This tree looked like a giraffe, saying "Oooooooohhh!"

when you talk about certain lives

especially the ones you've lived.
it's hard not to smell them.
or hear their music. 
like they are behind you.

hindsight is bullshit.
memories are supernatural.
loves are ghosts.
and now is the only thing.

remember that spring?
of course you don't.
but I remember when Obama.
was elected to a second term. 

and I bet you do, too. 
I wish I could smell that night.
visit it for an hour.
just observe like Scrooge. 

when you talk about certain lives.
especially the ones we've lived.
it is hard not to stand still.
and look at the river. 


dead snake

did you hiccup
when I jumped off the bridge
without knowing it?


thanks for all your everything

only bad hung
is I am on a serious deadline
for this LA gig.

and I upped the ante on myself,
booking the gig
for something that ain't done yet.

I grasp the responsibility of knowing
the stupidity of some of my readers,
and hopefully they don't notice
my own stupidity or my rush.

I don't care,
silent senators fear my editing,
there is no need for defending.

good where I am,
happy to keep pushing poetry forward.



the velvet dagger doesn't matter

happy that the Mets' new season win streak ended today.
now I don't have to hear Feldman talking so much shit.

need to buy a new pillow, because I spilled mustard on the other.
adulting is fun, especially when errands involve gangsters and sports.

after a productive little Saturday morning gonna spend the rest of the day.
just watching the NBA playoffs and meditating on the grey couch.

by meditating, I just mean doing nothing and not worrying about anything.
because the knife in my heart doesn't hurt but is also not going anywhere.

it's okay, I have learned to live with the sting.
I drop Ruffles potato chips everywhere and don't even bother to clean them up.


Cold Water, Pale Hoof

as a way to make this up to you.
I will shut the city down with a mic.
some wind.
and some broken windows.

I am so happy today.
and I wish I could share it with you.
but I am on the other side.
of this blockade.

woman, don't let fear make you afraid.
I gotta laugh at this.
and you gotta kill these outer lines like constellations.
even in the night sucks.

guitar solos save my ears for years.
and justice is my third name.
the future can still be ours.
but probably not.

look around, look for keys.
do you see what you want to unlock?
your neighborhood bones aren't slicing your heart.
portmanteau back to me, improperly.


damn fox

she walks by the office window
in a stunning black dress with white polka dots,
her sharp shoulders showing through slits,
and it is obvious that we are drooling over her.

she is taller than me,
because I slouch, especially in the hallway,
but bad posture be damned
when I pass her on my way to call another love.

she could be evil for all we know,
but my only hope is that someone
reminds her everyday
how great her destruction is.


I hope this works

every day, despite the poetry,
I hope this works, grabbing your attention,
and making you feel just a tad bit uncomfortable.

like you want to make this okay,
but okay it will never be okay,
so just communicate,

tonight is a good night on my end,
and I hope your end is spectacular,
but I also treasure your return to these shitty poems.


Long in the Gold Tooth

I'm sitting at The Lucky Bicycle Cafe,
drawing hipsters I see in my notebook,
and they are cooler than me.

I wish I were cool,
but maybe I wish I were young.

In actuality, these figures drawn
aren't even of the Hipster Generation,
they are millennia's and much smart than me.

I wish I were smart,
but maybe I wish I were young.

I order a latte from the barista who is gorgeous,
but I notice this in a different way these days,
because of how young she looks and acts.

I wish I were gorgeous,
but maybe I wish I were young.

I am not old by any means, let's get that damn straight,
but I am almost old
and that is worse than actually being old.


not a penny

her copper burns.
her temples kiss my sleep. 
this is zero.
but worth a mountain. 

between dreams and she.
I still see you.
dancing there.
like a figure skater.

it's not everyday.
that you fall in love.
like this. 
and I still can't shake this heartbreak. 



Listening to a Band Called Pela While Walking to the LIRR

I sign out of Google Hangouts,
because Franco and Eric are arguing
and I have no time for that shit.

I am too old
and too tired
to deal with Brooklyn back-and-forths.

My headphones are broken,
so the drum sound only comes round
every track or blonde girl with a backpack.

I pass parties I would've crashed ten years ago,
but I keep going to find
the rooftop in the village on which we made love.

Broken glass eats my elbows,
I write you-know-what on a wall where
broken hearts used to mend.

Kendra, I am sorry,
and I hope you know that
as I move on strong.


a picture of toast

in the middle of BroGods
and Jersey cunts,
I punched my beer
and slouched to the railyard
where I hunched with hobos
and drank the moon
in better company.


Later...

burning while brushing my teeth,
before battling the poetry reading,
I scribble in the condensation
on the bathroom mirror.

inside a taxi cab,
details and exhales,
I maintain a certain level
of detachment.

just as I see that one girl
with the butterfly tattoo,
I hope to myself
that you don't show.

then I read a poem that I wrote
the other day
while silently screaming on the rumbler,
something about sailing across the desert.


Cold Beach

as for the damned,
and those robbed hills,
I was looking forward
to seeing the horizon
just in time to save me. 

in the back of an Uber,.
seventeen months ago.
I took me to pussy,
myself to man,
and asked what are we doing?

sparklers over converse,
it ain't an American holiday,
not even close,
but I have a gig,
and I call George to destroy. 


Buncha Shit with Love

but you can't get this hug,
and I had a dream last night that
you had two kids and a soft drink.

I will never love another woman,
because heads and hearts skip like CDs or stones.

even if you turned to me
and wanted to give it another go,
I would tell you to fuck off.

you'll always be my main love,
but I am sorry, more so for all the relationships you've ruined afterward.

even Laura knows,
just ask her toes
how it goes.



La Forest

I am sorry for the things I said,
like loving you forever, etc.

What was golden will grey,
and I am suddenly shy.

Divide 35 by knocking down books
with the palm of your eye.

This is unlike the story
it was supposed to be.

I am still swallowing panic,
and you are still blocking your blog.

This whole thing makes me
feel like a French forest.

Now it's done,
watch it go.