Author Archives: marcofreschi

About marcofreschi

I live in the Ocean and write poetry

cups of coffee are for the end of the world (& late nights.)

late night again, New York this time drip coffees on in the kitchen And the news is on the radio Fold the times, too tired to read those headlines how many tears can a people cry? Because its not 73 but Wounded Knee is happening right Now & Black Churches burned in the name of the david dukes, the donald drumpfs and the muslim fear Isnt it clear that we’re in danger, Threatened by the spanish language, The melanin thats in our skin The Get back, Stay Out! The idea that women can have a voice, that Indians can sit & pray, that sons & daughters arent Afraid to tell their parents theyre gay That the poisoned school drinking water in newark & flint isnt enough to embarass the government- whats my place and where do i fit, an identity in an age of Millenium children & gen Z kids turning change into businesses, glowing screens and computer keys Lethal weapons to a once easily manipulated herd Now heard by teenage girls who are proud of their period blood, Who find strength in each others sisterhood

So here i sit with coffee in hand, The lonely white straight American man, do i get tattoos to break from the mold, a ring in my lip, a pierced nose- whats my responsibility, my role? As i grow i come more to see How it is that people come to be, the ignorant who choose to be & make wide a divide that starts at an early age, economic background education & race, mindsets that result from a laziness and stubborn refusal to change from where change begins The good old boys who are stuck in an italian-american world of north jersey auto-repair, Where a fags a fag and thats that; So where am i at? Marco the fish monger, are you sure youre not just another drone, 1.99 for fish bones, fillet the striped bass, am i more than all that? read them books while you drink that coffee, dont sit quiet when you hear shit and sit silent Be concious of your privlege when you gut them fish, And dont take anything for granted Love life and be nice, accept change (in the tip jar of the world) and pump out the good vibes And even though its hard to remember sometimes amidst the scales & shrimp shells Youre just as important  as everyone else

Cups of coffee drunk late beneath the familiar orange glow of a streetlight can save a life Is it the end of the world, Or just the night?


the wide world (go have a look, see what you find.)

there’s a guy I work with who doesnt know when to keep his mouth shut, & sometimes he talks some stupid bullshit that makes me want to knock him on his ass. A friend told me to let it go, that hes still young, he has a lot to learn, And a lot can happen in 3 years.

A lot can happen in 3 years-

& i thought on that & I thought to myself That A lot can happen in 3 years, A lot can happen in 3 years- when Steve grew up, South Side Chicago, 14 years old & he’s a father, a lot can happen in 3 years 3 years to live, 3 years to learn, & time always has a toll and

nobody passes for free

Because i know that the gun was in brandon’s mouth When the cops showed up at his house, Flashing red & blue lights filling the dark room where he sat on a bed, Eyes closed & ready to live in 3. 2.

  1. A lot can happen in 3 years, i thought of what Bobby had said when he stared into the fires glowing coals, & told us what happened that night in North Philly when he grew up, The night his mom got shot Still searching for her sons, the abuse he took, the things he had to do to survive & he doesnt think he can ever go back to that city, & even though he ran all the way to california White scars on his head & that stripe his back make it hard to forget that A lot can happen in 3 years To the sexually molested Anorexic as she shook in my arms And in that moment she wasnt a woman She was a girl, who threw up every meal for 3 years, Who looked at me through the film of tears, The tears that said A lot can happen in 3 years, A lot can happen in 3 years Dante said In his games of Chess, when he Won game after game & i told him he was good, He stared at something else & If he could go back he’d rather be bad at chess & have been there for his son But whats done is done, And 3 years                                                     is plenty of time To play chess.

A lot can happen in 3 years, & i thought of Pedro who came from San Diego, used to bounce clubs & sling dope, small-time narcos, Until two of his friends Caught bullets in their heads, 20 years old & no amount of money is going to change that end-

A lot can happen in 3 years Is what i thought that night that we watched the Northern lights, shivering in underpants on a rusty fish cannery roof, No shirt & rubber boots, the men that lined the old railroad track, their heads leaned back & it was quiet, Those lights Showing us our past, & maybe for some Whats to come

A lot can happen in 3 years, thats true

but maybe I’ll punch him in the head tomorrow

& he’ll learn a thing or two.


indefinite definition (vivi la tua vita.)

life swirls in Styrofoam cups of coffee

drank in through cracked lips & yellowed teeth

life twinkles in the distance,

flashing red bulbs above cell towers

stared at from highways on nights without sleep.

life is in the smile Of a waitress in the diner,

3 am cigarrette break & tips are all she has-

life lives in the tears

of every single divorced dad.

the same life that lives in leftovers,

tupperwared & saran-wrapped,

comes out your other end in the piece of shit you shat.

life is in the bottles That you’d smash to pieces with your friend

And life is really what you make it,

you’ll find out in the end.


life on the roof of the world (life everywhere?)

a little magic is gone from the world when

Eskimos doing blow

call women cunts in their tents,

blood-red eyes &

toothless grins

as they slap you on the back

& expect you to join in.


midnight on the interstate (& i didnt feel so great.)

sometimes i sit alone At night in a tent

with me, myself & the smell of my own ball-sweat

critical thinking & adventures in solitude

love company sometimes, if only just a text-message

from another guy

books i’ve read

& thoughts ive kept

within my head

are hard to get out

when i dont want

to open my mouth

One time a woman told me

im a smart person

& those words brought tears to my eyes

which sometimes i squeeze Shut

& im in the Liberty Science Center in a sleeping bag

with a sleeping dad

6 years old & Jersey City couldnt be more magical

I open my eyes & im in a sleeping bag,

side of the highway

gravel crunches as i shift

its cold & i

squeeze my eyes again,

trying to get back-

 

i never thought that im smart, & i never said im brave

maybe i never said those things

because im really just afraid.


America (the land, the people, & what marco thinks.)

Lonely young American man Born & raised in American land

Hair gown long & skin is tan

born with the name American

sees the world through red, white,

blue

the land of the brave, the free,

the few.

 


hitchhike fright night (for the native women of the yellowhead highway.)

you can hitchhike all night

in the land of the midnight sun

stick out a thumb and trust someone

but know that

women

dont hitchhike

on the Highway of Tears.


big world (small marco.)

Marco mans a little lost Without the dinerboys and the union boss, Italian kids in leather jackets, parking lot nights & streetlights that glow through the dark of New Jersey, the stuff we used to know, The Cups of coffee and pretty girls we never spoke to, K-Mart crushes long gone, concrete basements where We shared dreams not drugs, and talked about the kids we graduated with, How somehow, some of them made it, Our worlds were so small And we never knew that the world was so big, We never knew that it didnt end at Manhattan But I guess nothings the same as it was except the tattoos & the scars, Cause chainlink fences come down, and people sell cars.

Sometimes I think though, How did i get here? Where’s the world I used to know? Cause the one I’m in is pretty big, and it’s easy to get lost.


beloved by god.

Float like a Butterfly

sting like a bee-

his hands can’t Hit

what his Eyes can’t see

The greatest ever

in death now free

the brave the strong

Muhammad Ali


slam ii. (work in progress)

From my understanding of the Situation I’m the product of the George W. Bush Administration, The “Afraid of Iraq and Iran” War on Terror in Afghanistan New Generation of young men & women dying for old-man’s Wars, weapons of Massive destruction MASSIVE lies which led to lost lives, liberty, and the expansion of capitalism So now The NSA has my information, Jack up police militarization Across America, For a nation We see As exceptional, We Are Exceptionally racist, Founded on unrecognized Genocides Then built up high by the blood of Slaves, then institutionalized By policies and legislation woven in Intricately inseparably dividing People, Racial divide leaving scars that won’t Heal and open wounds as large as wealth gaps that still bleed, Don’t Shoot, Hands up, Black Lives Matter and so do Facebook shares and social media spreading information telling us This is Happening, This is Happening Woah This Is NOT OK ok? Media talking heads spit shit that make heads spin, the “BE Afraid, We ARE Afraid, Security, Security Fear Muslims Mexicans and The War on Drugs is a total success!” (pipe-lining poor people to privatized prison Systems Where they’re set up to fail So that the money keeps flowwwwwwing) And that’s Normal! Pharmeceutical cartels driving prices of pills uP While docters perscribe addictions, Corporate interest groups sitting in government seats & Lobbyists passing policies, WHAT UP CAPITALISM, YES The National defense budget is a trillion dollars per year and people are starving to death down the block and live lives in fear, Fear for their bodies and fear for their children, and THAT’s

a little bit fucked up to say the Least but normalized police presence and white supremacists running for president Are the world WE’RE living in, The one that’ll be inherited by the first children of the New Millennium (that’s me, that’s US) so stand UP Speak UP, poets and People, white Asian black Latino American people, Are we a product of what we’re seeing? Because we watched from New Jersey in 2001 when black smoke rose from Manhattan, and we saw invasions, followed by outsourced protection, charred Blackwater bodies hung over the Euphrates like ornaments, feeding this insecure countries little “complex”- I’m just not buying it USA, I don’t dig it- the definitions have to change with the times, see change BE change, America needs to answer it’s crimes, There are lives on the line America YOU DO NOT DEFINE

Me.


Scream of Conscienceless (the Jersey Punk.)

Here come the misunderstood youth of a divorced generation, those Punk-rockers and Diner Boys who reek like Weed with Dead Kennedys patches on their scraped-up knees, broken skateboards and broken families, with tupperware containers of cold tortellini and Long tangled hair with tattoos of N.J., crawling from Basements in Burbs with Blood-red eyes in search of Disco-fries and take Rides on the DeCamp 33 to set them free from everything their parents want them to be and See Brooklyn, They learned anatomy from back-wall pornography in Quick Stop or 7/11, And their words from Glenn Danzig, not Parents caring and summers spent in South Jersey skate parks where older kids Showed them what boges are, and how to Kick-flip. This is our Generation, where Violence raised us on glowing screens and the desert wars taught us to Hate and fear the government, a bunch of pussies in Suits who fuck up the Planet, and try to assassinate Ed Snowden. This is Our Generation, where we live in the America we didn’t create and don’t want, and the Old Ways are dying, and Something new will rise to fill their place


the pilgrims of Route 23 (where are they going? who will help them?)

I heard someone say that the diner boys will never leave this town, and they’ll never make it much farther than the Hudson river line. It seems melodramatic to say but I know deep down that the cups of coffee and the late night laughs and the company they keep is just a way they use to escape being sad, and all they really want is some purpose, a life, a pretty girl to hold their hands at night, and motivation to change and to not just keep sliding back into those old habits and keep making those same fucking mistakes, again and again. And they joke and laugh about other kids and how much better they’ve got it figured out, but sometimes student loans and canoli cream make them want to scream and waitresses who seem 60 (when we know they’re 40) make them think with unspoken concern that Maybe someday that’s us, with a useless degree and debts they can’t pay and the government making it 90 dollars a day just to walk in the doors of Saint Barnabas, woah- The last of the boomers rode the American victory in Europe all the way to Iraq, where there are no victories any more. Now there’s just kids with brain damage who can’t sleep right at night, and have trouble trusting people so they can’t find the jobs, just end up divorced or move to Maine or someplace to try to dull the pain, New world order, for the scared and uncertain future of the diner boys who drown themselves every night in cups of hot brown coffee and small-town gossip and big-world news, and everyday the New York Times tells them They’re bound to lose, and so they say that maybe Someday they’ll become an actor or maybe a farmer, move to LA and Get away from New Jersey, Those diner boys have got it all figured out- the world is a psychopath, and if you don’t laugh you end up sad, but even they have to leave the diner sometime, and go back home where nothing’s all right and money is tight and it’s not very funny At all. I heard someone say They let the animals out of the cages at night in the Bronx, And Lions and Apes stalk the dark streets in Fordham. It was probably a joke, but it made me think, whatever will become of those diner boys who love the rain and Hate to go back home? Will they make it somehow, and find a way to survive those wild and lonely nights, where the Animals are loose and dreams can seem

kind of stupid.


Kali Yuga Come At Last (New Orleans, the Night, the memory)

Three best friends

down Louisiana

This is it,

the Kali Yuga

I Close my Eyes

and Hallelujah-

I don’t want to die tonight,

not now,

not yet.


the Code of the Road (part II.)

Breath in deep and sleep on your back in prairie-grass beneath the Milky Way’s cloudy arms in Wisconsin, and don’t EVER look back East to New Jersey, just keep moving, Running, Hiding in boxcars and rail-road yards, Two tattoos, One for each hand, As I Plunge my way deeper Into the Heartland, Savage Indian screams and axle-grease War-paint, Long hair matted down Over desperate scared face, Taste Blood and fear, and the immeasurable loneliness of sleeping on the side of a Minnesota highway.

So Here’s your American dream, So Don’t you Let it slip away; The Rocky Mountains are much colder When you got no place to stay. There’s a code of the road, for every beaten traveler, But Tonight the Pennsylvania Turnpike is the only thing that matters Escaping West to Ohio’s chest the wandering American will find a way

to Avalon.


Overgrow the Lovernment (Everybody Wants to be a Rat.)

Let’s go down, down

Where the Rats crawl around,

in the forgotten tunnels and dusty places

Let’s go down, down underground

to the lonely concrete holes and rusty spaces

Let’s squeeze in-between

The infrastructure’s cracks,

gnaw at wires with our Teeth

and always watch our backs.

Let’s slide away into the pipes

and I’ll show you a world

you’ve never seen.

Let your hair grow long

and join the pack

of sinister secrecy.

Dark passages and corridors,

with candles to show us the way

Through this light-less world of marauders and mischief

where we don’t know the touch of day.

Off their fear and conformity

We the Few grow putrid and fat;

what they’re really afraid of

is themselves, Because

Everybody Wants

to be a Rat.


Florida (don’t leave me here.)

please don’t go

to Florida

Where we can’t hang out every day.

It’s stupid and dumb

in Florida

and I don’t want you to go away.


High School (my brothers, my friends, and the glory days.)

Get up

Fuck up

7 am

You’re late

Get dressed

Get nervous

Get stressed

downstairs

mom yells

Lucas cries

says he tries

but he’s

been tellin lies

and She’ll deal with it

when we get home.

Hot tears

cheeks still stinging

wet

outside

Freezing air

burns lungs

Nic drives

Music on

but we have to wait,

Amir’s late, and

We can’t leave home

without him.

Pick up

Justin K

on the way,

Silent car ride,

Lucas

is afraid

7:40

we arrive

mean stares

teacher glares

Marco’s got

Gay long hair

Sleeps in class

doesn’t pass

any of his tests.

Where’s your homework

phone-call home,

FUCK

knots in stomach

swimming head

when mom gets home

I’m fucking dead.

11:00 cafeteria

Faggot

pussy

fucking gay-ass

bitch

Lunch tastes like

nervousness

Sit with friends

and chew the food,

watch the clock

hear what’s new

Then back to class

filled with dread

go tear up

and breath

in bathroom stalls

Walk the halls

for half an hour

talk with Chris

(he makes

me smile)

Then when finally

that last bell rings

over the evening

Announcements,

Walk around

In the town

with Lisa Fitz

for as long as I can

4 o’clock

then she sighs

We both realize

we’ve got to go back home

Mumble words

seeyadumarrow

And then the

parting ways.

In the back door

try to sneak

but mom is waiting

in the kitchen

oh no

Shit

Fuck

FUCK

out of luck

No friends

No going to

the Brehne’s party

Your life

is Over.

Run upstairs

text message

romance

long-distance

girlfriend on

the telephone

7:00

Dad is home

uncomfortable dinner,

Mimi cooked

(always seems to be

pea-soup and ham

on nights like tonight.)

Long shower

almost an hour

then go and sit

in Lucas’ room.

11:30 out the window,

Rooftop vigil

sit and think

and watch the cars roll by

Maybe cry

Those high-school days

sure were savage,

but when the weekend came,

and it was finally over,

we

Ruled the World.


Garden State (don’t cry, Marco.)

Somebody please

Take me back

to the Garden State,

cause it’s gettin

late And I really wanna

get outta this place.

cause Life’s so nice

when you got long hair

and you smile,

cause then nobody thinks

you’re sad

and you’re scared

or that you’re runnin away like a child.

They say, Hey

That Marco’s got it

all figured out,

he’s full with love

and fulla laughs.

he don’t get bothered

by the shit he sees,

he runs up and down

the West coast

makin friends

and huggin trees.

Then they say

O wouldn’t it be easier

If I could just be him?

then Marco can smile

for a little while

and say Boy

where do we begin?


lonely night (where is America?)

Hey America, it’s me again, and I’m not so sure if you can hear me. I’ve been giving you all I’ve got, Can I get a little something back? Cause I’m trying real hard to believe that the Dream is still alive but Holy shit is it getting hard to survive, America please, show me a sign, Because I’m standing here with shaking hands clinging to the promise of your brave free land, But here I am Barely holding on, What’s happening, America? Are you there, do you care, What happened to my dad in Vietnam? why did the mall just lay off my mom, What’s going on, America? Why am I working every day For 8 dollars an hour pay, why isn’t there good food to eat, and I’ve got friends who sleep on the street in Seattle America? Come on, America! Give me Something to believe in, because it’s getting so hard, Fuck! I got a brother who graduated college and works for ihop trying to pay off student debt (he wants to kill himself, and his friend already did) America, what happened in Iraq? When is Jenna going to get her leg back, America? Why won’t she smile like she used to do, America Show your face, where are you? America are you hiding behind the closed casinos in Atlantic City, are you in the thousand miles of Minnesota corn that once was prairie? America, I’m trying to be brave But it’s getting Harder every day, Because I’m afraid you aren’t there And I can’t keep looking forever, America, My world is falling apart, Where are you, America! The system isn’t working, We’re pushing titanic problems unresolved beneath the carpet, Oh my God America, the Nation that Rests on the blade of knife above an abyss of lies, the gun-drunk Bible-clutching gasoline-loving Consumption flooding Empire of greed, built on the weak and fueled by Methamphetamine, America, the pre-conceived The facade of success, The We’re the best, the Talking heads, America, The frontier of the West, the screams of New York City are the cries of those poor Apaches who never did make it back to New Mexico, America…come on and show me, just a glimpse is all I need, Because America, please trust me, I truly want to believe…


America (the Brave, the Few.)

The American dream is timber and steel, chugging south towards Texas on screeching wheels and Indian tears, tumble-weeds and oil-pipelines bleeding the Badland’s blood from worn and torn Cheyenne ranch-hands, cowboys in cafes wearin bolo-ties chewin hamburger-steaks beneath overcast Eastern-Oregon skies, and hunted vagabond kids with dirt-smudged cheeks sticking out thumbs in a desperate lunge To be someone chuh-duh chung da chungg chungg what has
America
become

the Code of the Road (part i)

I met a man from LA

who told me he’d lived off the grid-

he gave me a hint

on how to survive

and he called it

the old fruit trick:

You carry a fruit

and when picked up,

you slice it in halves

with your knife

(make sure the driver sees

the steel)

before you offer him a bite.

Then the man laughed as he smoked his cigarette,

and told me be careful where I tread-

there’s a code to the road,

and if you don’t learn quick

you end up shot or dead.

stickin out thumbs

ain’t for fun,

and there’s danger out

in Oregon

but the Heartland calls

and the misfits go

just know

that hitchin

is a lonely business.


Cancer (oh no…)

What do you tell

a girl who’s twelve

when she asks you,

“what’s radiation?”

 


I’m Coming Home (for the good old boys, for the good old girls)

Marco’s back from paradise,

and he wasn’t even gone so long

Came crashing back through the stratosphere

when he realized where he belonged

They were wondering down on Earth

where the chap had gone,

why he wasn’t chilling in the parking lot

with the good old boys back home

He didn’t bother explaining where he’d been

with the hunger in his heart;

Said, “Hey guys it’s hard to keep afloat

when the world’s pullin you apart!”

They laughed and clowned and pulled his hair,

broke bottles in the Night

(nobody wants to go back home,

we’d all rather just stay outside.)

So the skyline kept us company

Until the morning came,

Then back to the union bosses in daytime,

where the hard reality reigns.

Marco’s back from paradise, and

he knows he did the right thing;

This world’s not done with him yet

He thought to himself

with a wolfish grin.


El-ahrairah (digger, listener, runner)

I beseech thee

to teach me,

O Prince

with a thousand Enemies,

to use my Animality,

to use my wits and my claws

to set myself

free


growing up

Walking back

down Railroad tracks

with backpacks

full of snacks

in late September,

the cicada drones

bleached elk bones

ice-cream cones

and times alone

made the most magical stories

of all.

 


is there anybody out there? (the Watcher on the Roof)

it’s 2 am again,

and I’m sitting alone on a cold suburban rooftop,

bare toes curled over shingles

thinking thoughts and shooting stars

and keeping silent vigil

Because what if Tonight

is the night?


Flight (my soul is flying, out of Newark, Into the Sky)

(ding)

the fasten seatbelt sign is on.

please put your dining trays up,

and make sure your seat is in the upright position.

Put away and stow all electronic devices.

(dingding.)

My soul is taking flight,

and the pressurized cabin is softly humming.

I’m seated next to a man in a turban with a long tangled beard

and a morbidly obese black woman who reeks of perfume.

Their souls too, are preparing to take flight.

I press my face to the window,

and beyond the wing I see

glowing orange lights in the New Jersey night,

and the odd shaped vehicles that scurry around airyards.

The quiet mumbling of the machines multi-ethnic cargo

is silenced as we roll onto the runway,

the cabin rotating and shifting, making the babies

and small children uneasy.

(ding.)

The hiss of air through those little circular overhead vents

is blowing dry, stale recycled air onto my face.

This is it.

A new world awaits,

Make sure your buckled up.

Suddenly we are roaring like a train,

Screaming down the runway

Aimed at the void.

My bones and my body bounce up and down,

Bumping me against this tired looking Islamic guy

while Newark Liberty Airport rushes by

The plane charges faster

and faster,

It’s not letting up,

Not hesitating for even a moment,

A little Japanese baby has started to cry

the whole cabin is shuddering, jumping up and down,

bouncing souls around in a coach-class purgatory,

Giant steel wings flapping and beating

Hard against the resistance of the mortal world,

Breaking free

From Gravitee

Pushing, running, sprinting,

Jumping

and then

(dingding)

Our souls have left the ground,

we are entering the sky,

and when I look out of the window

over our Angelic host’s great metal shoulder-blades

I begin to cry

(quietly, so that the Muslim guy

sitting next to me

cannot see)

as I shake off my old life,

Sliding it off like a jacket

after being out in the cold…

Below my Soul and Body, the shrinking

twinkling lights

of New Jersey

become a dreamscape in the Night

of dully glowing orange points and minuscule cars

sliding down ink-black rivers of asphalt and pavement,

The New York skyline

cutting into the Night like claws dripped in pitch,

tearing neon gashes bleeding light

and my Soul,

with body in tow,

Heads West to find the Dawn.


Newark, New Jersey (Brick City)

Meet me at Point No-Point,

and be sure to come alone.

We can jump into the river,

That manifestation of the Unknown

and drift like plastic bags

to the Atlantic.


Shoot

Please give a squeeze and let a bullet fly,

For a once in a lifetime chance dances by,

whirling and twirling beautiful hair

and dark eyes.

Please take that Gun

off your forehead and point it elsewhere,

(Because nobody cares

if it only caps you!)

Please roll the dice, and bet all you’ve got

it isn’t too much so what the fuck,

I’ll Give it a shot!

I don’t stand to lose a whole lot,

Just a shattered, battered smashed apart heart

and all my sweet dreams

torn instantly apart.

Please give a squeeze, and let a bullet fly;

if you don’t want to do it,

then why did you load it?

Aim.

Hold it steady now.

Slow down your breathing.

Now…

 

SHOOT


Land of the Free

America has Fallen,

welcome to the waste

We are what remains

of the once-were Master-Race.


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