certain poems smell like rubber and lust,
bug spray and nostalgia.

certain poems smell like wrists and wishes,
while other poems smell like dicks and sounds.

certain times smell like certain poems,
with a splash of punk rock regret and NYC.

certain curtains smell like nights
left out in the cold with love and poems called Kendra Jean.

certain poems call for more,
with blood and leaving you all in mystery.

I am fine.
I am here.

especially saturday w/ hypocrites like me

watching boxing
in a house that is made
of spider webs and sin.

getting more and more
political these weekends
when anger is convenient.

takes a lot of work
and writing,
but makes a good distraction.

then again, 
can't eat brunch
and pretend to be mad at the situation.

doesn't bother me too much,
I am unworthy,
but in the midtown we dream.

betting on the spread,
and I sleep in m sunglasses,
because tomorrow will be patterns. 

Bird Jazz

kicked in the face
in the morning,
reminded of the real morning
and its sharp side. 

sweet dreams,
while your teeth 
are in the same crowds
as you are.

good luck
to the steering wheel,
I looked back at you
in time.

I am proud of you, no matter what.

How Athletic Are Our Fears and Foundations?

how do I go from anger to love?
how do you go from spinning to still?

our emotions as human people are intensely controlled
especially from within
that this switch seems so unnatural.

how do I go from shattered to confidence?
how do we go from scared to speaking?

I want to tell it like...
it's falling down the stairs.
In short, in reality, it is easy.

we are not given the tools
or the okay that this transition is okay,
but it is.
we are not told that being angry
or sad or happy is perfectly fine.
but it is.

it is okay to be you.
under your eyebrows,
and I dare you to be you,
unbridled and loose.

share something different tonight.
be brave enough to be angry
and okay with it.

Dan's Email About the Middle

I love this idea,
but I am not smart.

I am not a Steve Jobs.
I am more of an Owen Wilson.

I am only good at two
or three things, and air hockey used to be one of them.

God oh gods,
where is Howard Zinn or Hunter when you need them?

This Daguerreotype

held on wooden wall, 
hidden in streets,
seen in poetic beasts,
anticipating October
for auction of memory,
I am the silly picture of discovery,
yet still self absorbed. 

music for the age of minor miracles,
I hate myself,
but I love myself
each week
in a 200 hotel soundtrack,
minus the money.

where we go from here
depends on what our ears hear
and what clothes we wear
out there in the desert,
the place of life's guesses.

feedback for points of arrows
aimed right at us, 
as we already stand close to edges
of train tracks in desolate towns
where frowns outnumber faces,
but standing tall still seems possible
and I am stupid enough to try to recapture my roar. 


I am my own adversary.
I own the defeat in me. 
I fight the war in me.
I am my own adversary.

I am still...

The petrichor that permeates
your words,
even if I can't read them. 

I am still
the way it was.
I am a burning thing
inside us,
and us all.

what do I know better
than these walls?

The ones I have crawled,
created myself in red coal mornings
in New York and elsewhere.

Jill says 'Loneliness is its own continent'
and I agree,
even if you aren't alone.

better than required,
unrequited love...

I'm grateful for my poems,
my lonesomeness as much as happiness
however nascent, boiling under skin and dreams,
because it begs me to be my own spiraling,
thundering, waking, sleeping, living, dying adversary.

Just Be at the Delancey

Doing a poem.
Doors at 7:30.

Puma Pearl.
New York junk.
Lots of cursing.
DJ Emo Sam Harris.

Long from July.

No cover.
2 drink min.
I'll write your name in the mens room.

I Don't Care About the Eclipse

If I hold my hand in the air,
and block the sun,
is that an eclipse?

If a zeppelin
passes by in the sky
and casts a shadow
on my part of the earth,
is that an eclipse?

I mean,
who gives a shit?
It's not a comet or a UFO,
it's just a carefully positioned moon shadow.
Think about it. 

Name This Poem Yourself

I didn't write enough this week
and now I am in a borrowed living room
on a borrowed Friday night
without a borrowed muse
just watching tennis on television.

There is water in the remote
so I can't change it;
there are only Reese's in the fridge
so I eat them.

I resolve to use my hands
to make this hour grand
before falling asleep on the floor
and help me forget this consciousness,
with some good ideas.

What's the worst that can happen?
I die in my sleep and dream of heaven.
Which is one lottery, so I make a drink:
whiskey and pickle juice from the cabinet.

I turn off the tennis,
pull a book from the shelf
that doesn't have a cover,
flip to the middle
and start reading.

Mix CD, 85 Raise Friday Rays

1. If We Were Vampires by Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit
2. Can't Get Away (From the Way of the World) by Brandon Luetke
3. Cement by Citizen
4. Tired of Waking Up Tired by The Diodes
5. No Halo by Sorority Noise
6. Aphasia by Pinegrove

And Joe Hides

he says cunt.
she says lotus.

I say oh well.
potato tomato.

we all have things.
some more than others.

silent nerds.
hesitant to begin.

he goes uptown.
she goes to Brooklyn.

I stay in Union Square.
sit on a bench.

cigarettes again.
saying what it is.

bright lights.
and bullshit.

things will be things.
tired sirens in felt.

I Miss You Again

Putting together a book of lists
makes me miss lots of people,
lost loves and old friends,
but the hierarchy makes me
miss you the most. 

Neighborhoods under the lights,
we filter our hearts for good or strong,
and Ian is long gone,
but tonight's song makes me 
text other people.

I can't text you,
and we both know why,
but it's not Elvis Presley's fault,
but probably mine,
as if I needed a reminder.

So I go through it,
without neck around night time,
wondering if, knowing never,
but at least I put my neck out
and continue with confidence.

all hail the black dude who plays Hank Williams in the Bedford Ave stop on the L train

my eyes hurt like your landlord just ate them.
praise the lord.

I am an idiot in the world,
but I can switch kings, just like you
and your blindness.

chicken heads flock to me.
but these days
I try to swat them away.

it's raining in Brooklyn.

every body has a little darkness
in them: sorrow and such.
poetry sings it to them.

I am hungry.
and my leg hurts.
and I have heart burn.

I repair to working
on the script
in a neutral place.
Success is seven pages.

praise mistakes, dreams, worries
and this farm called forever.

a basket of current curiosities

why is North Korea so mad at us?
why does she block her blog?
why are there so many random, single shoes littering the highway?

do silent vacuum cleaners exists?
am I still cool?
who can remember the hurts of yore?

whose dog it that?
why am I always tired?
what was I gonna say?

where does the day go?
where did the years go?
why isn't Halloween always on a Saturday?

New York Amused

the worlds of comedy, design, and poetry
collide in a now-daily disturbing testament
on my new stoop as friends and fellow fuck-ups gather in wake.

all eating Spaghetti-Os
and drinking beer this day,
because that's all I had in the new place.

Bobby the screenprinter shows up
with his partner and a bag of blow,
thus ruining the afternoon and that evening's stand-up sets.

we all laugh at Liz
who is flashing her tits at Manhattan,
spilling beer in movie quote nonsense.

what else is new,
the blonde hack asks me.
nada, I say (but everything).

it's funny what we choose to say,
even to friends in a friendly environ,
and then I remind myself to write all this down. 

I'm amazed some of us are still alive,
but it's good to be back
in something new, it's good to be back.

My guys! Chuck and HST!

All Mountains Are Volcanoes

Why do I talk
especially to the sky
wondering why?

It cuts me down,
cuts me short,
six feet tall and that's all.

Who do I talk to?

Everyone is selfish,
including me,
so I get it,
but I wish it were different.

I will not outlive this,
so I just what to try asking why.

I am gonna sleep
in my car
and call it a night,
recollecting these cruel questions tomorrow.

My hands are bloody
and I am...

Tiny But Cinematic

My world is a single day.
Books and holy bullshit.
Tiny but cinematic.

I try to sleep.
But nights are beside me.
So I write in the dark.
Feeling romantic in my art.

Just like a tampon blood stain.
My impact is flushed and forgotten.
And I am happy with that outcome.
Memorable in the moment.
Moved to the misgiving pile the next.

I am just a dying fruit tree.
You are still my skeleton.
I guess.
Lay me down
And let me sleep in gossip dreams.

We all share the same same soul.
The end of the song.
Is the beginning of the butcher shop.
For heart nor night.
God, I hate being right.

an underground magpie

Love is a fit subject for summer sport.

Ask the movies, ask my motives
for two hand touch and go,
the latest She believes this, too.

fun in the sun and the sheets,
poems written while drunk,
tongues and folk music in the park.

we are both ghosts in the night,
gone in the morning after just two weeks
of necking. 

And that's okay, love can be limited.

The Heart's Deadly Everything

Thirsty animals
upon the Missouri Earth,
for it's night out
and I have a fat lip
for tasting from the female fountain.

I'm walking under a hawk
the next day on a nice stay
in a land of love,
and the TV is blowing
while drugs are growing
in my mind.

The gal is gone
and I hate my posture,
so I drink with dead poets
and my breath smells
like a medical instrument.

Delete the end of this shit
and listen to emo music
on the couch, a couch,
because life is short
and any couch will do.

Wear Me, Drink Me

Humid in heart,
every damn day I chase the shade.

The swan's far look
is disturbing me.

And the whale room
has my writing becoming wet.

Honesty is a commodity
this Mr. Months of June.

Yet two months ago,
my lungs realized this type of future furniture.

And you can come back
when we mourn the date of the day.

I'd offer you my hand,
but it will hurt too much.