and freedom and peace
and when i demand truth
i usually say please

Poetry: a torture memo

Tue, 21 Apr 2009 07:16:02 EST

flipping through a torture memo
on my way to sleep
feeling deep
i understand, i care

candy-lip children stare
as i tell a story of a trip
how i drew the magnum from the hip
and killed a floating immigrant worker

he was drowning in the water
and i watched his children row
they never learned, but had to know
that man must fight to keep on living

the sun will do all its forgiving
before retiring the day
some people drink, some people pray
and some, like me, stand up and holler

the way they do my life
i take the man around the back
and stick in him a knife

don't give him the chance to attack
my daddy paid with blood for this god damn country
and i'll die before i give it back

Poetry: happy birthday

Sat, 18 Apr 2009 22:10:25 EST

birthdays are half-assed reminders
that we have done nothing to deserve a cake
except make a few drunk silly folks around us happy

candle light fills the luggage in the attic with pity
for the dreams that crumble
before we even get a chance to dream

i'll pause, since i'm coming off a touch pessimistic
and i would hate to seem that way
before an idle face of a smiling idiot

so allow me to proclaim
as if by any other name
a rose would not be a capitalist system's symbol for greed

that i wish you a happy birthday
and though i cannot afford a present that captures
what you mean to me (because ikea does not sell it)

i'm sure i will find something cheap
in a barnes and noble heap
of five hundred page books on a twenty percent discount

Poetry: the innocent dreams of giants

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 02:20:26 EST

it's not polite to talk about dying
when it's raining and there's plenty of bitching
to be done on the subject of weather
and how it was better before and should be better
later on in the week
so excuse me for being bleak
and reminding the duller phases of our nature
that the uneventful day-to-day life is a fleeting feature
of the landscape where the highlight reel of existence
crumbles like the grass blades every wednesday
when the illegal immigrants cut it for a dead man's wage
in matters of common sense, i'm as good as a god damn sage
step one, the source is death
step two, the cause is birth
step three, the stumbling beer-drinking controversy over sexual position
and flirting on a couch, the needle sneaks up on a pouch
and bursts the innocent dreams of giants
as busy ants hurry on by
i look at century-old words no longer showing traces
of the author's drinking problem
and i allow them to surround me
to think they've gained the higher ground
until i explode in willful calm
and taste the gulp of beer rushing out of the bottle cold against my palm

Poetry: i can only be bold

Sun, 12 Apr 2009 05:33:01 EST

so tired that the keyboard keys look
like concave pillows
and as much as i ask, no one knows
where the perverted thoughts go
when the sparkle of drunk sunshine
breaks the frosted chills of time
alone on a moist carpet
why is it moist? and why am i in it?
there must have been an altercation
or a drunk flirt stumbling over a heart of gold
so tired that i can only be bold
and tell the gentle crowd to beat it

Poetry: recovery from tendinitis

Sat, 11 Apr 2009 00:31:11 EST

ordering ice at a local deli
tests the limits of a clerk's imagination
and i let him boil in the glare of my facial tension
in order that he may conjure up a willful denial of a customer's wishes

and so i go on testing the style in which people approach people
jotting the story's moral down on partially sticky yellow paper
that i leave on the sticky table (that houses a man's regrets) for later
to call my mom and chat about an injury that i or she may be suffering

let's not pretend i know anything about suffering
it'll be easier then to argue details of the collapsing financial system
and of the exercises that help in the recovery from tendinitis while we pop tylenol pm
and hold each others hands, and wait for the world to outgrow its adolescent idiosyncrasies

Poetry: sweet like a freshly cracked pinata in the first spring heat

Wed, 08 Apr 2009 00:02:59 EST

every corner turned
is a world denied
because i never like my chicken fried
i avoid west philly

but is it really
a good reason to be hidden
allowing in only pain that is sudden
so that every bad thing is a surprise

all my good friends are guys
and all my women are full of extreme lows and highs
until i stop and think: boy, they're sweet
like a freshly cracked pinata in the first spring heat

Poetry: each minute is a fresh beginning

Mon, 06 Apr 2009 05:22:31 EST

beer and bruises
a man can only dream
hang me from a beam
and watch me dangle

searching for the angle
from which the pain of defeat
is a new chance to eat
an ice cream in a waffle cone

i see the past as wrong
like half the things i do
at 4 am, life appears new
and each minute is a fresh beginning

Poetry: old men in plastic chairs

Sat, 04 Apr 2009 20:09:49 EST

no dreams tonight
i'm sharpening the edges
whatever hopes i had
are now turned pages

commonplace people
with commonplace fears
will fight and be judged
by old men in plastic chairs

Poetry: a noteworthy exception

Thu, 02 Apr 2009 01:48:51 EST

a noteworthy exception of a darkness under the bridge
the universal opposite of the glow from a beer-filled fridge
floating with a bicycle up wet wooden stairs
black people talking loudly about something i can't quite hear

a few judgmental glances fail to figure a white kid out
i'd tell them what i'm up to but i would have to shout
in the middle of nowhere, insufficiently dressed
even if they could understand, they wouldn't be impressed

one of the girls is cute, though probably is not into shakespeare
which is why every romeo angle of mine only arouses the disinterested snicker
later i heard an old lady say something about obama and g.m.
that's when i knew that at public transport stops, in some way, it's still us and them

Poetry: a plentiful selection of alternatives

Tue, 31 Mar 2009 02:21:16 EST

i've heard stories of men repainting white fences
to avoid the nagging wife while children chow down on candy
an annually fattening neighbor hollering greetings that are eternally too friendly
and the hardship of the soul loses meaning and thus control

it's not me and never will be
with my pants around my ankles and a belt around my neck
when the sun comes down and the breeze awaits for me to get the check
with too much wine on my dry tongue to be pleasant

i don't need to screw a pheasant
in order to transcend my chicken heritage and fly
such denial happens to be just another way to die
and thankfully there truly is for that a plentiful selection of alternatives

Poetry: the subject of an overpriced oil painting

Fri, 27 Mar 2009 09:29:39 EST

trains and coffee are overpriced
and women are developing an ego
bruising like they never have before
in an evolutionary attempt to undermine masculinity

i ran into one such lady in a financial office
with a skirt that must have won most of its lawsuits
by revealing what all of the jury has been waiting to see
and what i imagine will one day be the subject of an overpriced oil painting

Poetry: uneaten rodent dinner

Thu, 26 Mar 2009 00:46:44 EST

every day is born as a toothpick
in a stale cube of swiss cheese
digging impossibly into the tease
of buttery uneaten rodent dinner

don't care to see you naked, i've been there
don't care to finish a paper that noone will read
don't care to eat dairy that only i'd eat
don't care to pay the train fair for the ride home

like many time before, i'm choked by the sudden surprise of feeling alone

Poetry: pennies hide from dollar bills

Sat, 21 Mar 2009 01:47:40 EST

it's morning, you son of a bitch
the yellow machinery hums
someone nearby is playing drums
badly

but to be fair
i've done my share
of drumming
lately

a progressive radio personality
compares israel to nazi germany
i pause to let the pain find harmony
with the tired torso over half-boiling oats

in the shadow of a shadow
pennies hide from dollar bills
having never learned that hiding kills
the possibility of being worth something more

Poetry: mediocre poets too have writers block

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 00:30:19 EST

mediocre poets too have writers block
and milk does sometimes expire early
and a big-breasted girl with a name like shirley
can sometimes bring coffee to me in a dream

given the forgettable nature of my being
i doubt if many months will pass before my second wife remarries
and in my grave, with spoiled milk and rotting cherries
i will really be struggling with writers block

Poetry: in a place where german ladies sing along

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 10:20:06 EST

i was called by the beer song
in a place where german ladies sing along
and take off their garments for money
run their hands through men's hair with a "you turn me on, honey"

stolen sensations in a private bathroom stall
that's not so private after all
pacing boyfriends in leather coats
pushed off, in love, off the edge of some johnny depp's boat

the years drip like american lights on tap
and everyone here loves music except country and rap
beating ear drums into submission under pretense of a crazy old time
i pay for her drink, but what i get's not worth a dime

Poetry: elevator romance

Tue, 10 Mar 2009 12:10:50 EST

it's a concept the powerful created
that age demands respect
but while riding the grocery store elevator i suspect
that it's only another delusion against death

a dark beautiful lady gets on board
and glances at me exactly three times
ever since i took care of my long hair lice
the women have been flocking to me in elevators

she asked me to press the second floor button
and i almost said that her gentle voice may make me love again
after the accident so many years ago between the yellow algerian sky and the red sand
but instead i merely said that it was my favorite floor

she smiled, but didn't look at me any more
and so ended another promising elevator romance.
years from now, alone in a mansion by the fire, i'll remember the chance
that i ruined, but didn't waste, when a beautiful woman asked for a favor

Poetry: water balloons at a knife fight

Sun, 08 Mar 2009 23:00:56 EST

it may seem dishonest
but i miss you every day
if the snow melts or if it stays
if the cabs run me over
or if they let me live
i'm sorry i left you
with no reasons to forgive me
for not acting my age
for spilling coffee on a valuable page
of a textbook you hoped you could sell
at the end of the term
i didn't respect you
nor your ambitions for the future of the only sperm you knew
our heads grew like water balloons at a knife fight
it might come as a strange surprise
but i miss you every night
with missed calls on my phone
increasingly content with being alone
and working, working, working
getting bolder, meaner, old

Poetry: enough canadian whiskey to kill a canadian moose

Fri, 06 Mar 2009 01:32:38 EST

there was meaning in the nervousness
of the girl that took my apple
fingers on the money, preparing to grapple
with the lessons learned over a double shift

my non-question was brutal, but swift
"i know a girl as pretty as you must be married"
words that rarely leave my mouth before i'm half-buried
in enough canadian whiskey to kill a canadian moose

but this hell of day left me feeling used
running for refuge in a hazelnut flavor of a burnt coffee
where the voices of honest living never dare to bother me
i came, i went, with twenty ounces of stimulant in my right hand

this was the way it had to end
except for the feeling i left on the counter
with the dollar forty nine encounter
and the pause of an innocent sweet smile

Poetry: the stories of survival rise with the smoke

Wed, 04 Mar 2009 13:59:40 EST

i was never born a gypsy
but damn i wish i was
if i have to provide a "because"
there's drinking and dancing to be done

in the orange heat of the yellow sun
the stories of survival rise with the smoke
i listen to the rhythm of nylon-stringed gypsy folk
and close my eyes over the city of metal and oil

i never had to turn over soil
not even as a lemming of a powerful ox
just read a couple of stories about a hen-house fox
and so believe myself to be well-versed in outdoor living

while in reality, i struggle breathing
when the temperature outside deviates from a dry seventy three
and don't feel all that comfortable having to pee
when someone is sweating and breathing heavy in a urinal adjacent to mine

so i know i'm only lying
when i leave django reinhardt on repeat
and shyly shuffle my heavy feet
to the playful sweetness of his pluckings

Poetry: inclinations of inner beasts

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 07:22:02 EST

waiting in sweat soaked boxers at a yellow light
smile and nod, when i'm weak, i prefer to be polite
the sorrows of the streets run their wrinkled hands across my back
rising up to wrap themselves tightly around my neck

i've been stuck for years now in a shelter of productive peace
with light stabbings of critical glances from the overworked police
it's stunning how perspective can turn friends into enemies
and vice versa, depending on the person, and the inclinations of inner beasts

Poetry: all the things you'll never get to know

Sat, 28 Feb 2009 20:31:43 EST

coffee and discovery channel:
eighty percent of climbing accidents
happen on the descent
ain't that funny, eighty percent

i suppose it hasn't occurred to them
to stay up at the top a little longer
until bones get denser and the mind grows stronger
and the soul prepares to fly

it's warm inside my sea-level room
but one day, god damn, i'll have to die
and then some bully forced into a bow tie
will sit in a room and listen to overweight women cry

it's just another mountain
except it's one that comes for us
no need to board a plane or sweat in a bus
just wait a while and it will come

with whirls of terror at the peak
freezing exposed skin as you unzip to take a leak
across a view of ageless beauty far below
and all the things you'll never get to know

Poetry: a simple longing for ephemeral gratification

Thu, 26 Feb 2009 01:24:20 EST

cheesecake does not entice a man of my convictions
so don't make a cute face as if to tempt me
you're only going to get a bad joke about the knights that say "nee"
and a plea for a texas steak with a side of blood, diet if they have it

to clarify, i do love it, unlike some (my father being one example)
the first taste of milk chocolate over the steam of fresh coffee made maddeningly sweet
will tighten the toe muscles of my sweating feet
as i resist not a sincere temptation but a simple longing for ephemeral gratification

i've run too many miles on vibrating treadmills
to orgasm at the thought of unwrapping the foil of a candy bar
just think how it would look when i've run so far
and concluded the experience by making myself fatter and significantly less mobile

i've heard many a skinny girl and large woman
proclaim that joy in life must supersede dietary restrictions
and if they indeed are happy, then i applaud the success of their autobiographical fiction
but to me food is a fuel not a drug that must be enjoyed in controlled portions

i write this "poem" over an apple, a coffee, and a bottle of diet coke
if at this moment, probably from stress, i suffered a stroke
and found myself on a hospital bed, i would be ready for the long battle ahead
since health has become not a kinky weekend trip, but a lifestyle and a vocation

Poetry: a reader in canada

Tue, 24 Feb 2009 02:04:12 EST

i have a reader in canada, united states
florida is just one example
there may be, theoretically, up to forty eight
one in europe
one in japan
australia has read me
but not recently, which i understand

a billion web pages
and these people choose me
because long ago as children
they wished to be free
of bloody claws and yellow teeth
that fly like sand in a stampede
of a crowd of critics
squealing in harmony
with shallow intentions
and shallow memories

and the way they have chosen
to accomplish this task
is to waste precious minutes
smelling farts from a self-proclaimed voluptuous ass
and following attempts at enslaving the soul of the world
with rhyme and an appletini moral lightness
of a keith richards biographical tale about a barely legal girl

Poetry: dentist appointment

Mon, 23 Feb 2009 06:16:20 EST

with a lukewarm gun
in the belt of my jeans
size thirty two
i enter the saloon
of housekeeping magazines
african american queens
abusing the power of
"may i put you on hold"
ma'am, allow me to be bold
in saying that i appreciate
the extent of your bosoms
i'm here for the root canal
on the tooth that did most of the hard labor
of my early childhood infatuation with hard candy
i'll take your blank aristocratic gaze
to mean you'd like to rip my clothes off
but that is not how you were raised
to act in a professional context
well allow me to tell you a couple of facts
about the variety of perspectives to this situation
it's six in the morning, i've lost sensation
from popping pills for the last three days
of pudding, warm water, salt, and toothpaste
and thus am close to my primal incarnation
not a boy in a clean black shirt
nor a well-mannered, obedient patient
i came here to get hurt
as i press your head gently against the imperfect fax machine
that receives insurance confirmation only when it so pleases
warms the gentle waves of hips as varied as french wines and cheeses
until a scream unwraps the hum
of the broken and the numb

Poetry: the meat grinder of twenty five percent tips

Thu, 19 Feb 2009 00:49:32 EST

i'm pretending to be naked, hands firmly on your hips
my love in the meat grinder of twenty five percent tips
did the red of the wine or the oil of the mussel
play a part in the hustle of taking away my money and soul
i have your number, i have your lips
but i know i'll be too busy to call

life is a bitch, from the dry-mouth of evening to the moist blanket of dawn
milking the cows, watching the porn
shaving the bluntness off the favorite horn
full of brothels and paperback novels
about fantastic lovers thanks to whom an unwanted child was born

i've been warned

Poetry: the time-sink of polite conversation

Wed, 18 Feb 2009 10:38:17 EST

advisors criticize loner habits of faith
in the critical mass of ambition, focus, haste
so i go in to work with a mean look on my face
to avoid the time-sink of polite conversation, just in case

Poetry: sveta

Wed, 18 Feb 2009 10:36:33 EST

borscht and wine
i knew it was time
to let eastern europe
threaten the peaceful mind

i remember a neighbor
with just your name
she was cute, i was plain
eight back then, twenty eight today

not much changes
you should know
when dreams linger and time goes
and songs about running along a grassy beach
have nothing worth while left to teach

Poetry: a struggling tourist attraction

Mon, 16 Feb 2009 17:27:31 EST

is there anything more peaceful
than a woman getting dressed
running shadows of butt and chest
to the sounds of morning traffic

she may be going off to work
or just trying to not be a bother
or maybe she's thinking of another
more respectful fella to come home to

her jeans are about two times smaller
than anything i could fit one leg into
revealing through a few self-assured clumsy moves
that she indeed can swim through fabric

i turn over to my stomach
smells of oatmeal and light perfume
mix together in the tomb
of a struggling tourist attraction

Poetry: no-good grandson

Sun, 15 Feb 2009 11:43:20 EST

i have a dad
i have a mom
one day, i think
i'll have a son

just as they arrived
they'll one day be gone
leaving a few stories
with a no-good grandson

Poetry: i've been away, poem

Sun, 15 Feb 2009 11:34:38 EST

i've been away, poem
i've been offline
typing away in a foreign language
without your innocent sweet-talking rhyme

i've been sinking in car seats
and loose leather chairs
behind desks of all sorts
up steep metal stairs

now, on a quiet morning
after valentine's day
i'm bruised up and sober
but i'm back, poem, to stay

i could've downed a few beers
with a floozy over cake and tea
but i went to bed early
wondering if you were waiting for me

without easy answers
and the same miserable style
i'm foot and knee, sinking
with a three year old's smile

Poetry: a bipartisan senate is a centaur

Wed, 11 Feb 2009 10:12:08 EST

a bipartisan senate is a centaur
and a uniting president is a cyclops
cutting taxes will create new quality jobs
only in the mind of burning ants and abandoned door stops
but we all keep quiet
sitting like children in a seventh grade classroom
girls with flowers in their hair
boys trying not to stare
at what in some cases looks like breasts
because if teacher catches us
we'll be standing in the corner
dying of boredom with a newly-formed boner
and a "kick me" sign taped to our backs
", because we're selfish spineless unpatriotic hags"

Poetry: end with a verb and a pronoun

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 23:21:19 EST

it's valentines day soon
i think i'll write a letter
filled to the brim with chatter
about the romance of the absurd

tell you i cut my hair
tell you i'm much better now
but i won't tell you how
and will end with a verb and a pronoun

it won't be fair
to be so senselessly bold
with a bit of new and a whole lot of old
all in a one-way conversation

it won't be fair
but it'll be real
to write down what i'd like you to think i feel
and then go to bed thinking about another girl

where the hell do we land in this spinning world

Poetry: until you find yourself electrocuting testicles in cuban dungeons

Fri, 06 Feb 2009 23:34:05 EST

democrats do bleed
i bet you didn't think they'd dare
give them a poke and they will agree to share
until you find yourself electrocuting testicles in cuban dungeons

i've been there
that's why i'm handicapped
a child sitting on big brother's lap
naked and scared of the way he looks over my possessions

i assure you obama has the best intentions
built from scraps of well-practiced lies
and an occasional "sorry, i screwed up, guys"
a few billion here a few billion there

i bet you didn't think he'd dare

Poetry: rhyme-free stew with the viscosity of cracked cement

Wed, 04 Feb 2009 22:37:52 EST

i approach you with a shirt full of freshly drying sweat
and i hope for the sake of human civilization
that the smile on your face is no sincere indication
that if i ask you to be a slut, you will say yes

it's the instinct of a bottom feeder
to deprive a woman of the little joys of mutual destruction
of the light heart-felt play of tease and the giggle of attraction
but the trophy on my wall shines on through the heavy hours of quiet typing

the labor of mining for an intelligent connection
amongst well-read but dull accomplices in some mutated version of a progressive movement
whose brain cells swim in a rhyme-free stew with the viscosity of cracked cement
is tiring to the point where a run that fills the shirt with sweat is uniquely liberating

Poetry: you have something on your chin

Mon, 02 Feb 2009 06:44:52 EST

knock knocking on my window
you have something on your chin
tell me again where have you been
i just can't believe it

gradually to the drips of a leaking faucet
i became a clown in my eyes
and so i listen to obvious lies
without slamming the door with a simple two word answer

memories leave behind deforming scars
descending out of habit into winters caves
i used to be proud like many men who are slaves
glorifying the air in and out of healthy lungs

Poetry: the solemn hymn

Sun, 01 Feb 2009 09:43:11 EST

sobbing children on a subway train
a puddle of african skin
moaning to the squeals of a violin
about a woman he never knew

i did and i still do
but never during the day
never sobbing on a subway train
unhealthy sex on early sunday mornings

everyone is getting married
and then one by one they all will die
except my advisor and i
immortalized by journals papers on a novel method in A.I.

and the train keeps sobbing gently
even when the chill sneaks in
the tears dry and the solemn hymn
of african skin plays on in my pessimistic vision

Poetry: a drifter hiding from rain in a 50's telephone booth

Thu, 29 Jan 2009 22:30:43 EST

today i'm young and strong
a mythical giant in a siren song
letting knuckles break over my skull
the powerful rise as the weak ones fall

i come to a page filled with c++ code
written for planning the movement of a networking node
written on a late night out of a fearless heart
documented so poorly that it's hard to know where to start

i walk over to the kitchen with a cuban cigar
my brother bought it in mexico, which these days seems awful far
stand waiting for a doorbell ring from a long lost friend
wondering just what to do with my dangling left hand

work is waiting, women ran out
vodka is baiting, neurotic sperm gather in doubt
cell phone is turned off, the internet too
i'm a drifter hiding from rain in a 50's telephone booth

Poetry: a bathroom mirror in a crowd of flirts

Wed, 28 Jan 2009 13:18:16 EST

get a redhead call
a brunette email
a quarter blond text
all implying that i'm sure to fail

i've become a bathroom mirror
in a crowd of flirts
i linger, i smile, i make a bad joke
promise to love her, but i know i won't

the one-way aimless chatter
eats at me until i grow thin
let my back fold in silence
return to you without word of where i've been

Poetry: neither of us is made of candy

Wed, 28 Jan 2009 02:09:03 EST

we can beat each other with a stick
but neither of us is made of candy
and when it comes down to it, brandy
you're a fine girl, but not my type

and i say that only to complete a poem
because what i believe is never really written down
what is is usually a world of red and brown
when in reality this world is always black and white

i'm soaking in cooling bath water
at the climax of a freezing night
recollecting random snippets of my most consequential fights
and smiling because no matter what all of those women will one day die

and i won't be there, mouth dry
with aching hands noticeably shaking
patient about them not waking
because they might, they will, they must

Poetry: welcome back, shoulder pain

Mon, 26 Jan 2009 22:41:20 EST

welcome back, shoulder pain
six hours, like the advil says
and you're back, again
tingling pinching nerves
like a teenager's first blow job
on a sunday after church

i bet you didn't think
i'd welcome you this way
but i'm tired of running
from you, shoulder pain

you're part of my mornings
evenings and gripping game
without a declaration of purpose
rushing to the brain
when i'm waiting at a bus stop
at peace without you, shoulder pain

along the cold streets
two bachelor feet allow themselves
to find numbness
but not us, we're loyal dunces
and live by the moments in which we bloom in unison

a girl like you would be the end
of restless nights and miserable mornings
or maybe i misunderstand
the ways a human heart uncovers
the delicate intricacies of its infrequent yearnings

Poetry: realist engineers and cynical pricks

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 21:05:47 EST

i'm writing for hours the instructions
for vision to be processed by machine
it's a descartian wet dream
and i'm on the edge of chairs, bent

my original methods are from intro books, innocent
but each idea is made mine
as the brain drains line by line
of colorful words on a black emacs screen

this is a tired but hopeful scene
of an young a.i. dog practicing old a.i. dog tricks
so that the realist engineers and cynical pricks
may once more yawn in the audience of a self-congratulatory control conference

Poetry: disinterested parties

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 01:01:53 EST

disinterested parties
with motives of greed
mindful of what one does to succeed
over a sexually-charged conversation

through sheer disinterest
we give up the nation
for the sensation
of a peaceful dinner with the wife

but this is the essential question of life
are you prepared to be a necessary victim of revolution
not out of instinct or intuition
but from the intellectual mouth of vascular rivers in the brain

of course not, you're middle class plain
every weekday is the same
kids content, sex mundane
and the extended family decays into an episode of an afternoon tv show

Poetry: top economic advisors

Thu, 22 Jan 2009 00:04:49 EST

a meeting with your top economic advisors
during what looks to be a major recession
will inevitably reduce to a bickering session
over who stole from who, how much, and for what

human nature is one of the onlooking elephants
it's not that the government is broken or doesn't care
it's just that the hunger for power is there
in the saliva of each flapping mouth and testicular ambition

the biggest problems are only symptoms
of the only thing which we know for sure
each man feeds the ego in a search for something pure
and is choking from the onslaught of shock from fresh flying dirt chunks

Poetry: a small fish amongst large bait

Mon, 19 Jan 2009 23:37:08 EST

corners behind corners
a man is forced to wait
a small fish amongst large bait
wake up, it's just another nightmare
dishonest questions are everywhere
they're easy to answer, but hard to accept
silence paying off intellectual debt
letting the tongue run down
the violin strings of sexual tension

Poetry: another destined moment from a coffee-stained book of dreams

Sun, 18 Jan 2009 05:34:14 EST

this may not be possible
in the audience of a self-absorbing face
possibility has a bitter aftertaste
and the impossible is a warm blanket with hot chocolate

a tender balalaika toll follows me home
through the outstretched spines of birch mates
where each step is a chance to mingle fates
before letting the shoe drop onto the shit of nonexistence

bent over a defeated makeup mirror, reciting rhymes
will the day bring the clarity of a beautiful mind
and if not, will it at least be kind
as it steals another destined moment from a coffee-stained book of dreams

Poetry: a fish market shopping spree

Fri, 16 Jan 2009 08:10:39 EST

weak and liquid, an oil spill
on a side street of fantasy
two whores in a fish market shopping spree
wine and pretzels busying hands

you're a prostitute, i'm a prostitute too
paid well, in fact, more than you
it's because i've still not broken youth
an arch in my back, a sparkle on my tooth

does my suicidal alcoholic friend
hide in the shadows of late night public transportation
and if so, will we get off at the same station
and let the sting of below-freezing weather
drive our bodies close for warmth

Poetry: the sandpaper of genetic limitations

Wed, 14 Jan 2009 22:03:16 EST

if i am told that i can't do it
i'll nod and lightly laugh as confirmation
polishing the remains of productive life
with the sandpaper of genetic limitations
until i'm crawling, damaged sense of self and all
across the fabric of dedication
while sad old friends recall the dead
and the many flaws of their senseless isolation

Poetry: head-splitting roars of active machinery

Tue, 13 Jan 2009 15:26:39 EST

the road outside my apartment
was perfect for driving away
but someone decided today
that it could become a little more perfect

and this someone called a construction crew
that rang my doorbell asking questions
testing if i was a man who possessed patience
as part of a company safety procedure

i stood in my boxers and a farmer shirt
acting the way i'm expected to act
smiling politely, ignoring the fact
that these men were after my sanity

we parted ways, and over coffee
i continued scratching ideas onto a pad
knowing that up there today, there was a god
punishing sexual immorality with wit and vigor

somewhere along the chain of causality
this god and i just didn't jive
splitting ways on the blade-edge of a knife
to the aimless head-splitting roars of active machinery

Poetry: a caricature of a nightmare

Sun, 11 Jan 2009 08:47:08 EST

i've had an easy life
and if i ever said otherwise
it's lies, all god damn lies
insecure exaggerations

i'm not tied down with the need for patience
i'm not waiting
i'm not scratching at my insides
over imperfect ethical dilemmas

i don't have a urine taste in my mouth
from an overzealous dungeon master
suggesting that i work quite a bit faster
with a helpful strike across my back

i only wish sometimes
though i hesitate to admit it
in the anonymity of a crowded street
that my life one day might be a little easier

weakness surges through cardiac valves
stomach turning over undigested mortality
and the tragedies of fake-blond barbie corpses
evolve into a caricature of a nightmare

Poetry: a venomous puncture

Sat, 10 Jan 2009 23:49:20 EST

i'm paying for mistakes
i married when i was twenty
and i am only twenty five
i wonder if the flaws i buried
are writing poetry, somewhere, still alive
cutting steak with a plastic knife
awaiting for the off-balance moment
to orchestrate a venomous puncture

Poetry: bipolar nymphomaniacs

Fri, 09 Jan 2009 23:19:39 EST

i spent the re-taped dollar bills
of faithful love on bipolar nymphomaniacs
grinding teeth with dry lips over moist facts
about the preconditions of total failure

don't laugh but i refused to stop trying to save her
from three-headed dragons that are less real in retrospect
waking up over a text message rudely requesting intensely absurd sex
and just in this way the uncommonly loveless days march past me

Poetry: harry reid

Wed, 07 Jan 2009 19:26:03 EST

in certain cases, i agree
a lot is conveyed with a damn firm hand shake
and so i turn to harry reid
a spineless man without even the decency to fake it

it takes about five minutes tops
for the blood in my brain to boil
when i read about soap someone drops
and a shot of dirty old harry bent over with a smile

each morning i ponder which color to wear
as cspan coverage of the senate drills on
about the compromise that we must achieve there
and in the process become some southern rottweiler's bone

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

Poetry: a dog barks at the object it fears

Mon, 01 Sep 2008 00:17:05 EST

a dog barks at the object it fears
louder and louder as the object gets nearer
don't i know this feeling all too well
the rope tightens and the veins swell

uncertainty is the enemy here
long-reaching history with long brown hair
stretching the brain cells to anticipate pain
praying with grinding teeth that things stay the same

Poetry: the little things matter

Sun, 31 Aug 2008 18:29:34 EST

the little things matter
often more than the big
but try saying that
as the reason for feeling sick

i've gotten here by walking
but i stayed here by hiding
with the fear of life crumbling
through unimaginative climbing

Poetry: a priest at a zoo giving the monkeys a second look

Fri, 29 Aug 2008 23:19:40 EST

what was life, before i joined it
if not a picture on a wall
waiting in a watery ball
for lab rats to probe it for cheese

like many, i am haunted
by what i've read in a history book
a priest at a zoo giving the monkeys a second look
aged questions drown in fresh saliva

to reconsider, honestly, the man
that looks each morning at me, grinning
half naked, half broken, half dreaming
when he stops looking, i stop living

Poetry: my character has seen concern

Fri, 29 Aug 2008 18:20:53 EST

my character has seen concern
shit-storm has passed
all parties have learned
noone that lived it
could have foreseen
the way things now are
from where they then have been

Poetry: i'm almost there each time i stop

Fri, 29 Aug 2008 15:23:15 EST

i think of coding as a curse
some dumb young man with a lady's purse
flying like a bird caught by the wind
not knowing that the speed won't change the end

bigger thoughts grow older, stranger
wearing fifty's french cologne
i'm a dog deranged by anger
perfecting the bite mark pattern on the bone

the end is close, the end is closer
i'm almost there each time i stop
not growing from the days of work even a bit wiser
just sweating out ideas till i drop

Poetry: a girl i've never seen

Thu, 28 Aug 2008 16:36:06 EST

the girl that i've always loved the most
is a girl i've never seen
she might pass me on the subway train
or undo me in a dream
appear in the smoke
of a two dollar cigar
watch me order a drink
and walk out of the bar
raise a hand for a taxi
as the sun waits to rise
glance my way with a smile
before i open my eyes

Poetry: a display of pride and hurt

Wed, 27 Aug 2008 23:29:56 EST

i fear hatred when inanimate dark eyes
look past my face as it changes from silence
i only anticipate drug-infested violence
as only a middle-class product can, i prepare to die

lips grow old with the life-blood leaving
for the stupidity of an immortal's drive
only out of blindness can a warrior rise
in the peace of a sweat-drenched metallica shirt

the world awaits patiently for a display of pride and hurt

Poetry: a puddle that brings out poseidon's rage

Tue, 26 Aug 2008 09:56:28 EST

racing into the depths of isolation
to face the kid watering down his father's gin
without fear, or frustration, just to be seen
in the presence of pure contentment

but every key stroke, every coffee
every word ripped from the page
on a puddle that brings out poseidon's rage
only takes away the smile worth holding

boldly marching on with patton
to save the heroes trapped by their own fire
there comes an hour when i'm nothing but tired
and another day has passed like a kidney stone

Poetry: water the grass

Sun, 24 Aug 2008 17:09:10 EST

i'll never live long enough to be single
even if rotting a way off from the tree
bleeding from some orifice, to appear as mean
hoping that death will wait with a shot of cold vodka

friends tie my ankles with duct tape
women then sew patterns into my ass
my tears do nothing but water the grass
of a childhood dream that i never found time for

Poetry: from the coffee to the chair

Fri, 22 Aug 2008 22:15:27 EST

warn out like a pair of sandals
wishing to become french leather boots
my eyes attempt to help the weaker foot
as it attempts to place itself ahead the other

black shirt, black boxers, what else is new
on an imagined journey from the coffee to the chair
a rubber band to hold the hair
it being the only thing between the end and i

am i sufficiently prepared to survive
the onslaught of comfortable exhaustion
brought on by self-enforced over-intellectualized obsession
with purpose departing before i can even say "goodbye"

Poetry: taller, thinner, dumber, dumb

Fri, 22 Aug 2008 21:07:52 EST

i shouldn't have read that
i should've been cold
i should've acted my age: old
i should've never told myself: enough

i should've been a man
i should've stayed a minute longer
i should've told you you were stronger
i should've lied, or at least tried

i should've never failed to grow
i should've made myself the one
taller, thinner, dumber, dumb
i should've, but i didn't, now it's done.

Poetry: a dead husband's favorite sweater

Fri, 22 Aug 2008 20:46:28 EST

please don't forget me when i die
and please don't die yourself
because then noone will remember me
unless you share with someone else

and if you do, please tell them to
be gentle with the words they hear
i wouldn't want my story to
fade even slightly each time it's shared

don't write it down though, even in stone
because then you would feel better
about having to abandon me
like a dead husband's favorite sweater

Poetry: for the duration of the minute

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 19:45:13 EST

i struggle to become a better person
for the duration of the minute
and while in it i'm in to win it
before death injects my brain with doubt

i google the calories in imperial stout
as a reminder for the soul to appreciate liquor
i pour the remains of a lost friend's present and sip her
just another attempt to be happy in another man's skin

Poetry: steak on a grill is so anti-evolutionary

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 22:21:07 EST

noone's ever died from dying
it took me twenty minutes just to utter that
my words, failed losers, are getting fat
and drinking themselves stupid into submission

steak on a grill is so anti-evolutionary
i can't watch it sizzle without denying my instincts
the moist night humms with exgirlfriends and insects
intending, quite plainly, to suck out my blood

sticks made for tree-hugging are barely helping
support the emasculated cry-baby torso i've grown into
lipstick-covered jaws switch to 'why?' after exhausting the 'who?'
and romance again discovers a pothole

Poetry: where revolution comes to die at an hourly rate

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 14:07:41 EST

i'm a tolerable splinter
in some fat fool's submissive foot
wrapped up tightly in an army boot
with veins that lost the need to hide

poetic justice drowns in the saliva
of hungry farm pigs with a low-carb farmer
miss liberty is ruthless, it's best to love her
or watch your family be choked by lingering eyes

surprise, surprise
god is almighty, in white-run southern grocery stores
between the legs of born-again d.c. whores
where revolution comes to die at an hourly rate

Poetry: my thoughts betray my face

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 22:39:33 EST

a woman crawls back to me
or so i tell myself
she's looking for blind pity
or one last one-night stand

but in the phone call left unanswered
my thoughts betray my face
her eyes still fill my foolish mind
her lips my every taste

Poetry: to be back in the womb

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 17:15:16 EST

the house with walls made of orphaned styles
waits for me to return with an army of pets
for us to resume scratching out mucus and bile
to be pure again for the arrival of family guests

every path leading home goes through tamed forest fires
yet the fearless finger finds itself without pause
frozen on a doorbell with an effect and no cause
worth believing, a young man breathing, burning
to be back in the womb

Poetry: prepare to get soaked

Sun, 17 Aug 2008 21:16:19 EST

politicians have raped
our country folk
they came abruptly
like a racist joke

feel a breeze from behind
means you're the next bloke
close your mouth, relax,
and prepare to get soaked

Poetry: open a door with a lame question

Sat, 16 Aug 2008 23:04:30 EST

open a door with a lame question
that started out as a joke
looking for remains of living flesh to poke
and all along desiring a magnificent illusion

broken match sticks on the carpet
but the story isn't as good
we both failed to act as two men should
and in so doing sunk a friendship

Poetry: a quarter of a century

Thu, 14 Aug 2008 20:14:20 EST

a quarter of a century
and i'm still an asshole
by now most wars would have been finished
but still i'm at it
like i'm in it with a chance
writing poems about romance
while screwing rusty furniture to death
excuse me if i refuse another breath
i've long overstayed my welcome
except it's so difficult to go
when every other guy i know
like me is one unwavering asshole
why don't they wrap our necks in rope
and drag us 'round the town square
for the children all to stare
anybody worth a damn
by now would've become more than what i am

Poetry: the wisdom of war

Tue, 12 Aug 2008 18:28:59 EST

i want to completely shatter my jaw
fighting for something worth fighting for
chained to a pitbull's bloodless awe
walk away broken, but with the wisdom of war

Poetry: the witches of sumeria

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 13:23:52 EST

when all the skies were returning to blue
the witches of sumeria preparing a sunday stew
laughing through teeth brown and broken
the gods of cheap liquor have already spoken

i was swimming in air too cold for being shirtless
swaying on intentions from contest to contest
sharing a chilled bottle of bacardi coconut rum
with someone who, before i was ready, was gone

Poetry: all the blood is just crushed grapes

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 10:06:34 EST

it's not hard to turn an orphan
into a victim of a crime
it may be years down the line
but all you have to do is beat them

they will find their own dark hole
with many reasons to condemn
their soul to lingering self-hatred

all that i read of it is nonsense
all the blood is just crushed grapes
believing in such things as rape
will land you in an insane asylum

Poetry: fingers barely suffice

Fri, 08 Aug 2008 08:47:42 EST

i haven't yet given up on poems
though they keep on teasing me
like i am right back in grade three
devouring a knuckle sandwich

fingers barely suffice
to count the words i have to write with
writing in anger or in bliss
while urine fills the bladder swiftly

so many monsters roam the streets
that at the core are quiet, petite
in relative to the summer heat
that is out there for the breathing

and they provide a bit of meaning
to words that haven't got a clue
self-organizing in super glue
of my super-egotistic innocence

Poetry: immortal through recursive rebirth

Mon, 04 Aug 2008 10:52:16 EST

the quest for checking off a list
of things you think might be worth doing
before death grasps you by the balls
and hurriedly begins its chewing

there will be crowds of glowing faces
their dreamy eyes on you alone
life took you away to so many places
and finally then you will find yourself home

ideas that were nothing but scribbles on napkins
have changed the way god rotates the earth
and you, with a smile and casual ease,
will become immortal through recursive rebirth

Poetry: resting under the weight of surrendering eyes

Sat, 02 Aug 2008 14:25:36 EST

resting under the weight of surrendering eyes
the warmth of child-like fragile isolation
carries the heart from beat to beat
and drags out the dull sting of every sensation

trickling pebbles of smoked chemical rain
tap on the window out of sync with my muse
neighbors to whom water is intrusive and vain
drown in the laughter from cheap liquor abuse

Poetry: like lit-up matchsticks

Thu, 31 Jul 2008 11:20:26 EST

one by one, like lit-up matchsticks
friends burn in me through betrayal
a bit crazy, a bit lazy, but somehow loyal
despite the lack of circumstance for proof

what were two dreamy punks that shared a youth
became a lasting misconception
across a continent, across an ocean
still planning for a future time to share
what no longer will be there

Poetry: numbing the senses with a comfortable chair

Wed, 30 Jul 2008 19:33:25 EST

even optimists now are thinking of dying
our ice caps are melting, our deserts are drying
head's in iraq, ass in afghanistan
and some are now stretching both feet towards iran

i have ideas, too many, about such things
but when coffee wears out, so do the wings
senses grow numb with a comfortable chair
while people are dying, just not close to here

Poetry: the dumpster

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 20:18:30 EST

sometimes i pass the dumpster
and check inside for her
nothing there but a dirty cat
a toaster, sometimes not even that

what a stupid little thought
comes and goes, not to be caught
but leaves behind shadows of a dream
revolting voice in an unjust regime

some coffee, food, and work to boot
and just like that i'm a day older
except a squint, a smile, a turned shoulder
to stop a slow walk around the block
each day i grow a little older
but still it gives me quite a shock

Poetry: don't bet your life against your nature

Mon, 28 Jul 2008 13:40:59 EST

don't allow a poor soul comfort
just because it's suffering
however bad you imagine it stings
don't bet your life against your nature

beyond this existence, there's a future
without you or anyone you know
i try to write it down in a poem to try and show
through pessimism that it might be a false truth

but then my faith cracks, from failing to self-soothe
rereading words that leave no room between the ass and hole
proudly pursuing a worthless goal
loving noone, and wanting to be loved by all

Poetry: death is beyond metaphor

Fri, 25 Jul 2008 12:01:30 EST

a father figure in the stone
was carved throughout the years
when i was alone, in prolonged despair
thinking of my circumstance as unfair
and in so doing, discovering peace:
self-deception soothed the beast
until quietly i could emerge
from the shadow of the house
where the cheese fattened the mouse
and imprisoned through dull pain
all that wonder in a day
looking for a truth or purpose
but finding only a black hole
death is beyond metaphor
but i like to think of it
in thoughtful moments, as a whore,
the closest thing to a god
in its absurdly humorous war

Poetry: the whole pathetic morning celebration

Thu, 24 Jul 2008 22:56:27 EST

i'm waking up tomorrow morning
and thanking god that i'm not dead
smiling with gratitude till my face turns red
at the fact that i don't get migraines

and though i've tortured my liver
my sigmoid colon is cancer-free
i don't feel pain before, during, or after i pee
even if i visit with a particularly popular lady

how many years of such luck can i possibly have
no reason for young me to feel optimistic
i can savor the carrot or i can hide from the stick
or i can just skip the whole pathetic morning celebration

Poetry: my grave-digging shovel

Wed, 23 Jul 2008 16:13:39 EST

when i come
to the last page
of a damn good
philosophical novel

i don't know
whether to turn the page
or go looking
for my grave-digging shovel

Poetry: encouraging smiles on wet bathroom tiles

Mon, 21 Jul 2008 15:28:11 EST

nothing i do is wrong in moderation
but i've been doing it quite long
and though i'm very much an average creation
i savor the feeling of being someone

encouraging smiles on wet bathroom tiles
allow me to think i have so much ahead
of drinking, of thinking, of drunk thoughtful winking
before the so-very-sudden fact that i'm dead

Poetry: the flies are feeding

Sun, 20 Jul 2008 01:16:20 EST

it's sunday night, the flies are feeding
the time is ripe for introspection
i can't even mouth self-respect
without a post-surge of self-rejection

how many times it takes a jackass
to learn that shit friends are worth shit
and without writing poems
having balls to relieve himself of it

i may be drunk, i may be stupid
i may be walking the wrong dog
there's a reason i keep falling
when all i'm out to do is walk

Poetry: oily hands wipe greedy asses

Fri, 18 Jul 2008 00:23:46 EST

old white males cross their swords
while the pundits puke out words
on any subject, but on mass-murder
in our name, but outside our border

neoconservatives gaze there, smiling
papa, please, their nukes are piling!
where should we drop our next bomb?
any place that ends in "an"

oily hands wipe greedy asses
emptying half-empty glasses
till the truth becomes so dire
speaking it makes you a liar

Poetry: do untie me when you've lost the will to stare

Thu, 17 Jul 2008 00:07:37 EST

again i'm half-naked, tied to a chair
i don't know how this happened either
but do untie me when you've lost the will to stare

it's not one of those sexual things
i don't think, untangling a vein
in the brain of a shrink

save me with a casual wink
before the puke chooses blindly
between carpet and sink

Poetry: balancing barely on bleeding cracked feet

Wed, 16 Jul 2008 12:47:08 EST

love is a volatile stock
bring out the whiskey
and find a exgirlfriend to mock

i'm twenty five soon
at the peak of this old rock

balancing barely on bleeding cracked feet
refusing to die, but accepting defeat

Poetry: sometimes it may erupt with purpose

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 01:03:15 EST

i've got fans in california
i've got fans in northern spain
eastern europe still adores me
and the asians feel the same

there were times when even philly
would begin to doubt my worth
but these days it just seems silly
given my expansive girth

i don't even care to notice
when the women stop to stare
begging for my callused hand
to rip the little clothes they wear

i always seem to end such poems
without a hint of boom or bang
sometimes it may erupt with purpose
but usually, it'll feel content to simply hang

Poetry: a small shirt is not made for fatness

Sun, 13 Jul 2008 00:34:04 EST

a small shirt is not made for fatness
just like your smile's not made for truth
but still i venture on in quiet madness
over the trust left over from my early youth

we fit together in form and meaning
and could be visually identified as one
but visuals, like bullets, are misleading
up to the time they leave the gun

Poetry: jews were dying left and right

Sat, 12 Jul 2008 04:06:02 EST

jews were dying left and right
"i'm not afraid because i fight"
and for sixty years since
obsession would not miss a chance
to remind the busy world
of the tragically absurd

Poetry: the side dish that is our new-found home

Thu, 10 Jul 2008 23:19:04 EST

sadly, we are in this together
furthermore "this" happens to be shit
let's close our eyes and talk about the weather
as we proceed to slowly purposefully sit

the ears will fill with what's been missing
the lips will part for pain that's gone
the hair will soak in the salad dressing
of the side dish that is our new-found home

Poetry: bend down to sip the puddle water

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 15:44:22 EST

bend down to sip the puddle water
until a tear joins the cause
turn back to give the fragile girl
that's now a woman one last pause

asking for forgiveness now
can't do the one thing that it should
i misused words that meant "i'm sorry"
i'd like to think you understood

Poetry: the wolf can't stoop to thank the rabbit

Tue, 08 Jul 2008 07:53:51 EST

don't want to give you any credit
for having kept me for this long
the wolf can't stoop to thank the rabbit
for giving him a reason to go on

Poetry: when only the left index finger is left typing

Mon, 07 Jul 2008 17:01:54 EST

my lifestyle fattens roaches
floor is covered in paper crumbs
the only answer i can muster
is two politically raised thumbs

campaign the brain from frontal to temporal
with photocopied speeches about progress
"if you and i" i tell them "work together"
"we can accomplish anything, even a thesis"

but them whore hours pass like gas from chili
and only coffee masks the dying of the soul
when only the left index finger is left typing
what can a researcher do but fill the glass with alcohol

Poetry: in front of your quickly-redenning face

Sun, 06 Jul 2008 17:10:02 EST

i'm swelling like a broken knee cap
unnaturally fearful of women
i used to be afraid of dogs
until i learned what one should feed 'em

anger is little bit like masturbation
neither are proper in a public place
especially a sunday afternoon train station
in front of your quickly-redenning face

Poetry: the wolf returns to feed

Sat, 05 Jul 2008 05:20:11 EST

the wolf returns to feed
my brain begins to bleed

he chews on my face
until he arrives at the taste

of an uncommonly bitter
ungrateful mind

Poetry: to surprise a passing chap

Tue, 01 Jul 2008 00:48:31 EST

i have purpose
i have style
i have bags
of cheap denial
springing out of a swell trap
to surprise a passing chap
with few words of such dimension
that his mind can only freeze
i think of it as intervention
as his eyes search for the police

Poetry: with a dirty mind you never win

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 02:17:13 EST

do the stains on the pillow
and the sheets
not tell you all the story
for which your jealous heart beats

with a dirty mind you never win
cigarettes so thin
your mouth dares to undo
the memories of fragile virgin sobbing

Poetry: the line between mine and yours

Sun, 29 Jun 2008 23:58:56 EST

i'm trapped by the jaws
of the line between mine and yours
shut it up in a safe place
where noone will find the red on my face

i'm empire-building
and you're just a building block
i'm about to drop you
and pick another one up

Poetry: the time has come to beat our children

Sat, 28 Jun 2008 20:35:07 EST

the time has come
to beat our children
they are too valuable
to waste

if you're too weak
or your child too nimble
i modestly propose
we cut 'em up, and give 'em a taste

Poetry: hope is the bugs under my eyelids

Fri, 27 Jun 2008 04:39:09 EST

hope is the bugs under my eyelids
that scramble against deadlines to define love
i pour a full glass, and see just a half
the empty void of hopeful existence

a shower is a symptom of persistence
a fixing of a tie is a disease
forming a sentence for a tease
in desperate longing for the unreal

Poetry: clumped like the hair under the sink

Thu, 26 Jun 2008 01:12:09 EST

so many nights together
clumped like the hair under the sink
disposed of by the plumbing
and a little hard drink

now once again we're standing
toes touching the finish line
the very place where we started
on a sisyphus climb

a sigh and a pause
for a glance in the mirror
give her a smile
before i put it in gear

Poetry: stitches like no bloody eyes haves seen

Wed, 25 Jun 2008 12:24:46 EST

stitches like no bloody eyes haves seen
i've been drinking down my kidneys
sending warnings to my spleen
all the cheese balls have been chewed on
and we're left with the obscene

never needed to go, but i'm gone
never needed to be, but i've been

dancing wireframe of manhood
in torn jeans of summer blues
for the blood on scared knee scars
so you wouldn't have to choose

i'm on hard times, bulls are steaming
sky is filling with red tape
bed sheets and turned-down gypsy beats
silence what is almost, but not rape

Poetry: grizzly bears are the reason

Tue, 24 Jun 2008 00:03:06 EST

see for yourself, there's no fish here
even though it's just the season
to most idiots and you, it should be clear
that them rotten grizzly bears are the reason

each one is a parasite, male, female, child, all the same
should've never let them in here
send them back to the north from where their daddies came

fish would ride the morning rainbow
through cajun seasoning onto my oiled skillet
hell, it probably would clean itself
and i wouldn't even have to kill it

Poetry: no boom

Mon, 23 Jun 2008 01:32:28 EST

i will arrive at six
and i will leave at seven
what can possibly happen
in that amount of time

will a pre-dug hole for a pre-planned crime
wait for me at the moment i open the door
cockroach: "wake up, she don't love you no more"
you got a bug problem, let's first get off
and then we'll solve 'em, i've had enough

call this number, ask for a limousine
i know where i live
i just don't want to be seen
leaving the warm fattening air of this room
as the ticking grows louder, but still, there's no boom

Poetry: policies of shoot and pray

Sun, 22 Jun 2008 02:49:08 EST

how important is today?
sure sounds like it is
we are run by hit and miss
policies of shoot and pray
founding fathers would be pissed
i can just see adams with a clenched fist
starring down our chief clown
with a mix of fear and hate
wondering if it is too late
to pull our head out from our ass
take back our freedom, our peace, our two dollar gas

Poetry: FISSION LOST ITS THRILL

Sat, 21 Jun 2008 05:50:16 EST

prostitution is for the eighties
gas chambers are for southern ladies

maradona lost brazil
fission lost its thrill

i spill
whatever i get
in the bathroom stall
then i forget
and move on

Poetry: THE DEAD HORSE WON'T PULL THE CARRIAGE

Fri, 20 Jun 2008 00:14:54 EST

i can see the night's end already
and we just have downed our very first shot
i can even sketch out the plot
all the way through to a cab ride home

i can see the weeks of dating
months of romance, rough play, fading
till the barking of the strays
leave us no choice but to part ways

i can see the miles of highway
as we step off from the curb
in hope the engine's cough will not disturb
the peace of early sunday morning

i can see my fat old body
smoking the remains of my son's weed
trying, as a man can, not to bleed
from the stab-wounds of my marriage

the dead horse won't pull the carriage
leaving no trace of respect
and nothing, Nothing, but the fact
that she's no longer breathing

Poetry: LET THE SILENCE DECIDE WHO'S WRONG

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 16:28:59 EST

i'm not ashamed of having lost little
having been born long after a world war
and i won't let your "therefore"
conclude my statements to be weak

you won't see a turning cheek
just a fist in the form of reason
amongst the sex-tales of political season
there's incompetence to be revealed

so let's just take it to the field
at midnight, with the night as a microphone
spit out your logic, i'll spit my own
and we'll let the silence decide who's wrong

Poetry: AN UNEVENTFUL MEAL FOR SOME THING TO CHEW

Wed, 18 Jun 2008 04:34:40 EST

in the end both jews and muslims
will be rotting in the ground
no god or heaven to be found
and not another chance to die

it's common sense, but call it a lie
it's just too hard for you to swallow
the idea that the god you follow
will not be there in the end

in a way i am your friend
when i tell you to be kind
and don't keep ancient words in mind
when you choose a man to hate

it will one day be too late
to tell me that i am just like you
you might be muslim, i might be jew
but both will side-by-side be rotting
an uneventful meal for some thing to chew

Poetry: A PAWN'S LIFE IS A SELF-MANAGED TRICK

Tue, 17 Jun 2008 02:26:27 EST

the terms of departure are ever-changing
at lunch it's democracy, at dinner some strange thing
by morning most of us will wake up in auschwitz
and be told that our life here is as good as it gets

none of us buy it
but all still keep quiet
whether through carrot or stick
a pawn's life is a self-managed trick

Poetry: SEX IN CASUALLY DRYING CEMENT

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 19:09:30 EST

exhaustion is pleasure
of a creamed-out coffee sip
oatmeal-raisin cookie dip
and suddenly all is better

days pass in self-chatter
move smoothly with a limp
half philosopher, half chimp
in stride with self-promoting ego

and noone ever will try to know
the depth of beauty in the moment
of sex in casually drying cement
while time attempts to circumvent
what is impossibly eternal

Poetry: TOP-SHELF LIQUOR AWAITS INEVITABLE THEFT

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 02:44:18 EST

walk with me, will you
at least until both of us die
along the path to destruction
is where the good jokes all lie

don't let a little fight corrupt
what little humor there's left
top-shelf liquor awaits inevitable theft
much like i wait to answer a simple question

may i before that put forth a suggestion
that there's no reason left to drown
the water's shallow, and so is your frown
and this itself is a good joke to me

hell, baby, tomorrow's today is a memory
and if we drink enough liquor
even that, it won't be

Poetry: UNTIL I FIND A DAMN GOOD REASON TO QUIT

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 16:27:23 EST

i'll take you to a diner
the place where romance comes to eat
and i will treat you like a minor
aware of every forbidden heart beat

my poems, i think, are better when i'm single
but relatively speaking, they're consistently shit
i don't belong here, but i think i'll mingle
until i find a damn good reason to quit

Poetry: tim russert

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 03:02:04 EST

i had a reason to wake up on sunday
despite neuronal vodka tensions
just for the chance to see tim russert
search for the truth with hard-earned questions

with natural ease, he'd trap great minds
in boxes that we hope they'd fill
and then he'd let them speak beyond their limit
while looking on with a boyish thrill

he's dead now, taking with him a generation
that patiently fought the the permanent campaign
and in so doing, spread love of country
through skeptical dissection of its day-to-day

Poetry: HOTEL'S A MONSTER WITH A BOW

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 06:26:23 EST

hotel's a monster with a bow
first consuming your finances
then moving swiftly to your soul
with a smile and an asian girl
bringing coffee in the morning
when you last expect to live
and you got nothing left to give
it will just then ask for more
hotel's a socially accepted whore

Poetry: IN A TOWEL WITH A COMB

Wed, 11 Jun 2008 06:33:24 EST

i am well dressed
wearing nothing
in a towel with a comb
looking out at the unknown
out of a sly sky-scraping window

on the east coast there's a heat wave
on the west it's going to snow
people leaving everywhere
and live as if they'll never go

Poetry: treat me like goldilocks and i'll bring out the bear

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 01:57:58 EST

i need you gone
but can't have you leaving
don't worship my words
but don't stop believing

for god's sake
only one of us has got any sense
and even that
depends on circumstance

what is this garbage
you snuck into here
treat me like goldilocks
and i'll bring out the bear

muddy shoes on
ash on the floor
this house ain't open
for your broom anymore

Poetry: AN IMPOSSIBLY TRAGIC VISION

Mon, 09 Jun 2008 01:51:49 EST

i've introduced myself to water
but i did it, admittedly, too late
after soaking in wild jealous hate
hydration only leads to clear vomit

how long does a red light linger, damn it
i'm already ready for my bed
miles away with shoes full of lead
it comes as an impossibly tragic vision

Poetry: THE TOUCH OF A CYCLOPS

Sun, 08 Jun 2008 01:49:54 EST

the touch of a cyclops
will stop an approach
and is why my first instinct's to wink
upon meeting a roach

such policy clearly
has gotten me here
unshowered and drinking
in calvin klein underwear
(my only pair)

Poetry: minutes converge to an emphatic "screw it"

Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:25:36 EST

i am a skeptic, truly, really
though perhaps i'm just a toy
for the system to enjoy
molding me into a willing victim

weakness's not an option
but there aren't others at this time
i chase tequila with a dried-out lime
and wonder why i let them do it

minutes converge to an emphatic "screw it"
and before long the years follow
my promise of heroism proves to be hollow
and nothing but shadows of friends still remain

Poetry: I'VE BEEN DEEMED INAPPROPRIATE FOR KIDS

Sat, 07 Jun 2008 03:18:48 EST

i've been deemed inappropriate for kids
i should stop proposing to teenagers
and stop allowing the friendly wagers
get socratically out of hand

yes, sweetheart, indeed i am with the band
but that raggedy old hag is starring at us now
at another time and place she may have allowed
for two star-crossed souls like ours to meet

but out here on a lukewarm philly street
one finds everything except romance
and shit, i lost too much to take a chance
on you, because you're too good to be true

Poetry: HITTING KEYBOARDS WITH MY HEAD

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 21:39:42 EST

it's friday night and i'm at home
drinking? no. drunk flirting? no.
philosophizing? sadly so.
it's friday night, and when in rome...

i have the hours up ahead
of hitting keyboards with my head
nothing ever will get done
on philly nights without a gun

then i promise in an email
to a long forgotten friend
that i will come and finally see him
and we'll be brothers till the end

Poetry: TO BE WELCOMED BY TROJANS

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 19:05:45 EST

some dance for money
some dance for joy
i dance for the horse
that will lay ruin to troy

don't know how to do it
but with vodka, i learn
to be welcomed by trojans
and then watch them all burn

Poetry: MATCH BOX MEMORIES OF UNJUSTIFIABLY RELEASED WITCHES

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 23:40:33 EST

i am dead, or exhausted
what the hell's difference anyway
when it comes to the here and now
and the work that precedes play

smoking genie coughs up a lamp
the coffee cup grows damp
and the eyes roll on the stormy river
doing nothing for the neck cramp

imagination is ketchup for perspiration sandwiches
match box memories of unjustifiably released witches
i'm typing, but numbness can hardly betray
the freedom i live for, but not here, not today

Poetry: WITH THE PATIENCE OF THE GIANTS

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 03:15:35 EST

i'm alone these days
but happy
to pretend that i'm alone
while the people that still love me
are content to call and call
with the patience of the giants
they continue to remain
arms and legs and heads and tails
loyal to the bond that i betray
but betray out of a fear
that the person i might be
is not the person they will hear
when they get a call from me

Poetry: CIVIL FREEDOMS

Mon, 02 Jun 2008 03:04:29 EST

civil freedoms
we don't need 'ems
take and use 'ems
just give us peace
we're mice god damn it
give us cheese
and sure, kill arabs
if y'all please

Poetry: CHANGE SHYLY THE ORDERING OF EVEN YOUR ALPHABET

Sun, 01 Jun 2008 02:24:12 EST

recollection shrugs
polite late-night hugs
change shyly the ordering
of even your alphabet

i don't have time for you
you don't have time for me
undress, unless...
let's just get to it, shall we?

Poetry: CONTRADICTION IS A PRIVILEGE

Sun, 01 Jun 2008 01:27:39 EST

can a man sing about liquor
and quit drinking anyway?
i don't believe it, but i haven't met her
she who'll help me become prey

contradiction is a privilege
that most here treat as a right
she slips in naturally, and heads for the fridge
announcing that she will stay for the night

Poetry: AS THE WATER FILLS THE BOAT

Sat, 31 May 2008 13:56:49 EST

this obsession is a pie
slice by slice i eat and die
chewing on for the rare time
i throw up, and again, my life becomes mine

from a distance it looks crazy
and from closer it looks worse
"why do you waste your time with eating?"
the answer is absurd, of course

"why not stop, just stop forever
never again waste another precious day
and instead do what makes you happy
and if not happy, what brings good pay?"

and again my lips are drying
with no answer in my throat
smile, the logic is in the silence
of the water in the boat

Poetry: AN ADJACENT SHEEP

Fri, 30 May 2008 00:38:44 EST

shoot the shit till the milestone
change the path to be alone
find the meaning of it
right as it appears to be gone
and step down, arthritis-stricken
from the warn-out wooden throne

i'll write a thousand more poems
taking stabs at the absurd
just so that an adjacent sheep
might chuckle as i exit from the herd

Poetry: GREASY REPUBLICANS

Thu, 29 May 2008 20:33:22 EST

greasy republicans, conceptually loving
rolling in the mud of some else's shoveling

will somebody turn the real fat one around
it appears that he's arrived at something profound

Poetry: THE PROPAGANDA MACHINE

Wed, 28 May 2008 20:26:32 EST

simpleton ants
bleed for the queen
blindly fueling
the propaganda machine

Poetry: PERESTROIKA, DEAR BROTHERS

Tue, 27 May 2008 21:34:45 EST

new things are here
but the old are still rotting
the racist fat congressmen
are hard at work, plotting

perestroika, dear brothers
through labor and pain
will save us from needing
to re-stalinize ukraine

Poetry: RAPE IS FOR THE VICTIMS

Mon, 26 May 2008 23:38:01 EST

rape is for the victims
war is for the dumb
drugs are for the horny
power's for the scum

water's for the hungry
truth is for the blind
scars are for the frail
death is for the kind

mom is for the lonely
dad is for the weak
brother's for the broken
god is for the meek

Poetry: MAYBE SHE'LL GET A DOLLAR

Sun, 25 May 2008 23:30:15 EST

waiting for a petition
with a turkey sandwich
and a can of red bull
thinking of a rhyme

time spent slyly winking
at the girls about to fall
waiting here to catch them
when they do, and fail to crawl

wrinkly burnt bartender
flirting for a tip
maybe she'll get a dollar
but from me she won't get shit

Poetry: TRUTH WITHOUT FACTS

Sat, 24 May 2008 21:21:35 EST

so many times i've broken your head
on the rock of my fisted hand
to help deal with the sadness
of you being not who i wish you would be

drinking mint tea, with a pound of rare meat
head bending down in an old dog's retreat
from the endless and fearless battles of hate
that come from the relentless delusion of fate

tasteless and wasteful rearranging of style
going on living in a pathetic denial
what is the purpose of love without sex
what is the hope of truth without facts

Poetry: GOD KNOWS WE FAILED

Fri, 23 May 2008 15:39:31 EST

i'm returning from battle
blood on my knees
scars from lost brothers
gaps from lost teeth

friends fought beside me
preferring death before they let the vodka prevail
but the battle was lost, the enemy undrained
god knows we tried, god knows we failed

Poetry: NAPERVILLE, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

Thu, 22 May 2008 21:43:14 EST

naperville, chicago, illinois
came there a boy, left a boy
and i return, against my will
into a boy's shoes i cannot fill

i come to meet those that i love
like few i'll ever love again
but i return a different man
and this, love can't comprehend

Poetry: FROM ALL THE ERRORS OF MY DOING

Wed, 21 May 2008 23:36:35 EST

the saddest truth about this beer
is it will never be the same
i left it sitting out here
for days and days and days on end

last sunday, one example
the a.c. got shut off while i was gone
gave the beer a hell of a sample
of what it means to be warm and alone

from all the errors of my doing
the taste of consequence is hard
but i don't send it for rebrewing
i drink it down, it's all i am, it's all i got

Poetry: KEEP ONE EYE OPEN WITH A RAZOR

Tue, 20 May 2008 21:16:14 EST

which one of you assholes
is messing with my parachute
spilling vodka on the dead souls
and leaving lipstick on my flute

i'll keep one eye open with a razor
and wait for one of you to twitch
i've never left a girl to teach her
but that's what makes life quite a bitch

Poetry: TASTES LIKE SALTED SEABASS

Mon, 19 May 2008 11:19:19 EST

someone forgot to tell me
my mouth is full of blood
it tastes like salted seabass
numbed by relocation to a frozen pond

it's good that walnut street is one way
so i can see the big trucks come
someone forgot to tell them
of the man that i've become

Poetry: TOO BUOYANT FOR CLAIMS

Sun, 18 May 2008 08:52:48 EST

how do i gain
the "the terrible" label
after my name

i don't have a kingdom
to torture and then blame

nor even a serpent
i'd require to tame

i do have a woman
but too buoyant for claims
that a witch that she is
will become pure only in flames

Poetry: RENOUNCE ALL PREVIOUS TIES

Sat, 17 May 2008 08:42:45 EST

russia, like every girlfriend i've had,
i cannot reenter after i've fled

i must first renounce all previous ties
and show up a stranger in a tourist disguise

Poetry: THE RIGHT TIME TO TEASE THE BABOON

Fri, 16 May 2008 00:10:31 EST

i remember two monkeys having sex at the zoo
san diego weather, people, you'd be at it too

a super large woman with super small kids
looked on with disinterest for at least twenty minutes

i was, for once, drunk on a monday at noon
waiting for the right time to tease the baboon

smiling at children with tears in their eyes
sobbing while chewing on cold soggy fries

there's a world out here, smack in the middle of day
while balding old perverts lie and cheat for their pay

much like the ants i never knew were so smart
these creatures out here aren't worth an elephant fart

Poetry: YOU'RE BETTER THAN ME IN SO MANY WAYS

Thu, 15 May 2008 11:28:06 EST

you're better than me in so many ways
it's easy to say this, because modesty pays
in enjoyment that i extract from the scene
of the selfish man remaining comically unseen

Poetry: occasional visitors

Wed, 14 May 2008 12:40:59 EST

i don't take baths
i live alone
occasional visitors
will treat me warm
a.c. blasting
through the storm
and the work
goes on and on

that's a view of it
i think
that friends never fail
to bring up
to them, a shallow chase
of silly dreams
can't satisfy
a man, it seems

Poetry: A STUBBORN DYSFUNCTION

Tue, 13 May 2008 02:02:22 EST

my right leg is shorter than my left
and thus my running path, in whole,
is an artful take on a stubborn dysfunction

i once lived with you, but i left
couldn't let you have it all
as part of a polite destruction

pink jelly beans imply a theft
and somewhere greed chews on a soul
such irony defies production

i had my reasons, until you wept
and made that famous late night phone call
that just in time for the epilogue,
became somehow our first unfiltered introduction

Poetry: REASON TO BE HOPEFUL

Mon, 12 May 2008 12:41:37 EST

if i had reason to be hopeful
i wouldn't be beside you now
the day i chose to become thoughtful
is the day this horse declared itself a cow

Poetry: TAKE YOUR MIDNIGHT DEADLINE

Sun, 11 May 2008 08:31:37 EST

take your midnight deadline
and shove it up your ass
i refuse to be denied
a full-time stream of stench-drenched stress

Poetry: POSING A THREAT

Sat, 10 May 2008 16:50:28 EST

i derive pleasure
from posing a threat
though i suppose
i may just regret
having spent hours
punching a bag
advil, hot showers
numbing arms, legs
crawling depleted
up towards a dream
as death willingly watches
with a warm picnic grin

Poetry: PROGRAMMING IS FOR THE GODS

Fri, 09 May 2008 16:34:13 EST

Poetry: KNEE-DEEP

Thu, 08 May 2008 18:26:30 EST

i'm knee-deep in a tub of dog crap
and i know this because i'm tense
struggling out of each moment
parsing nietzsche for common sense

and the rare hopeful email
from an enemy turned friend
helps make life a muffled sad song
that i wish would never end

but instead the dog crap moistens
from the weekly downpour
which would otherwise summon a smile
on a man i'm not, and never were

Poetry: THERE'S NOTHING AS SWEET

Wed, 07 May 2008 21:41:56 EST

and then at sunrise
you ask me
twice
why i felt the need
to be such
a shit

and i closed my eyes
enjoying it
both times
there's nothing as sweet
as you getting to
the truth of it

Poetry: BRILLIANT THEORIES

Tue, 06 May 2008 14:51:03 EST

i won't argue with false statements
especially the ones from you
it appears, truth don't care
whether you're christian, or you're jew

and like a child sucking milkshake
you slurp in/out brilliant theories
it appears, truth don't care
whether you site sartre or elven fairies

only outcome that's certain
from discussion we have had:
it appears, truth don't care
of what is good and what is bad

Poetry: YOUR HUSBAND'S CAR

Mon, 05 May 2008 14:36:46 EST

in the exhaust smoke
of your husband's car
speeding away, i find freedom

i used to choke
on such feelings
but now i feed on them

the lights turn red
and i step into the street
like a jay walker in the ghetto

i may end up dead
hit by a yellow mustang
now or later, anyway, all that's me will go

Poetry: DEATH MUST BE PART-FRENCH

Sun, 04 May 2008 05:23:35 EST

the end? already here?
i just made coffee
do you not care?

i have the dentist thursday
he is a good man
if i go now
he may not understand

and what about my taxes
i have to pay them more
and everywhere there's boxes
i need to clear the floor!

my story is unwritten
my dreams are still so fresh
and plus i just have eaten
you can't take such stuffed flesh

you think in crawling traffic
the corpse won't raise a stench?
no, life must be an empire!
and death must be part-french

Poetry: RUNNING TO ENDURE

Sat, 03 May 2008 16:43:53 EST

i'm running to endure
amongst the young and old
i'm not running for the cure
i'm running for the gold

for some, with death, they're racing
and death each time finds them
for others, it's death they're facing
not to be overwhelmed

but me, i'm simply running
with death far far behind
i know, from books, of its cunning
but it doesn't know of mine

Poetry: THE LETTERS I WISH I'D WRITTEN

Fri, 02 May 2008 22:31:54 EST

limbs from a little child
spread out on the road
fists clenched till his skin broke
without a friend to hold

my footsteps didn't matter
the battle came and went
the letters i wish i'd written
had never yet been sent

Poetry: A STRUGGLE GREAT MEN CHOOSE

Thu, 01 May 2008 10:22:36 EST

two days had passed
since i first met you
and i'm already deep in love

but like a hobo in a phone booth
my mind's already cut in half

i'm already feeling angry
finding nails in my ass cheeks
i'm already hiding eyeballs
at the sight of tonguing freaks

i'm already walking slower
at the edges of a sidewalk
i'm already cheaply smiling
like a parasite-filled hawk

in the quiet of an absent cellphone
i untie my steaming shoes
life, according to friedrich nietzsche,
is a struggle great men choose

Poetry: WITHOUT A HINT OF LONGING

Wed, 30 Apr 2008 08:06:24 EST

apply the prejudice like butter
on a piece of whole wheat toast
don't let them hear you stutter
or choose which one you hate the most

in floating through the warm spring air
remember you're a leaf, you're not a man
and let the weak and crippled blindly stare
as you rise and rise without end

there will be war, and more bad poems
and puss from wounds of famine victims
and sockets full of nematode worms
and pools of tears for them to swim in

you are a fat old featherless chicken
roasting in the capitalistic heat of spring
amongst god's righteous famine, you casually thicken
without a hint of longing towards any one ephemeral thing

Poetry: FORK AND KNIFE

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 20:18:17 EST

it must be exhausting
to be looking so good
can't tell if you're a woman
or a some kind of food

i got fork and knife ready
for the rape victim routine
but i'm fine with slow and steady
and occasional discipline

Poetry: FLYING WITH TORCHES

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 01:11:32 EST

i know somewhere you're laughing
enjoying yourself
flying with torches
in a circus of wealth

holding clean glasses
filled with expensive champagne
letting the world in
but not letting it stay

calling me once
on each month's second sunday
just to turn down a drink
with the same "no, but one day"

the fragile contortions
i hid in your dream
are breaking up softly
with the same "maybe it's him"

Poetry: THE COMMENT

Sun, 27 Apr 2008 00:58:53 EST

i knew from the beginning
the meaning of the comment
and feared that rereading
will distort that intent

but anyway i read it
carefully twice
and responded casually
with a roll of a dice

then listened for echoes
of slaves feeling free
but felt nothing but toes
lightly tickling me

Poetry: THE OLD JOKE

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 14:00:30 EST

the old joke, poorly told, is told about me
occupied with dreams and memories
hiding from people hanging around
digging, with patience, a hole in the ground

extracting a purpose from self-interested praise
fighting for badges, medals, and the illusive raise
returning home late to an empty bucket of love
spitting in it with a chuckle: "man, life is tough"

Poetry: THE RIVER'S PASSING

Fri, 25 Apr 2008 02:31:59 EST

either the girls are getting simpler
or i've been drifting as a whore
either my arms are getting bigger
or my fists don't bleed much any more

the river, muddy, returns a reflection
to test if i still know what i look like
i stare with thoughtful affection
at what could be any old worthless fake

there's a question between my tongue and lips
that never quite seems worth reasking
as the same sad confession regrips
all i can do is wait for the river's passing

Poetry: CELEBRATING THE END

Thu, 24 Apr 2008 04:46:00 EST

forgive the observation
but you're an idiot
i say so out of frustration
but that does not change it

your mouth is flapping
like a flag in the wind
my mind's hands are clapping
celebrating the end

Poetry: ROUTINE HELPS QUIET THE REVOLUTION

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 19:03:36 EST

routine helps quiet the revolution
oatmeal each morning
maintains the institution
of fragile, vapid, lawful man

this morning, though
i didn't make it
i woke up early
pacing naked
took a drink of spoiled milk
and allowed myself to think

Poetry: YOU ARE THE ASHTRAY TO MY CIGARETTE

Tue, 22 Apr 2008 01:37:28 EST

you are the ashtray to my cigarette
don't bet on me, you'll lose
and when the time arrives to choose
you'll be too weak to leave a broken man

i've never met a mexican
face to face in the quiet of evening
over two steaming cups of tea
debating whether any man could ever truly become free

i haven't lived life, that's why i'm shrinking
and all the watering won't help
you think i haven't thought of "drinking"?
i've thought of it, but couldn't yet

Poetry: A VISION OF GRACE

Mon, 21 Apr 2008 04:35:54 EST

why do you, these days
look at me, with such a face
did i break a promise
did i fail to start
when all the things around us
were moving wildly
except my selfish heart

i rest on a couch
cars honk outside
with a vision of grace
in a brief goofy chase
as your summer dress fails
to cover your chest
and a smile worth tears
on a day like the rest

Poetry: BEADY IRISH EYES

Sun, 20 Apr 2008 00:42:15 EST

try to estimate my power
with those beady irish eyes

i've never fought your kind
which is a sad surprise

but i have always wanted
to paint that smug look red

walk the edge of life itself
and not fall off, defeated, dead

Poetry: COUNTING BUGS ON AN OFFICE CEILING

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 17:37:28 EST

counting bugs on an office ceiling
it's no way to make a living
what is money anyway
if you're dying by minute, by hour, by day

hopes and dreams
like favorite jeans
are going to find the trash
your girlfriend screams
clawing at him
as you search pockets for sweaty cash

Poetry: THE COMMONEST SENSE

Fri, 18 Apr 2008 20:07:39 EST

let's talk regret
as long as we are talking trauma
would monica still be upset
if instead she blew obama

i see the subject makes you cringe
i'll loosen the handcuffs
if you don't fight the syringe

i'm only relaying the commonest sense
we all hope for change
but in dollars, not cents

Poetry: SANTA CLAUS IS A RACIST

Thu, 17 Apr 2008 02:03:04 EST

santa claus is a racist
this claim is without basis
but when you and i ride the midnight bus
rarely we'll see a happy child amongst us

i don't claim to know west philly
and if i did, i'm white, schooled, and skinny
so no one worth a damn will possibly believe
there's hatred held high up my sleeve

fighting goes on without reason
when liquor, horse-like laughter, and racial teasing
pierce the late late diner smoke
hardened fists complete the joke

i've ceased to wait for hate to leave town
i drag it hidden, all around
amongst the sluts with hopeful dreams
to shelter through the night's routines

Poetry: YOUR GIRLFRIEND MUST BE DUTCH

Wed, 16 Apr 2008 23:39:21 EST

i'm an intellectual of sorts
chase bitter dark with tawny port
i notice, sipping rare malts scotch
like you, your girlfriend must be dutch

don't get me wrong, she's cute and nimble
one i would hold if she got cold, and allowed a tremble
but overall, she's nothing much
like you, your girlfriend must be dutch

Poetry: PEACEFUL, HOPEFUL, INSPIRING SONG

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 23:06:18 EST

i missed the part
of this meeting
which explained
the purpose or meaning
of its rigorous process

to me, it's just nonsense
amongst violent nodding
and prodding of numbers
to show there's a god
and here i thought
there was not

how stupid of me
to miss the beginning
of such a conclusive
and logically spinning
of everything i
always thought of as wrong

this peaceful, hopeful, inspiring song
could turn any skeptic
no matter how strong
but they must be there
alert, all along
not me
i let fear
stay in me too long

Poetry: A BLACK HOLE

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 22:49:01 EST

i never finish first
and never without trouble
nor ever am i the worst
a black hole amongst the rubble

a tribal dance around the mean
statistically, is silent farting
a lion is spinning on a pin
i'm dead, damn, i was just starting

Poetry: MADNESS IS A TEA BAG

Sun, 13 Apr 2008 19:46:21 EST

madness is a tea bag
in my boiling cerebrum
i'm clinching a white flag
as a back path to freedom

awaiting for enemies
to slow their assault
so i can arrive
and declare it their fault

Poetry: FEDEX DELIVERY MAN

Sat, 12 Apr 2008 12:58:05 EST

where are you, fedex delivery man?
is there a cute girl's breast resting in your hand?
are you desperately slashing through a thick jungle bush?
no matter, old buddy, i'll be here. don't rush

the air will moisten, and then it will dry
i'll shiver from winter, and i'll sweat swatting flies
know that if death finds you, at least, you'll be missed
hopeful, i'm waiting for reasons, from you, to exist

Poetry: HOLDING ON

Fri, 11 Apr 2008 21:20:48 EST

it hurts to admit it
but it hurts
to watch the flirts
on friday night
fight with purses and fists
like flies around a light
to be part of it

it seems
everyone else is

and all i have
is a beer in my hand
holding on
like a rape victim in a porn flick

i guess that's
what one gets
for slamming doors
and smoking cigarettes
despite the nonstop nagging

and it feels
like i'm just dragging
my heart along behind me
on a long journey to be
again with you

Poetry: THE AIR IS BETTER IN THE EAST

Thu, 10 Apr 2008 23:00:02 EST

the air is better in the east
dumb folk do visit here
but leave with haste

there are workers and thinkers
out here making a life
i don't like to generalize
but the south can keep its good christian wife

and if i find myself aching
for a sweet 'bama home
it only means ambition
has kept me too long

Poetry: THE U.S. CONSTITUTION

Wed, 09 Apr 2008 13:06:19 EST

the u.s. constitution
is an independent film
that outsells a disney toon
and in so doing becomes real

it's dark and brutal to the monkeys
and their ever spiraling desires
and yet somehow it inspires hope
even in the broken collars
whose labor for the will of madness
quieted within them the lonely human fire

Poetry: THE LONG AFFAIR

Tue, 08 Apr 2008 12:52:12 EST

"call my cellphone
when you're done
i'll be right here
till then hon"

and so begins
the long affair
bring her here
when she is there

Poetry: ONE OR TWO UNHAPPY FACES

Mon, 07 Apr 2008 11:46:38 EST

one or two unhappy faces
looking up while on my chest
textbook child-abuse cases
trying to pass a father's test

while it is not the fairy tale
i'd come to hope for at age ten
i feel a hero when i fail
becoming more or less a man

Poetry: HOPE

Sun, 06 Apr 2008 10:41:20 EST

i hope the cracks in the walls don't get bigger
run like blood from a paper cut on the index finger

the tongue awaits the taste of victory before the rain
washes all the hope of tasting victory when it comes away

Poetry: RICH PEOPLE

Sat, 05 Apr 2008 01:06:22 EST

rich people around here
are getting richer richer richer

leaves me and plato on the steps
philosophizing away our debts

what is justice, is it like god
screwing mothers lost in walmart

or is it like the teeth of lions
chewing those with wings and no way of flying

Poetry: YES I'M SMOKING

Fri, 04 Apr 2008 22:51:41 EST

yes i'm smoking
yes i quit
yes i know
i contradict

why don't you
enjoy one too
and live life
before it's through

Poetry: crusaders with oil rigs

Thu, 03 Apr 2008 19:34:05 EST

i'll put on a jacket
and i'll give you a smile
but no, not forgiveness
baby, you're still on trial

on and on, through the headaches
while iraqi children are dying
and crusaders with oil rigs,
despite your crap, are still lying

Poetry: BIN LADEN

Wed, 02 Apr 2008 12:08:23 EST

yankees, come come to the east
or drop bombs here at least
new recruits are in decline
bring us death, if you don't mind

Poetry: I AM DECLARING A WAR ON WEAKNESS

Tue, 01 Apr 2008 23:55:38 EST

i am declaring a war on weakness
the first is laziness
and i will tell you, since we're friends
aside from that, i've not planned much else

tomorrow, i will wake up at sunrise
and read far more than i've ever have read
that'll give the devils a big wet surprise
since most have already left me for dead

now besides philosophical learning
i've got to do much much more
my heart at this hour is burning
for what i can't tell, but it burns, that's for sure

Poetry: ENERGY DRINK

Mon, 31 Mar 2008 22:45:45 EST

where is the damn energy
in this energy drink
vague deadlines and timelines
pollute the drive to think

astounding how
five six seven cups of coffee or tea
do nothing to help
make lunch any closer to free

i get up, i sit down
it's four thirty at night
i've put in so much
but done so little right

Poetry: REFILL THE CUP

Sun, 30 Mar 2008 22:11:04 EST

all you do is drink and drink
your screws are loose, and i'm no shrink
to help a body that's drying up
my only choice is to refill the cup

you become stupid when finally it hits
chocking on laughter with sweaty armpits
calling me fearless, "you know the meaning of rough'
forgetting my name, and begging for love

Poetry: WHERE DID THE COCKROACH GO

Sat, 29 Mar 2008 08:24:35 EST

where did the cockroach go
i miss him despite his secretive style
i think about the last time he and i met
and wish i'd said:
"don't go just yet, stay for a while"

Poetry: ONE OF THEM

Fri, 28 Mar 2008 18:49:54 EST

in the corner, she was knitting
blowing bubbles of berry gum
i planned, unable yet to enter
unwilling to be seen as "one of them"

they have their minuscule intentions
disguised under ever-shrinking witty phrase
facing the artillary of misconceptions
with a statuesque smile on a pieless face

but i, as no one knows, am thoroughly different
hard to explain exactly in which way
and that's what i stood there planning
until the vodka would compose the perfect end to "hey..."

Poetry: AN AMERICAN CONVICTION

Thu, 27 Mar 2008 02:39:34 EST

lost my money and my friends
in the concrete cracks
of this worthless city

but don't you give me that stupid pity
i've still got a fist to swing
no one's worth it, that's the thing

i don't smoke, these days i'm running
it might help me when i'm dead
which given that i'm getting fat
is an american conviction

good job, reader
if you spot a contradiction
but this here is not a fable with a twist
this is ephemeral nonfiction

blink and i'm gone with garbage
rotting quietly somewhere
you may be at an earlier stage
but trust me, i'll see you there

Poetry: FORGIVENESS

Wed, 26 Mar 2008 02:19:00 EST

forgiveness and anal sex
are two things i am open to
but only in one direction

upon further introspection
the above's too personal a claim
sure to resurface at the slightest hint of fame

but i won't back down
from this poem
since i've just about got nothing else

what's in my head
can't be as bad
as what's in yours, you, who rarely if ever writes such poems

Poetry: POETRY READING

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 23:35:22 EST

i missed another poetry reading
though somehow they didn't much miss me

they're monsters, full, but always eating
as if there's meaning in an imagined memory

i don't belong there, amongst perverts
undressing my pale body as i read

their drool, veins, and impolite discourse
turns me from broccoli to raw red meat

Poetry: A NAME AND NUMBER

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 01:32:59 EST

closed dusty blinds
dim yellow lights
empty refrigerator
long quiet nights

a name and number
baits me, as fate
awaits for desire
to concur stale hate

Poetry: AN EMAIL FROM SOMEONE LONG GONE

Mon, 24 Mar 2008 02:59:45 EST

sometimes i'll get an email
from someone long gone.
after a month i'll briefly respond
with an air of wit, slightly withdrawn

and just as i click
the button to send
i realize i've again
abandoned a friend

Poetry: CELLOPHANE WRAP

Sun, 23 Mar 2008 18:12:22 EST

the reasons i have
and the reasons i lost
for going on living
still cover the cost

friends, dreams, and women
like cellophane wrap
i use them just once
and then treat them like crap

Poetry: BENT UMBRELLA

Sun, 23 Mar 2008 04:55:19 EST

i've been with this girl
while i saw another
i broke down her reasons
i fed her, then starved her

i bent the umbrella
with which she covered her heart
the clouds grew moist
but the rain wouldn't start

Poetry: THE CROWD IS BREAKING INTO SONG

Sat, 22 Mar 2008 04:49:11 EST

i throw a knife
into a piece of wood
and leave as if
all's understood

but somehow
noone turns around
at just that moment
erupts a sound

the crowd is breaking
into song
i am forgotten
before i'm gone

Poetry: PHILOSOPHY

Fri, 21 Mar 2008 16:08:33 EST

this dumpster's filled with smoke and ego
dull conversations're puking falsehoods
so much door-knocking, you'd think the door-bell is a g-spot

philosophy,
according to philosophers, used to be for the masses
until the coming of weed, rock'n'roll, and brain atrophy

what's left of that parasitic wizardry of a field
can be found in one-bedroom apartments like these
covered in whiskey dust, and pack-a-day fruit flies

Poetry: EXPONENTIATE

Thu, 20 Mar 2008 22:53:35 EST

laptop cellphone gps
a smile mirror-trained to impress
armani suit, thomas pink tie
every fact matched by a well concealed lie

let's be fair here, and exponentiate
a brick is a castle, with a good annual rate.
one step one day towards a hill
finds you clawing up mountains, immune to the chill

Poetry: SILVER GIRL

Wed, 19 Mar 2008 04:26:28 EST

gave an iron frying pan
to a silver girl
never was a bukowski fan
he just filled a hole

teeth tongue locked
from caffeine pills
ideas flock
cynicism kills

ever-ringing land line
am i away?
wishing for a will to buy
gold for her one day

Poetry: SELF-DESTRUCTION

Tue, 18 Mar 2008 00:07:43 EST

where the fist flows
along pivoting toes
goes my never-broken nose

faking, then escaping
as a skinny little thing
proclaims oneself to be a king

impatient blood-stained bucket
the sting of a kenyan rocket
will not let itself be cheated

don't be afraid, i think
don't think, i think
as the darkness throws at me a wink

vibrating knees
like a long-mistreated tease
leads a man to self-destruction

Poetry: THE MEN'S ROOM

Mon, 17 Mar 2008 06:55:12 EST

how did i let death escape from my mind
somewhere between drink eight and drink nine
on a slow but determined track to the men's room
through the minefield of drunks, awaiting a boom

circumcised christians tossing back beers
fat girls in short skirts practicing cheers
veterans of perished artillery brigades
slamming musicians born decades too late

i'm a prince loudly yielding the throne
as if i decided this all on my own
no parents, no preachers, no books filled with lies
convinced me of how i will live out my life

Poetry: NEW ORLEANS

Sun, 16 Mar 2008 01:57:48 EST

i'm fat? you're fat.
i'm sorry, i guess
i didn't really mean that

great, apologies abound
celebration in surround sound
cookies swimming in the milk
tongues are sand paper
skin is silk

let the bar stools reinvent
every historical event
till we're both in tight-ass jeans
dancing back to new orleans

Poetry: TRAINING AT THE BOXING GYM

Sat, 15 Mar 2008 11:08:01 EST

pop pop
the hands are dropping
the feet are slowing
trip-jabs are stopping

i am a mop
consumed with sweat
an oily gloss
to ten pounds of fat

i am the last
great hope of mine
with an eggshell chin
on a stubborn spine

the history books
just won't believe
how such a man
ever did succeed

Poetry: FRAT HYENAS

Fri, 14 Mar 2008 09:36:03 EST

the frat hyenas
are starting shit again
see my long hair
and question if i'm a man

now, how do i
answer a question like that
without bleeding or
breaking a sweat

and i keep on walking
with light beer in my bladder
wishing i didn't create
another unresolved matter

next time, when i'm not lonely
and philosophically bent
these jokers may get
what they so crave to get

Poetry: WHO ARE YOU READER

Thu, 13 Mar 2008 12:19:05 EST

who are you reader
why are you here
still grasping a dream
or running from fear

do you like coffee
or do you like tea
is the holocaust real
or is it a lie from tv

do you wear pjs
or do you sleep nude
can i ask about your penis
or would that be rude

is your poetry written
and will it be lost
when the candles are lit
before the last vodka toast

do you drink pinot
which i myself don't prefer
if there was no god
would you consider merlot

are you a stranger?
am i one to you?
will all be forgiven
before we both turn pale blue

Poetry: DEAR EDITOR

Wed, 12 Mar 2008 14:51:00 EST

dear editor, i think you think
you are more powerful than you really are.
i'm sitting outside your apartment
half-naked, rewriting this, in my car

please allow this to indicate
that censorship must have a price
and also it should imply politely
that you shouldn't let it happen twice

Poetry: MOMMA, I'M A MUSICIAN

Wed, 12 Mar 2008 14:44:51 EST

momma, i'm a musician
dropping out of school
ride the christian cow girls
and the california bar stool

running off to join the gypsies
build a fire, smoking
humming 'trista pena'
on a beat up 60's taylor, joking

nevermind the bills, momma
the doctor'll be there when i'm back
and i promise i'll call you
but it might have to be collect

Poetry: APOLOGY

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 22:51:45 EST

i'm already tumbling down the steep hill of regret
will you really never ever ever ever forget?
will my open-fractured ribs protruding out from my ripped skin
not convince you that i have been cleansed from within?

every demon inside me has now left on a one-way train south
and i am just simple old me, tumbling, teeth flying out my mouth.
with a little soft kick on this ikea chair
you can send me to hell, and i'll wait for you there

Poetry: MY SWEET CINNAMON BUN

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 22:39:28 EST

a bear broke into my place today
can you believe this shit? me neither, but anyway
i'm sitting on my couch with a bowl of oatmeal
next to vitamins, fish oil, and a caffeine pill

the bear looked different than i thought it would look
crap chunks in its hair right out of a coloring book
smelling like the hairy greek child molester doing squats at the gym
i knew that he smelled me, and he knew i smelled him

the rest of the story can't be told without making me look good
and i know i'm already in that regard misunderstood
i'm still hurting, hours later, from what i've done
and the bear, well, he is a she, she, my sweet cinnamon bun

Poetry: SHOO-IN FOR HELL

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 21:33:28 EST

some things i do
i do quite well.
most times i do so
accidentally.
for this good fortune
i'm a shoo-in for hell.
there, i hope, torture
is not worse than my poetry.

Poetry: A WOMAN GONE ASTRAY

Sun, 09 Mar 2008 04:39:08 EST

let's forget we had a fight
and start a new one after breakfast
but this time let us do it right
proclaim the usual crap, but fight on past it

put on your gloves and that pretty dress
i'll keep my blood and spit to myself today
i truly suggest you look your best
for the front page picture of "a woman gone astray"

Poetry: WORRY

Sat, 08 Mar 2008 00:59:32 EST

so i got myself a band aid
to cover up the coming wounds
but this made me so unafraid
i got stabbed and dumped off in a snowy wood

the moral of this poorly told
completely fake and unrealistic story
is that you can't avoid the real shit
without constant obsessive worry

Poetry: I'LL FIGHT FOR

Fri, 07 Mar 2008 21:38:25 EST

i've wasted my existence
on a day-to-day parade.
let the passions overtake me
and just as swiftly let them fade

starting now, i'll fight for ____
until i'm too old to swing
at which point i'll just relax and
let the future bring what it'll bring

Poetry: THE CANDY ISLE AT SEVEN ELEVEN

Thu, 06 Mar 2008 18:08:22 EST

the candy isle at seven eleven
is a good place to meet little girls

promise them dresses
earrings, bracelets, and mommy's pink pearls

there'll be detached smiles
and a couple of "no, thanks"

but stick around for a while
there's real love for you there, despite you being fake

Poetry: THE BURSAR

Wed, 05 Mar 2008 04:05:25 EST

i found the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind
on a wednesday afternoon, with drooping fierce eyebrows
and death-dark eyes piercing my fragile humanity with a rush of poison
weaving through my spine and into the depths of my unprepared testicles

i arrived there to inquire about the resolution of a recent financial situation.
she sat behind this very desk before i was born, and will remain there long after i'm dead,
with her two steel-rod index fingers chomping down on a sauce-filled keyboard.
what a woman.

the sun one day will burn out, yet she will always rise like a prehistoric predator
with the planets huddling around her enormous stomach for warmth.
and without an ounce of mal-intent, with one hardened look, her heavy pupils
will discard my soul into the trash bin of eternal history

Poetry: CRITIQUE OF OBJECTIVISM

Tue, 04 Mar 2008 23:26:45 EST

thanks to the bluntness of objectivism
i'm out of good vodka, and no stage for a toast

"it's a cult of greedy virgins"
yells out the friend that drinks the most

all this before the girls arrive
"rational self-interest? here, toss over that knife"

he cuts himself to prove his point
which shows somehow the axioms to be disjoint

that's when the skirts come shuffling in
the arguments subside and tonic mixes with the gin

Poetry: i've seen worse

Mon, 03 Mar 2008 20:03:07 EST

she came in to measure me
as a woman should, of course

i winked: "am i the worst you've ever seen?"
she blinked: "oh no hon, i've seen worse"

Poetry: SOLDIERS

Mon, 03 Mar 2008 15:49:19 EST

fresh mud on the outside
bloody blisters inside

most here fail time and again
before they do anything right

these heroes aren't heroes
on either side of the fight

they're killers, with desires and fears,
caught on the edge of a political knife

Poetry: I FEED HER GROCERY STORE FISH AND RODENTS

Mon, 03 Mar 2008 01:28:07 EST

i feed her grocery store fish and rodents
she politely muffles chewing sounds
with a pillow, head plunged down
in a naive attempt to vent

i got bite marks from her kisses
all the milk cartons are now rags
sure she's got her calming snacks
but mostly she just tears food to pieces

i travel often to appear smart
and'll let her fill my bag with papers
it makes he feel like we are neighbors
though we are always worlds apart

it'd be a silly orchestration
for me to shovel out a final hole
truth is i need her for the role
of partner in self-celebration

Poetry: MORNING TEA

Sun, 02 Mar 2008 09:31:09 EST

the early morning glass of water
finds a cracking pair of lips
the first cold rush is pure bliss
but quickly liquid becomes hotter

is this the first day, sunday, or the last
i'm standing without an hint of meaning
a late night millipede is trapped and bleeding
seeking one last triumph before it joins the past

is this a table or a grand piano
i'd try and play it if i could
but somewhere in a snowy wood
there's promises to keep and miles to go

the nuke is beeping, tea is ready
that means this poem has to end
no way in hell could it contend
with a good old cup of hot black tea

Poetry: lollypop

Sat, 01 Mar 2008 23:26:48 EST

a barely-licked lollypop
is resting on the living room carpet
amidst rubbery foot steps
of a semi-naked college student
floating through the viscous air
without the help of his glasses

sultans of swing on low volume
tip toe in his shadows
caressing his numb torso
with a feather or a knife.
he periodically stops to meditate
over sudden sensations of loneliness

weeks steadily pass.
the movie based on the story
of the lollypop rewinds
as the melting sugary droplets
drip onto the canvas
of a resolved romance

Poetry: YOUR DOG JUST URINATED ON MY SHOE

Sat, 01 Mar 2008 22:23:57 EST

your dog just urinated on my shoe
would you like me to kill it or will you

really, i've been to italy and france
i am above your philly poodle's urinal dance

and yes i'm starring at your girlfriend's breasts
but really, i deserve one such sweet glance

i'm dogging folks a lot less than i used to
back then, i'd spray a hot one back on you

Poetry: GOD DAMN WOMAN

Fri, 29 Feb 2008 19:59:59 EST

god damn woman
use the fork
put down the beer
sniff the cork
put on socks
take off your hat
differentiate
this from that

what are you
some kind of whore
leave the key
right in the door
ah god damn
just swing it wide
leave it open
the whole damn night

listen, listen
god damn listen
do you ever ever
listen
logic's not
your expertise
all you do
is lie and tease

take this screw
and screw it in
it'll be easy
my skull's warn thin
that will be
the first real task
which you finish
when i ask

Poetry: ALCHEMY

Fri, 29 Feb 2008 02:46:11 EST

who will own you
when i'm not here
will he have shorter
or longer hair
will he have scars
along his jaw
will he be gentle
or will he be raw

will he cook dinner
or will he sleep
just barely there
or painfully deep
will he be anything like me
or are you ready to be free

we never learned to bleed together
your skin to me was cheap beige leather

funny, you found yourself a door
you opened it and wanted more

how tragically ironic
what once metallic
was now bionic

Poetry: THE BILL

Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:45:28 EST

assist a dentist
by being polite
he'll squint and drill
under an aging light

he'll ask about
which tea you drink
and use a few terms
that'll make you think

he'll hum a tune
while a latex finger
inspects your gum
and dares to linger

he'll raise your chair
and walk away
now comes the punchline
of his day

Poetry: OUR FRIENDSHIP

Wed, 27 Feb 2008 23:25:46 EST

i've been too busy to love you again
don't take this to mean i have forgotten.
our friendship is dog shit sunk deep in the sand:
with time, it'll erode, but hell, it may harden

how real fucking stupid these four lines may seem
given that we were once closer than brothers.
just these four show i'm not who i've been
prepared to give my life for another

Poetry: THE STAGES OF INSANITY

Wed, 27 Feb 2008 19:16:23 EST

i was eating marbles
in the first stage of insanity
when it occurred to me
that the very fact that
this glass delicacy was bringing joy to my whole being
meant, in medical terms,
that i have entered the second stage
of insanity

"welcome" i said to myself
and chuckled, choking a bit
on the steady stream of blood from my gums

Poetry: WHEN THERE'S A NAIL IN MY SHOE

Tue, 26 Feb 2008 02:42:41 EST

when there's a nail in my shoe
i find it hard to run long distance

and if you'll ask "but what can you do?"
i'll answer hesitantly "reduce resistance"

we are not bullets in a flesh
nor are we ready to be fired

we're destined to exist as trash
until even for that we grow too tired

Poetry: thesis

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 12:24:23 EST

thesis, you beastly little wench
spread like scissors, moan like a wrench

ruin nights with thick secreted bile
like perfect breasts with vicious style

i crawl along your silky skin
with fearless claws, a child-like grin

trapped inside a screen's reflection
daring to pretend rigorous introspection

broiling slowly in jealous hate
from a young man's dream to graduate

Poetry: pleasant conversation

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 02:25:19 EST

oh lord the bleeding starts again
i just explained i was a man

and as the stars pray to the moon
you sweep the peace out with a broom

how many limbs do i have for cutting?
did you just ask me how i define "fighting"?

each syllable i thoughtfully initiate
swims past your crocodile jaw a flash too late

you're growing tumors in my brain
like delicate roses in the summer rain

i'm trying to work, amidst your roman cavalry invasion
holding the fort with desperate attempts at pleasant conversation

Poetry: he owed me money

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 02:08:56 EST

he owed me money
now he's paid

friendship (the bitch)
chose not to fade

through lengthy pauses
on wooden chairs

through jealous glances
dropped down the stairs

each penny i had given
became a sin never forgiven

Poetry: bank teller

Sun, 24 Feb 2008 13:24:16 EST

what a sad little joke it is
for a bank teller to barely hang on.
come see, the first of the month
in his eyes is a boiling storm

the hurricane winds of irony
carve wrinkles into his face
as he rests politely behind his register
like a porn cameraman's assistant

the security guard has his gun
the angry black lady has her extra large purse
the skinny blond college girl has her lipstick
and me, i have my drinking problem (and solution)

what does he have?
except immense skyscraper stacks of hundred dollar bills
enough to give a mortal man chills
if not for the eye of god forever watching

Poetry: cut up and salted

Sat, 23 Feb 2008 22:56:05 EST

cut up and salted
the catch of the day

driving back to philly
from the jersey shore

she will be missed this weekend
but not much more

a statue of the working-class protagonist
stands with an empty bottle on the porch

his synapses firing melodically
to the rhythmic growling of the intestines

what will it mean to sleep alone
for a man so long unhappy in his marriage

Poetry: the devil came to visit me

Fri, 22 Feb 2008 22:55:55 EST

the devil came to visit me
speaking of a flattened rodent.
both she and it were mine one time.
both i apparently abandoned.

my eyes had no will to confess
how many women i undressed.
caught naked, weak, and unprepared
for the love that wasn't there

how could a smile half-pretend
a man can be a different man.
she wasn't a believer
it cut her, but it didn't bleed her

the devil came to visit
her on a couch, me on a chair
drowning in the caricatures
of the love that wasn't there

Poetry: so much inflation

Thu, 21 Feb 2008 16:50:38 EST

god damn, so much inflation!
behind the dumpster of a closed gas station
i can't even afford myself a date.
down warm red wine and masturbate.

fly through the philly factory smoke
the am radio says country's broke.
in middle east they're killing jews
but not enough to call it news

the clouds are wet, the puddles warm
poor blacks are drowning in a storm
while rich white golfers hesitate:
to kill or not kill those full of hate?

each cemetery i drive past
is silent, so i hit the gas
fly through the philly factory smoke
and smile with ease at a forgotten joke

Poetry: you'll be the same tomorrow

Thu, 21 Feb 2008 14:46:11 EST

your head against the bathroom stall
bang it fast or bang it slow
doesn't matter after all
you'll be the same tomorrow

bleed yourself on a vacuumed carpet
bleed yourself on a hard wood floor
doesn't matter, not any more
you'll be the same tomorrow

call that number, dial collect
email quick or in retrospect
she won't care to reconnect
you'll be the same tomorrow

shave the stubble off your face
leave a thin careless trace
no one there for you to chase
you'll be the same tomorrow

Poetry: eat spaghetti with your enemies

Wed, 20 Feb 2008 20:50:01 EST

eat spaghetti with your enemies
and wait in trenches for the first mistake
then smile as if you're bonding
but be their with a spoon inside their chocolate cake

drive them back home under the speed limit
and touch their hair to say goodbye
no matter what, you must not smile
even if you have to use your mouth to lie

Poetry: russia, my motherland

Wed, 20 Feb 2008 13:54:15 EST

ah, russia, my motherland,
country of my youth,
home of the giants
and the language of truth

birch trees, god's spears
pierce the weak sky
like the spirit of our workers
ever willing to die

dam da da dam dam
dam da da dam
we finished the vodka?
damn, open the rum

Poetry: the etiquette of interaction

Tue, 19 Feb 2008 19:37:44 EST

tell me the etiquette of interaction
with a half-forgotten girlfriend
who might as well be dead
but on this evening, displays attraction

she is a lost and found possession
but one i wish you haven't had
was it so unbearably bad?
yes, she had no sense of fashion

what else?
she was terrible in bed
cow bells?
both over and under fed
oh hell...
every spoken word misread

Poetry: misshaved russians

Mon, 18 Feb 2008 18:13:36 EST

sweaty chaos on the sofa.
rusty chuckles spread like butter
across the faces, each one hotter
than the one that came before

one showed up a sunday golfer
and the next showed up a slut
shadow-ridden boyfriend with a gut
did someone really call her?

these home parties start politely
with one or two sarcastic comments
after the misshaved russians quietly
slip inside with vodka in both hands
what follows i don't recall, but likely
shots are taken, until someone takes a chance

Updates: Training Page

Sun, 17 Feb 2008 00:00:00 EST

Added a page which monitors some basic stats on various activities for myself and some of my friends.

Poetry: give me a chainsaw and a cheating woman

Sun, 17 Feb 2008 00:00:00 EST

give me a chainsaw and a cheating woman
and i'll write you chapter eight in a college ethics book.
where does cheating start though? how does cheating look?
i would ask the ones that know, but i wouldn't understand

wrap your neck with my heavy hand
and demand justice for the years you took
where does justice start though? how does justice look?
i would read to learn the answer, but will the answer be the end?

Poetry: two abandoned goldfish

Sat, 16 Feb 2008 00:00:00 EST

let's trade infectious diseases.
in which way would you prefer?

or do such question scare you?

the pressure of choosing
in the presence of lawyers
leads the weaker of creatures
to doubt, to misperform

are you just such a creature?

in fact, let me whisper a confession
that your fears are not unfounded.
with help, i have begun drafting
a lawsuit for this circumstance

is there a chance, you think?
we could be happy,
hands in tango,
spinning like toilet water
down into the abyss of ancient history:
two abandoned goldfish

Poetry: thick legs and a flat nose

Fri, 15 Feb 2008 00:00:00 EST

thick legs and a flat nose
are characteristics of a girl's boyfriend
who i would be happy to live the rest of my life
not knowing

but you would not guess this
if you were to watch my friday night behavior.
perhaps for valentine's you'll gift me kindly a sabre:
a thing for me to rattle other than my skull

Poetry: put my head in the stove

Wed, 13 Feb 2008 00:00:00 EST

in the empty glass, a fruit fly rested
dying as i licked my drying lips
with contacts out, blurry hips
emerged out of the kitchen

empty schedule, yet over-invested
undefeated boxer, badly-bruised ribs
easy-going gambler, running out of chips
my brain began itching

i took my time to say it's over
i even waited to tell myself.
put my head in the stove or
you won't inherent my monstrous wealth.
notice the wound? please begin stitching.
this is the last cigarette, please stop bitching

Poetry: i like it when it's made of chocolate

Mon, 11 Feb 2008 00:00:00 EST

i like it when it's made of chocolate
and not so much when it's made of shit
unfortunately which one it's made of
i won't know, till i take a bite of it

Poetry: the cyclic nature of this scene

Sun, 10 Feb 2008 00:00:00 EST

between the thought of "is it really so?"
and the thought of "it doesn't matter any more"
you'll find my lips locked to a bottle
with the rest of the clowns, bathing in pig stew

the touch of a small woman
always will end a small man.
i keep my knuckles on the coals in hope
that i am bigger than i am

the cyclic nature of this scene
forces an inescapable theme
for the poetry i squeeze out of my membrane...

will someone tell the idiots next door to switch from nas to coltrane?

Poetry: old piano keys

Fri, 08 Feb 2008 00:00:00 EST

i only love in retrospect
tip toe amongst conflicting facts
play rough with precious memories
as if they were old piano keys

1. i remember all the worst you've told me
while i look at a photo of you innocently smiling

2. i watch movies that you watched without me
while i was on your lap, drunk, snoring

3. i hold a knife, just as you held it
with strength not meant for cutting vegetables

4. i sleep alone with me inside you
with different history and different hair

what's then left besides pretending
with garbage rotting, friends complaining,
women lying about not lying,
i could just end it, but i keep trying

Poetry: one toy will make a child happy

Fri, 08 Feb 2008 00:00:00 EST

one toy will make a child happy
the second may inspire a squeal
the third, the fourth, and each one after
will gradually corrupt her soul

and yet, like predators in dry weather
the relatives each bring a fuzzy thing along
to buy the child's first genuine smile
with the world's first barbie doll

Poetry: two could unbuild the wall of lust

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 00:00:00 EST

on the moist soil, quiet, spread out
there laid a corpse with hair pulled out
with needle marks under the night sky
with rotting skin in short supply

her socks, half off, meant as a punchline
were taken in as a conclusive sign
that this was not a case to close
until revenge perspired repose

with haste, her parts were sewn together
and dragged through previously-described weather
up into the house from where she fled
unwrapped and throw across the bed

and there, they waited, on two sides of life
for a return from peace to strife
in hope that back amidst mistrust
two could unbuild the wall of lust

Poetry: the ice cube is crying

Wed, 06 Feb 2008 00:00:00 EST

the ice cube is crying
on its way down your back

loosen the rope, please
first of all, around my neck

will the drool from my lips
silence the wolfs around the moon

drag their ass home to find out
the story that they all along knew

warm milk creates a partner
as the blanket covers the winter fat

are we not like the gardener
that greets each new spring wearing an old hat

it's not the cold that froze us
and laid us out like bills in a fountain

it's comfort, romantic or desperate,
depends on how you'd tell a child of a mountain

Poetry: toothpaste

Mon, 04 Feb 2008 00:00:00 EST

each poem i write gets worse
relative to expectation
every girl i take to bed
i compare to masturbation

we all have seen the ocean waves
roll over the clumsy giant ancient stones
amidst which crabs in their frantic pace
between the abyss and bliss, find home

i squeeze out remains of worthwhile thoughts
like its a recently-emptied container of toothpaste.
blind, i'll be there, whether i want it or not
over our egos, where even warm whiskey carries no taste

Poetry: people that don't drink scare me

Sat, 02 Feb 2008 00:00:00 EST

people that don't drink scare me
as do the people not fearing death

go ahead, read these words, and stare at me
we'll see who'll be laughing after your last breath

probably neither, in a big city hospital room
you'll be with your three daughters on a thursday afternoon

hey, but maybe your god will be funny
and take me plastered to my doom

then we'll see who'll be laughing
on a thursday afternoon

Poetry: never seen something so big have you

Thu, 31 Jan 2008 00:00:00 EST

never seen something so big, have you?
it is truly marvelous indeed

but don't let it stop you
please proceed

Poetry: my innocence is a zit on gogol's nose

Thu, 31 Jan 2008 00:00:00 EST

what the hell do i know about women
except what i read in books
or find by a dumpster

my innocence is a zit on gogol's nose
can i propose then that if you're reading this
you meet me by a dumpster