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Author Archives: marcofreschi

About marcofreschi

I live in the Ocean and write poetry

You’re not in CHINA, you’re in JERSEY! Get a Jaab

I’m a student of the school

of suburban white-boy Buddhists,

just another incense-burning

prayer-flag floating

yoga posing

middle class-act who reads books on Eastern philosophy,

who wants to be something more than me

who uses internet search engines

to find out more about these cool ideas

that help me find myself;

I don’t even check my iphone

if it rings during my meditation!

I drink only imported teas,

this is real dedication.

I wish I didn’t have all this money

and this burdensome privilege,

I don’t think it’s very funny

that I’m stuck with this image,

Boy I wish I could leave it all,

this hate and this world and it’s hurt

and go live on some Tibetan plateau

in a totally rad little yurt

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Redefine my Mind

I don’t believe in God, but

someone’s out to get me

Some omnipresent menace,

some sinister Kaiser Soze

and if everything I’m doing

is for the Human race,

some pale bipedal mammalians

lost in time and lost in space,

maybe I can strike a deal

with this Devil of a being

and let this diabolic demon

give my life some meaning.

Here I’m sitting thinking

on the third rock from the sun

while the world is slowly sinking



Spectrum of Suppression

Drone-strikes for Jesus,

Heads for Allah,

and Missiles for Elohim

God sure is a thirsty bastard,

bloody old and grim.

Humans live such tortured lives

and have unparalleled capability

to destroy and hate

You have to give us something though,

Cause boy, can we create

What Do You See? (I heard it’s out there…)

Invisible people are everywhere (supposedly

living on invisible lands over invisible oceans)

There’s an invisible war going on right now, my invisible country

is fighting some invisible enemy.

In some invisible city there are invisible crimes transpiring

and invisible happinesses.

Invisible brides walk arm in arm with their invisible fathers,

and invisible beasts stalk the frozen invisible boreal forests.

An invisible girl

was kidnapped by an invisible assailant 12 invisible years ago,

the invisible police never found her;

Wow, the more I think about this…

All that really IS visible right now

is my desk, some books,

and this poem.



Wild East (a song I wrote)

Floating down these crowded streets, Lost in this wild, wild East

I’m the worn father of one, (some things are better said than done)

wish she was still around, but she’s gone So I

Took my clothes and my son

and I said ‘boy we’re gonna run,

All the way To that wild, wild East’


And though it may be hard to see,

we are living finally

Please son, don’t feel so lonesome

these food stamps Don’t mean nothing,

cause the Atlantic and the Hudson

are sadly gladly calling out

Our names.


‘Boy these steel and concrete mountains

and these Rockefeller fountains

Are gonna bring us back to her somehow

I know.’

but when he falls asleep,

and he can’t hear his daddy weep,

Warm tears roll down my cheeks

I never knew that we could be so alone here

at center of this entire

American empire,

my God I’ve made a mess

it’s just as wild as the West


I’m sorry son I thought that we’d have peace

in this wild, wild East


Poetry is when you find a windshield smashed with a baseball bat

and you smile,

thinking that the little pieces

look an awful lot like diamonds.

Poetry is when the seagulls

hung up in the night sky over the casinos

look like plastic bags,

Drifting on the dirty, gentle summer breeze.

You see, Poetry

is taking a breath on top of a parking garage

and closing your eyes to cry

where nobody’s going to stare,

and poetry

is thinking about what’s out there

What’s going on in every housing project,

and why is that man holding his face in his hands?


is not nostalgic,

is not a sexy boy kissing a perfect girl,

it isn’t using logic, it’s more


is just being able to stand

and look at yourself and at others and at the pigeons and at the world

and shed tears┬ábecause it’s all so perfect.

Poetry is being able to understand

That taking a child’s hand and walking down the promenade

is not just motions, it’s not just an action.

Poetry is realizing that every brick and nail that makes a city

was laid by hands that were once as small as those,

That every grain sand and piece of land on which we stand

is all the same;

Poetry is opening your eyes to the miracle

of the neon lights on a Corona sign,

seeing a squirrel for the first time

and living your life,

I don’t know how else to put it,

just write



I am Ozymandias, King of Wings!

Marco, the streetlights glow just for you!

Your smile makes the traffic signal change,

and your Eyes

are the two most beautiful puddles

I have ever seen.

I don’t wear designer clothes

and I don’t do my hair.

I don’t sit and write dumb shit

from a fancy high-backed chair.

Seated on a barstool throne

in a Hooters booth in Wayne,

I’m the son of suburbia

with concrete in my veins

And when all this is gone,

my legacy remains

in plastic bags

and empty Fanta cans

in the dump on Staten Island

or in the Meadowlands.


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