Lisette

refresh my memory.
Did you used to read at Cornelia Street?
across from the oysters
in the basement with bad blow,
low ceilings and plenty of psychopaths.

I think I remember you.
you told me to shush
when I was yelling about the Yankees
and folk music to simultaneous bartenders.
Then we held hands in silence,
down an alley of our hearts.

if I remember correctly,
you disappeared

to have a baby out of wedlock
and dread your hair
in North Carolina.
I liked your poems
and your spirit
and making out with you in the bathroom
of Max Fish.

what have you been up to
and why now and why Instagram?
I'm doing well.
Still lost and never sleeping,
and I have written books
about both.
You may like them.

Sure, I will grab
a coffee with you next week,
but don't get any ideas;
I'm taking a break from love these days,
but we can fool around.


liuavbldfuib flsi elf khbdsflkucx

I need something.
I am walking through you.
I am carrying songs and art in my satchel.
I am in Central Park.

No matter what happens.
I love you.
and I love our time.
You can hurry.

I am at a loss.
something in missing.
something is here.
Something is loud and fun.

I am licking my lips
and going to sleep
on 81st and 1st.



Little Trees

I unravel before you.
Burning for the forest full of witnesses.
Life sure has its meaning.
Over years, I have postured the moon.
Now with my heart wide open.
Even farts were created by your god.

She can be sad.
Or she can be crossed.
Or she can be great.
Crossed arms and tender.
Behind battle eyes and bayonets.

We both dream.
Of Better places.
Where little trees live large.
We both settle in the search.
Tired of looking.
Just okay to touch root feet at night.



Moneys & Cookies in McGolrick Park

sleeping with one sock on
and jerking off while taking a shit
and listening to music
and texting Kelly about Keith.

I dream of hipster songs
and she dreams of the University of Arizona
and leaving me
but we both lick lips.

the world is ending
as the other broad waitress wrestles
my morning and my writer's mind
that never sleeps, only rests.

she ain't Kendra Jean
but damn is she good and sweet
sweet and famous
and she will do until she realizes.

they both ain't she
and I am running out of time,
all I have is money and chocolate
wasted want for whatever happens.


Zebra Rat

several days away
some way lady stole my stillness
and new book.

just ask my Eric
and his burning panic
that takes shape.

at the end
of love
we leave.

at the end
of leaving
we see beauty.

witnesses are gone
and slowly seeing limits
where I slouch in slicing life.


if you don't want to be a sad lion

the tall trees of Corning, New York,
find me thinking about the clouds
shape me.

in the way of nights
spent finding your Picasso,
I try to keep my beginners mind
and move my feet in defense.

2017 is almost over.
and it will be 2027 sooner
than we think, if we make it.

I leave with style,
breaking up with yesterland
and breaking tomorrow's heart.

the bus ride back
is taller than the whole congregation
and my chest is loud
because we all have our private wars.

no matter where,
hopefully who,
all else is fire.


The Light Shining From My iPhone

my claw don't hurt
water
yet you like music
but we never danced.

I get along
with you
but there was a time
and we aren't in it.

kissing mouths
full of flowers
and I miss her so much
from 2012.

I ate pickles today
and I am still burping
up flavors of dill
and knob knee legs.

all the edges
I will find in the night
will be sharp
just like you and our love.


Listen Loud, Feel Hard

I got 52 tattoos
two or three or four
are for you.

be proud
to be 
property on my body.

waves of slices
dances of wants
rocking back and back.

feathery locomotive groove
be my Sylvia plath
and I will be your oven.

read this poem
with your eyes closed
and be a friend of mine in time. 


From Donald Duck to Hemingway

silly poems kiss lips.
we are just memes and memories.
think about it.
remember it.

if you ever see me, just kiss me deadly.
we are just dreams and doldrums.
think about it.
remember it.

fun headaches for 88 People.
we are just joy and pain.
think about it.
can't have one without the other. 


6 Martin

blah blah blah,
I almost got hit by a car.

two of the three gals
I love the most
are married now,
so what do I do now?

the other one,
the main one,
doesn't want anything to do with me,
blocks me at every turn,
and she is the one I love the most.

and so I splash in the bath,
getting fat and hating hit chicks who smoke weed,
because they used to turn me on
but now they just make me mad or sad.

blah blah blah,
six more martins and I may die.


december in DECEMBER

tired and terrible,
the Manhattan Bridge
is aging and angry
like me
creaking with every car
that crosses its precipice.

my redemption is red
and rusty,
just like the nuts and bolts
of that saintly transverse,
which carries souls
which carry love.

New York City burns
and my body bleeds
down my belly
and into my boxer briefs,
memories leaking
down my pant legs.

I am a paper plate pilgrim,
listening to loud rock-n-roll in the kitchen
and I don't care how
you get from here to there,
not anymore.

I've crossed and burned many bridges
and dug many ditches,
burying beloveds beneath
because I have to keep going,
keep living, we all do.

cheers to many more Decembers,
because no one wants to die
in the middle of July.


Other Kentucky

my breathing stinks,
I can taste it living.
I get caught looking.

There has to be thousands.
Living it like your last.

I have to be the worst
person you have ever let
love you. 

maybe.

my dreams taste bad,
I can smell them
each night
like a creep. 

but life is a tasteful noose.

I want to sit on the porch
and listen to the radio
and sing along
without you
in my head. 

I miss you.
but you destroy me.
every morning.
when I take a shit.
and when I attempt to read your blog.
which is blocked.

I scream this.

but, it's my own fault. 
I should stop trying.
stop thinking.
stop listening to Switzerland 
every Friday for silent hope.

my chest is heavy.
and I don't know.
what to do.
anymore anymore.

I hate this feeling
of still feeling you,
because I want to move on,
but I can't dance differently,
because my forever future is still the past. 

anything that has a pulse is doing the same. 



Don't Put Me in Charge of the Snooze Button

resting next to a good gal
who has nothing to do next day,
I lay in wait and weight,
wishing for an exit or and exterminate.

she snores and I drink and type,
making one hell of a racket
well into the wishful morning
where cocaine dreams become Catholic nightmares, somehow.

enviously, I don't know
how her eyes are shut so solid,
because even the air condition
can't cool me to slumber.

kissing her for memories
and because I might disappear,
our hours disagree
for time and blood circulation.

cuddling happens because I am cold and bored,
but the tapestry on the wall is 2007,
and I want to flee for the sun,
but I want to fuck in the morning.

just when my eyes start to close,
for respite and reality,
the iPhone alarm notifies me especially
that this isn't working.

there is nothing I can do now,
but destroy her phone
while worrying about the rumbler
so my eyes will pretend to be closed for a year here.


Headless Wolf

an omen and a slice of pizza.
a car wreck and a comedy open mic.
my weekend has been full.
and wonderful.

what was your weekend like?
you faceless forever.
that which still stops.
my heart when thoughts so real happen.

romantic poems for no one.
no water, no patterns.
your loaf is over.
but you are big bread.

made for hotel nights.
alone by not lonesome.
simply burning the place I hide.
thick in Brooklyn.

the legend lingers.
and I finger the light switch.
shutting off everything.
even the hit and run.


Lately

my dreams are extremely cinematic
and the stars are random and real.

has your misery every been a sight to see?
has your happiness ever been hidden?

untitled nightmares are priests
in the synagogue.

unrequited love gets lost
in the color of closed eyes.

your image makes the nights worth watching,
especially when you visit me between screenings.

I want your hat,
a handshake and a gaze.

this winter, in a world,
shoulder crimes don't break.

neither do my bridges,
nether here nor love.