Monthly Archives: September 2014

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 because 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.

To Somebody

You think I don’t see those track marks from crank,

I can’t see that your hungry eyes have sank?

Keep trying to hide behind excuses and lies

and it’ll show you why you’re twisted up and broken inside;

You want to shoot it up your veins?

Some Mexican mud inside your blood

gonna help you kill that pain?

you put a demon in your body

to murder your family while you watch,

so now sit back on the couch and relax

to that smackety smack smack

with your eyes rolled back

and hot vomit on your shirt

Thinking you’re less than dirt,

so what’s a little more gonna hurt?

5 bucks for a bump of that dirty brown,

A little bit of white right from Chinatown?

It’s not too late to flush that tar

and even though it’ll leave a scar,

that’s better than another dead kid in her car

You can do it and I love you,

so please

don’t give up.


Just read it in the news, Atlantic City’s going under

Where’ll all the addicts go? To Pennsylvania somewhere

I don’t know what could be sadder Than watching a city sink,

Sliding beneath the waves Of that green eternal drink

Walk out on the Steel Pier, 3 tickets for the Ferris wheel

And it stops all the way on top

Feel the breeze pass through your hair

And as you sit up there and stare

at what this place used to be,

Can’t you see

what it means to me?

Never mind, because to you

It’s a rundown town

filled with whores and dirty bars.

To you, it’s skanky streets and public housing,

cheap souvenirs and dollar-dogs.

You see the homeless sleeping underneath the boardwalk

and you want to leave

the 72 cent underpants at the Super 8.

You want to get away from this place,

the broken needles and the pain,

the casino commission and the crackheads.

Now the lights are going out

along Atlantic Avenue,

and the doors are sealed

With the boards they’re being nailed to.

Governor says we’ll make it through,

but I don’t know if he knows what to do

so there goes another city,

Sunk into the sea,

I wish you understood

what this means to them and means to me.

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