What I really want to do is buy
a bottle of wine and walk around
holding it by the neck, swigging it,
straight up and down, whenever I
feel like. I want to run a
thousand miles from everything and
pack all the people of the world in
to that place and I want the music
to be loud and the smiles to be big,

and the talk... Imagine the talk.


Dissimilar To Themselves

Beady eyes, pounding heart, constantly moving
behind the divide, always mumbling something
just loud enough to try and keep listening. Understanding
residing somewhere outside of this particular stage.
Moisture along the brow, running down skin to a stretched
and dirtied collar, which hands sometimes return
to, tugging along the circumference, while people
pass, stare, or ignore completely the volatile mass
of humanity they believe to be completely



Table cloth
made of real cheap tissue paper
with aluminum vices made
especially for use on picnic tables
That close to the lake, there was always a breeze
So it would still blow up
like the fish down on the beach
but we depressed it with many deliciously filled
Tupperwares and sandwich coolers that had shoulder 
and we always had a very good time



It’s alright,
really. If you want to scream and yell up
here. There’s no one around. I’m the only
person. Just be sure to keep the helmet on.
It’s the only thing keeping you and I alive.
Glass, yeah. That’s all it is, really, but it’s working.
As you can see. It’s beautiful. Ain’t it? The vastness.
To imagine all the light we see here has spanned
unimaginable eons, while we’ve been drifting
so effortlessly, without friction.


Friday Morning

Two young women, interviewing, I’m sure, at the medical
school on top of the hill. One in gray business suit, a little
too tight in all the right places. She’d asked at 7:02 when
the shuttle was going to leave. As soon as Gene clocks in,
I told her, pointing to Gene, the only other person in the building
wearing the shirt I was, as he walked in the door. Instantly,
she was gone, and she did not return until 7:15, asking where
the shuttle was. The other candidate came down about 10
minutes later and said to the first, did you show up late?
Shouldn’t be long, the gray suited one said, citing me
with a point over her shoulder. They stood there staring
into their own reflections on the pre-dawn sliding glass door,
waiting as though our shuttle would transport them to some
new place, something entirely unlike anything they’d yet known.


First Day Of Spring

Waiting for the sun warmed landscape, the colors
and the air, of spring, the energy to move
from one’s broken in nest out to the broken ways
the world continues each and every year

To fall with the rain from roof tops
to the ice cracked concrete and flow
through the streets of awakening cities
makes all the standing in snow OK

The whitewash is so vibrant in the grey
scaled mornings that imagining any colors
replacing its reflective sheen the most
wonderful dream, Sitting outdoors, driving

cars quickly with windows down and music
up and laughter and light and living and
I believe in the hope that hatches from this
frozen seed, to sprout and spread across communal

lawns, cling to bricks stacked and mortared
centuries ago, creep from basements and back
rooms into the long missed sun as that sky wide
cloud departs for its season of rest!


Déjà vu

Another strange instance where I feel
like I’ve done this before, that last time
it must have turned out OK or I would
certainly remember it, instead of having
this odd nagging that this time we may not be so lucky…


Answering Myself

I look to those who came before me
for some motivation, some inspiration,
any kind of idealistic spring board to take
(off) from, but I’m left with the same
answers they’ve questioned, the same
weight of cityscapes they couldn’t
place, that are still stationed before me,
without the might of some sprawling
tragedy, will stand long after I’ve stopped


The Hard Sell

There’s a lot
of room, enough
for just about any
thing you can think of...



Tomorrow through the required fields,
corn a few months out of season, half
thawed in the freezer, while application
fees cannot be paid online due to an internal
server error, the wobbly ease of tense jargon
for simple crimes begins its long awaited
phase from the conversation, distance recounts
the millisecond delay, noticeable only after
the adrenaline starts flowing


3 November 2011

This is that brand new house, too big and
suburban for this neighborhood. Hard to
imagine how much it went for, all snap
together plastic and the stickers still on
the window panes. Every light on inside,
without curtains, the whole family sitting
around the dining room table at 8:30 on a Friday.

This is that Jack-o-lantern, only two days
spent, rounding about the edges


For Whatever Reason

For whatever                            reason,
he keeps thinking of the word: ‘transient.’
The night is  dragging on.
His book melting  through his fingers
as the rain eats through the words
in the red, yellow, blue neon storm.
Shaking off the pulpy mush he thinks,
‘Shit. Now I have to wash my hands,’ and walks inside.


Busing From The North Shore

It’s cold as I climb to the
back of the bus. All the faces
of the city talking at once
right in my ear. So many open shirt
collars and loosened ties meandering
with wine, “How did he do that?”-ing
to shiny necklaces and
slender dresses that sip wearily beside
the shock and awe of Carson
painting Warhol with his ass, the sheer
disgust at unattainable brilliance,
the glimmer in the eyes of the old men.
I ghost through, pleased,
perplexed, tired, but the bus is pleasant
as usual.


Easing Back In '08

The world smelled clean as I walked out into the bright afternoon. The day to day droll of waking up and punching in to turn around, clock out and bed down had taken its toll and the sunshine was hardly a blessing, or pleasant. I had been as dry as the city for this last few weeks, so when it rained, I called around, but all I  found were leaky faucets, runny mouths. I’d get worried sometimes that, maybe, that was it. I’d bled all I could. I was finished. But no one lives forever, and that’s just too much time to waste.

It smelled like soap by the doorway and I found Jess walking in, as I was walking out. Jess, Ian, and Rob all lived on the first floor. Three young men under the stairs, staring the night time down like a mean dog in a pack of lethargic wolves. Their growls raising up to our third floor safe house. I could never speak ill, with a longing sigh, even when there was no sleep at four a.m. on Tuesday mornings. In our passing I asked Jess how it went. He said, “Fine. I’ll see ya around.” That made me laugh on my way around the corner because that porch was the only place I’d ever see him. The trees finally looked green in the early summer sun.



Inspiration in sensations of the higher plane
Visions of faces in imaginary places
making sense of inceptions in the back of the brain
A beautiful clot in the drain of the day
The so-called necessity divides work and play



I love this cold. The earth dying as far as I can see,
and if anything survives, there will be another spring.
There will be another fall. Action is for the mindless,
the uncoordinated in the handling of possibility, but
shit can only roll down so far before it begins to pile
back up, before the roots start to take hold in the soft,
nutrient rich leavings of the dead, and there are
as many “living” now as there ever was in the entirety
of “before.” That’s a lot of mulch to be had. A lot of
shit to feed on. It’s time to blossom again. To reveal
our true nature in the light. To finally begin to feed on
more than the shit they let fall on us, bury us in these
decades of dormantness, lost deep in the pile. The time
has come to turn our faces toward the sun and bask in
the life we receive from it. To look out and past where
we’ve come from to the true nature of where we find
ourselves. To begin again in the understanding of what
has been handed down to us and what it is we see and
what we truly believe in. What they’ve left us is dead.
It’s their waste, and we’re just wading in it. We can’t
wait too long or else we'll up and decompose along with it.


Granted Anything Comes After

Imagine the plastic husks
                  of unfathomable future
                  humans. In the acres
                  of discarded, meatless trinkets.
Uncovered in unimaginable
                 numbers! What or why?
                 How possibly? They cry!



So a cell phone salesman
walks into a bar and
the bartender says
“We have domestic drafts
on special for $2,” and
the cell phone salesman orders
a #9 and opens a tab
on his debit card.



Rabid attempts
to relive the thrill
of living. That shaking
anticipation of not knowing what to expect.
Rapture like a shudder out from the spine.



The Classic Swindle

Medicine shows, door to door salesmen,
telemarketers and spam emails, now
the major corporations have signed on,
giving some credibility to the schemers.

If we can call them that. This kind of
technological fraudulence has a sinister
undertone thanks to our modern era’s
obsession with the idea of money.

At least when the man in the nice suit
took all your cash back then, you could
still get a job to earn it back.



What is that hanging
in the air? The humid
lounging of lazy summers,
battling to sleep late,
shifting days to daylight,
stealing moments from
vacation’s lament of lounging,
poundings in the head,
hounding for a message,
a moment, anything
to know that the feeling’s
not dead, when we all
know it is. Not noticing
instances surrounded only
by dread, holding out for
visions that no longer come
if the lamps are lit, soldiering
for wages like the camp’s open,
modern blows from living in
these days of long pants, strong
hands molding clay, on only
the off chance, the pot has replenished
itself like perennial, watered plants.


Each Time

The active regeneration of cells,
like egos, like relationships, like
routines. Like cities and structures,
each time sure it’s better than before,
each time already forgotten what before
ever was Each time
Each time



A tiny red and green spider walks over
the edge of the table, pausing on the vertical
eave to feel around in my cigarette’s alluring
exhalation with its fingerless hands. I lean

in to take a closer look, and despite my
colossal weight advantage, I take heed as
it rears, putting its dukes up, warning
of such personal invasions. I sit back.

Along an invisible path, the spider climbs
to the top of The Town and The City, before
I take it by the web and toss it into the oceanic
expanse of the grass.



She walked out of the A-Plus already
in hysterics. I saw her as I pulled in
to the only open gas pump, right in
front of her. She plopped down and
pulled her knees to her chin right next
to the ice cooler. She was either unaware
or unconcerned about the shortness of
her sundress. Even before I turned the
car off, with the music at the obnoxious
summer volume I was playing it, I could
hear her sobbing words. I got out and
began to pump my gas, but I couldn’t
understand her any better. A boy came
out of the store and consoled her immediately,
adjusting her posture to achieve some
propriety. I was trying to not watch
too intently. She kept repeating something
about $180 or a missing purse. With her
petite frame and exasperated, sunken face,
I couldn’t figure if there was any real problem,
or perhaps if it was all the side effects of
a poorly planned dosage. The boy gave her a cigarette,
as the meter rolled onto my $10 limit, and
the silence was momentary before an errant
exhale erupted into a brash and choking wail.

This whole time, two well dressed guys had been chatting
like old friends on the non-pump side of the car in front of me,
unphased by the noise, unconcerned with the happenings.
I finished my transaction, thanked the gas pump for thanking
me, and snaking the car past the outstretched legs of the poor girl,
I pardoned myself to the guys through my open window. You’re good,
the closest one said, not flinching a bit. I took one last glance
at my passenger side mirror to wonder if the world in fact
was so terrible in that place, at that time, and turned the volume
back up to where I could stand it, to enjoy some wailing of my own.


All At Once And Once Again

The coming together of other entities
The matching energies around dead wood
The exchanging of labels, the raise of chemicals in
the brain, The comfort of society
The comfort of company on summer nights


Hold Up

It was noisy. Not noisy enough to feel comfortable talking, but that’s not what this was about.
“Sarah,” he called from his stool like a snake, the kid I bummed a smoke to already. Richmond, he’d said then.
“She hit me,” the guy left of the girl at one of these round tables, awkwardly, like there were two others I didn’t notice. “She hit me a couple times.” The girl moved form the condensation of her light bottle to the resting elbow of his arm. “I knew what you thought. I didn’t punch her. I wanted too…” He trailed off in his recollections, finishing in tones I couldn’t hear over the speaker behind me, but he motioned with the butt of his wrist toward his own nose. She said, starting in a laugh, “What are you thinking?” They both stood as she finished off her last swig, and they left.
I went back to reading the closed captions of survivors of the world’s latest premeditated tragedy. How easy it is to blame the individual when these things happen. Imagine if someone along the line, anyone, had given that guy a paintbrush, or a flute, or, Jesus, a pen even. At least then he could have developed some kind of apath- Excuse me, empathy.
The squeaky voice of an understanding female broke my view of the scrolling words, “You do make a difference.” It spanned octaves with an invented rhythm. Maybe he was trying to be a teacher. But by the time my eyes got there, he was standing, her arms around his neck making him (feel) better. This wasn’t about touch, or emotions either. This was about something far more complex. Something far more irrational. I look a quick once over the place, everyone seems personally involved, as the healer breaks her hold, but not her gaze, saying, “I love Chevy Chase.” I turn my attention back to the television.
“His was a war that was going to be waged with words after he was arrested.” The expert said. Apparently. I’m unsure if they’d give the perp his chance. At least he’d found a forum the general public paid attention to. Although the irony of “Crusader” seemed lost on the media’s purse strings. That’s almost what this was about. Me, looking around, to see who’s noticing. Not too many people. Although I was the only person there alone. At least, the only person not engaging anyone else. No one seemed to mind. It shouldn’t take much longer. 
“I’m sure next year’s camp will be the biggest ever.” The interviewed owner said, credits running on his lapel. I’m sure he didn’t run a free getaway. I’m also sure he was not thinking about that. He’s thinking about his liability. If only america was so free. A red hat walked in. No. Odd. America can loose ten or fifteen people a day, that’s a bar sitting historical average, but as long as it’s somewhere else, we don’t actually see it. That’s kind of what this was about too. Twenty one people see it, a major metropolitan neighborhood says, “That’ll never happen to me.” Like poverty. Or complete socioeconomic collapse!
Before you get any crazy ideas, this is definitely not about murder. Nothing personal. People think they matter, until they’re a number, which they assigned you at birth, so you can retire, we think, affording the liberty of golden years from all our ‘work’ paying in. That’s not a crazy idea, it’s a solid plan. Sure. We had a solid plan here tonight, if only this fucker shows up. Mice and men. This is about irony.
He was ten minutes late and the place had exploded. Lord knew if I’d be sitting here when the time came. I could have just disappeared into the crowd, ditched the apparel, drank some liquor, maybe taken what was in my pocket and bought a ticket for anywhere west of Youngstown, started fresh, started clean in those woods the government preserves until they need them, some call it camping on the weekends, we have no idea where we came from, that’s what this is about, a little bit. Where’s your responsibility in society? I was only doing what I was told too. But I was the only one there. At twenty minutes, I notice no one was smoking name brand cigarettes, if only we could can our own beer, film our own movies, create our own creations, our own lives, we ca- Yes. Red hat.
“Hello everyone.” He said very loudly, eerily calm, just inside the door. I remembered there was music playing. I grabbed the green cap out of my bag and fashioned the veil over my face and in my shirt like my partners. “We’re here for money,” he noticed the cooler, “and two six packs of Red Stripe. That’s it. Now get out your wallets!” 


Good Sense

It echoes so far, sound
does, not as far as light,
but not as local as taste,
and still I can process all
three. Although, I may not
like what I see, or hear or
smell, there’s nothing
to be done about them, so
I may as well enjoy it.


Always There

Always moving,
always in transit, always
something next, one more
thing to look forward to, another
day to make some money and
spend it on food.

Always everything I need right here,
always the world as it was, still
near by for those moments
of extreme modern lament,

right? Not like they’re there,
right outside, or on my way to
work, or explored on days
off, but others do, so it’s
vicarious in beer filled evenings
at the corner stop


Popular (History)

Can you imagine that all history
inexplicably was aiming for
  Right Now!
   To be witness to it!
       Ever! Even with the staggering
numbers of humanity, to be allotted
a chance to view
and to feel, and love and hate
and loathe, and loose!
To internalize away the necessity
of loss in physics!
The emotional misunderstanding of
Each grade school home work
assignment a genocide
on the universal trance of sameness


Too Long

Time too long, anxious.
I don’t want to be early,
but sitting here is so damn tough

There must be
something doing
right now
So tight right now
Each second making the most
of its position
good fortune.


Part 2: The Key

Stepping out in strange habit,
turning the dial on the knob,
realizing, only after hearing
that latch click, what I’ve done.


Part 1

            He stepped onto the porch, smiling a cigarette in his lips, jacketless and comfortable, and took a seat on the wooden chair by the door. He lit his cigarette, dragged, and held it in his fist, looking at it as he exhaled. The fast paced music inside was moving easily through the screen door, and it found him, suddenly, in his nodding at half time, leaning back, looking over his raised view, feeling very satisfied.



The essential shift
Eternal motion of tectonic reality
Revolutionary existence shimmering
                        on the heat drenched plane
Motion of matter through time
Subtle rippling of 360 degrees
            Odd dominion
                                    Strange parameters,
            Rooms hidden in walls
            Burrows in the soil of a living planet
            Shelter once again in the womb
            Peace in total acceptance of
                                                the past
Livelihood for the sake of living
            Ecstasy in the intrinsic essence
                                    of the sublime
            Undeniable even now,
                        Most obvious,
                                   So lost
                                    So left behind,
            Bitter release of the runt’s litter
            Turning away in the most tender love,
            Realization of necessity in realms
                        misplaced cognition



What a tremendous fog outside,
can’t see either end of the block,
but the mist moves so quickly

            under the street lights.
What wonderful clarity of old VHS,

makes me wonder what the difference
was. Why bother recording the present
if the future is already incompatible?


Labor (Fruits There Of)

Sheets stained, tossed floorways
never to be washed, read over, thought
about again, as the rush to ruin

more drags wallets through the machine
in linten pockets of dusty denim, mashed
up and pulpy, to be found, carefully

unwrapped, only to be discarded from
frustration, along with the piles
of perfectly readable pages.


Lover, Like The Earth

We, lover, like the earth touch
Below royal blue patterns
Tender moving textures
A medieval temperature
A message below the skin
Freeform sculpted plaster
Vitriolic outburst
To shock to fuss to cast a spell
A generation laid out
Desiring a garden maze
A variation on magicians, christians, and dudes



Waking up in a field
of flowers opening
            to the sun.
No one’s sure
            if it's feathers
            or snow
but something’s falling
all proud,
            with a angelic
            like maybe heaven
            is real
                        and maybe it's right 


Working '07

And I hear telephones in my daydreams when I'm not at work
But I enjoy myself sometimes and it scares me
Life shakes his head when he hears my song
And the glint off his jade medallion hurts my eyes
But sometimes I dream when I'm asleep
That we always were good friends
And the pain in my head is just my ideas dying to get out
But they scream so damn loud my ears bleed
And my eyes roll back
When it’s like that I can see them sometimes, those ideas
And we talk about what they can do
But the closer we get to an agreement to cool them off, shut them up
The fucking telephone rings and I'm back at work



Tired, torn asunder, uninspired eyes
holding hope in tiny drips on pillow casing liner

The sky’s still wide on its shortest side
The skyline tied in knots

The mind’s design in time denies the trial of these drops


Of Mind

Too many late nights, along
with too much remembering, make
old words confide new
meaning into the nights
we all forgot.
How much we knew
and how much we
didn’t think to care.
Nights, these days, when
we're too tired to live,
breathe needles into
the fading memories
of our lives when
they were still ours.
The needles settling into our
arms and legs and hearts
and make us gruff at
9 pm for 7.25 an hour.
Punching out for relief
that still comes in
swigs and puffs
but with real reason
to forget and real
loneliness to subdue.
We've all learned
the map now. We've all
seen the way. We've all
fought and fought for a
path of our own, but
they all lead us to the
same dead end alley
in different cities
in the same state of mind



I saw Mr. Jack
on television
            reading from
his commercial
and my modern
made me cringe.
                        As I watched
            the broadcast
            set to the heppest
                        jazz sounds
            I cringed.
                        Where is the validity?
                        Where is the reality
                                    in sitting on tv
                                    and pushing product?
                                                I thought.
But as the segment concluded
            and the cut to break
                        was counted down
                                    on silent hands
I watched his face
            and he did not look up
                        from his words.
He sought nothing
            from the tv host
                        the studio audience
                                    or the lit camera.
He kept his work open
            and his eyes on
                        his voice
as if he knew the difference
            between telling his story
                        and selling it.



anything else other than desperately trying
to dig myself out of this oddly, sudden hole,
I leave it to the powers that be, the coinflip,

pickahand of willitrain, or not, disappointed
with my indecision, certain the sting of each will,
wishful, watching the curtain move in the open

window, hopeful for any sign of forced entry,
hearing only the up tempo chatter of the care free
blaring like crows signaling day break,

gut wrenching laughs in the hold it in sense
of waiting, the punchline welling up in our stomachs
for years, like beers, why can’t it all be so plain?


Lamenting '07

And I hear telephones in my daydreams when I'm not at work
But I enjoy myself sometimes and it scares me
Life shakes his head when he hears my song
And the glint off his jade medallion hurts my eyes
But sometimes I dream when I'm asleep
That we always were good friends
And the pain in my head is just my ideas dying to get out
But they scream so damn loud my ears bleed
And my eyes roll back
When it’s like that I can see them sometimes, those ideas
And we talk about what they could do
But the closer we get to an agreement
The fucking telephone rings and I'm back at work


Desk Work '08

            A familiar truck pulls up and takes a familiar amount of time to get situated.
The doctor lady in 504 just called down complaining about the piss and shit in her toilet, the layers of dust on her desk, and all the pubic hair in her bed sheets. They teach us to take responsibility. I don’t do that anymore. Empathize, apologize, take responsibility, they say. I take responsibility for my own shit. If I fuck up, I take responsibility.
            I offered to move her, cause even when Paul got back, I knew he’s wasn’t gunna clean it. I was surer than hell he wasn’t doing that, but she was all ready for bed, and moving her stuff down the hall was too far to go. She laughed when I said that housekeeping’d gone home, and that I was literally the only person who could do anything, but, unfortunately, I was unable to leave the desk. That is, at least, until Paul got back from the 8 o’clock run. She thought she’d got it bad.
            “I’m going to be staying here,” she started, “a lot. And with the surgery I’ll be having, they’re working on my eye next, I cannot be around a lot of dust.” She had been in a car accident. She told me that when she checked in. She also told me about the surgery on her eye. I hadn’t asked.
            These folks just like to let you know.
            I wondered if she realized I was the same guy, but she continued on about how sometimes this place is nice and sometimes its crap. I tell her I understand and I’m sorry, but at that exact moment, if she didn’t want 517, there was nothing more I could do for her. She volunteered to clean the bathroom herself. Then she hung up. I only charged her $50.00. Before taxes, of course.

            Ms. Coasten’s still sitting with Lil’ Bob in the truck right in front of the door, counting out 5 dollar bills. 


Rucky Schmucks

Two cats in over their heads
sit talking over two tables
with their dates getting bored
quickly, interjecting more and
more often less and less
significant one liners.


Long Time

The quick talk kicks in
            its been a long time
                        since I’ve met up with him
An ‘e’ to end every line
            A memory to destroy
                        every mind
It’s been a long
It’s been a long
                        long time


August Monday

Home movie memories of lives we’ve
                left behind. Look out of the
picture framed portrait right into
the mirror. Burnt out bathroom
light bulbs, bloodstained bathtub
                love in full bloom

Life likes to be tricky. Silly is
god’s sense of humor. The irony of
karma. The ebb and flow of the cosmos.
Luck lies in

                little shards
around broken window splinters
so small, so sharp that even
picking them up leaves hard hands
stinging and bloody. Bumpy walls
are too hard to put a fist through
when the world
                                                to step

on your chest. Breathing’s easier
after you pass out. Breathing’s easier
when there’s smoke inside.
                living is easier while your dreaming
but dreaming’s tough with life around

These days leaving for work
is a breath of fresh air
                Just because I have to walk
Just because I have to
       Just because
When did the road curve?
                like waking up, strapped in
head throbbing, resting on the powdery airbag
like her breasts
When did I lose sight
of the path?
                Where were the tracks
and when did I miss the
Is there anything out
side this snow globe?
                Anything other than this
  comfortable christmas
                mantle piece?



These moral projections flash over me
Like an old time movie, black and white
And jumpy and over heating and
Ripping in half with a thum thum thum
And burning the theater down



Find focus
Not this scatter bombing

“Art is not chance
Unless by chance
(“I’m banking on luck,
                        this city,
                                    my looks,
                                                and not giving a fuck.
{“By the way, I stole this riff”}”)”