I know he’s dead
But you deserve a lover
isn’t it lonely when you wipe the counter and the sunlight
dances with the dust motes
I know he’s dead
But you deserve a lover
isn’t it lonely when you wipe the counter and the sunlight
dances with the dust motes
made it this far
everything worked out once
so what makes you think
it falls apart now
tougher than this
faced more before
never tripped yet
don’t lose balance now
Where the tunnels are a midnight park
and the gray trains scream like haunted witches
Hunker down in a bittersweet one-eyed dragon bliss
And drool dead-eyed along tracks of electrified veins
Crawl into holes un-holed
Take a nice spin around that cold metal pole
Feel your soul un-souled and sold
Where Gil scot heron once silently screamed alone
But god damn, did that man have a soul!
Did his voice not echo truths along peoples roads?
Did his poetry not shout the truth to people without a comfortable home?
Do his words not exceed his physical state in the undying ebb and flow of an ocean of pure soul?
Play with life
Like Blondie under the Spanish spaghetti sun
Stare calmly, cool lidded
Like velvety Rick in the sandpaper dark
Fedoraed in a Moroccan park
Or hunker like Bonnie next to Clyde’s car
Lipsticked and dressed slick in Texas
60’s hipped and Hollywood riched
through silent moves and gestures
infinite hectares of pain undone
Invisible ebony blankets hit the pause button
Coddling the body in restless rest
Pernicious slippers dress feet worn thin
Cozying bodies in utter jest
Pricey poison falls down and in
Rushing a slow beat and pounding the chests
of seemingly pretentious gluttons
Who are really just upset guests
(The vacation of the distressed)
Pillows surreptitiously whisper distractions
Robbing the brain of its regulatory best
Screens steel the brain for big ol’ nuthins
While echoes of truths draw pangs and yearnings for ones inaccessibly distant nest
Tides of milky red
Ooze out of my porous phone
And through the aged toshiba pixels in my home
And from the cracks in my works walls
And out the small pimples on my pale dome
Tides of milky red fly
Out of the mouths of bearded babies that get hard from the sounds of their own voices
Tides of milky red drip
from the stupid spittle of blonde toupeed gargoyles that are making big choices
Tides of milky red shower
the barren parking lots of night
Wetting and reddening the broken needles
Painting the crushed cigarette butts
Washing the matted hair of beaten down bugged out tattooed skinny white girls screaming in the silent dark While coming down the concrete catwalk to elope with themselves in a confused 2 am isolation horror show
Take us all straight to Frank Sinatra Drive
Jive right quick a gasoline Conga line up I 95
Where the skies are white and the wind blows cold through distant mountains old
Where sages whisper empathetic truths into the waning western light
When you lay your body down, and sigh a sigh that’s almost manly if you’re a woman, but so sexy, or hyper manly if you’re a man, but so sweet, after eating ground beef, or just being tired regardless of eating the aforementioned ground beef, sometimes you clear your throat a bit with a guttural gurgle and then, immediately, you slowly breathe out of your noise a pine tree winter wind whoosh that frightens my skin.
You rest with such confident and selfish-in-a-good-way eyes that possess a supreme level of non-self awareness, which could be you simply not giving a fuck, that rattles my brain.
You don’t even look at me with dog-eyed approval eyes, like I look at you in the morning when I have a stack of papers in my hand.
You don’t even turn around, like I do when I step on the leaves that crunch loudly.
You don’t even turn the locks three times (once to lock, twice to lock check, three because it’s the magic number, baby!)
You stare at your darkened eye lids in a rural basement, living life for yourself, while I crash into endless neon invisible mirrors on brick city sidewalks adorned with microscopes on each brick that have immense gravitational pulls.
The conversation of the street lights will pass as quickly as our words
With green
hellos
And
pensive
yellows
The pink noise breaths of night will delicately fall and rise from mouths like mindful birds
Drifting through the light cut dark
The occasional cop will slam through the wet lit asphalt
Shouting red and blue
While deer ease through the grass
Whispering brown and black
And automatic house lights that flicker on
Will turn off when you are gone
Going all out to go nowhere
Where venom drips slow
Going all in without air
Where blue and white corrode
And the red wrappered snickers ice cream bars
Cream guitars
White interpersonal cigarettes
Shiny New York cars
Fade into
Black Lard
We go all in it to come out of it
Where the blue and white have shone
And the water sometimes flowed
For good boys of days old
The way you talk
with a cold Schweppes in your sunlit hand is admirable
You’re a contagion to the blind
With golden earrings lighting the aisle
Not even caring about the temperature and carbonation
just swinging it about
Pan
Oven
Microwave
Glass
Plate
Bowl
Whatever method
Before arriving to the table
Is so different at a restaurant than when one cooks and eats alone at home
What will the platter look like?
Will it be as good as the text on the menu conveys it to be?
Will they dim the lights?
Oh, and when will it come out?
There is so much mystery and surprise
It’s almost magical when your delusional removed hungry body is anticipating digestion and taste
The vessel to bring the meal circles around the room, taking care of other people
Water is poured
Other steaming meals are delivered
Mysterious and cryptic checks are signed
Hellos
Goodbyes
Do you ever miss your waiter or waitress?
If you do, the feeling of the food arriving is much greater than if you didn’t
When you see their smiling face
Chipper gait
It’s a relief
It’s addicting
But At home
You are the vessel
You are the commander of the process
The veil is broken
You don’t go looking for yourself
You don’t ask yourself for anything
You don’t see your chipper gait
You might not even have a chipper gait
Without the mystery
It might just be another meal
Simply from a
Pan
Oven
Microwave
Glass
Plate
Bowl
Whatever method
Before arriving to the table
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?
*It breaks into my heart
a moral thief
Stealing sorrow
And murdering grief*
It comes in waves
Gshh
pause
gshh
Repeat
And although I never ask for it
It tumbles under me
like mountain scree
Interrupting my long climb
Setting me back a bit
Challenging my patience
But Cultivating challenge
Which I’m grateful for
Sun-blind,
go west at 5
Where orange Baby Lizards bustle and jive
And Sweet Old Jews wither and die
But before that, you’ll see them try
(They are truly 16, vying for guys)
So Kiss them on their cheeks if you go by
Because we all have weighted lids
that cover truth,
that cover needs,
that cover comfort,
that cover acceptance, to pry
I can confirm that the contents of honesty and truth and love and loss and regret and interpersonal connection deeply shine
When you give to and receive from those under a fluorescent sky
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.
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.
When the radiator behind the
Rolling Stones postered door hummed heat
And our plaid pajamas and brown wool socks were covered by comforters and the glow of yearly tv specials that were birthed from the screen like familiar babies
And the sky was half blue half the moon
from the tree branch dividing our window view
And our dad was dying in the other room
You told me you saw 7 reindeer
To go with him
To go home
To be gone too soon
There was a Waxing crescent and a Virginian milky blue sky translucence
While taking my son from
his home his mom his friends and New York
And the Worlds Light was too high
So We settled for streamed ceiling fluorescence
And enjoyed the trains inner sanctum Incandescence
Strictly Ticket holder acceptance
Tangled in each other and the trees and the true Virginian dark and the southern pull to his new home
And man, the way his eyes shone
At The prospect of a moving breakfast
Shiny eggs and bacon and seemingly mountainous orange juice while trees flower laced train tracks grazing cattle and farm workers and a sky in its most royal attire: sprinkled with cumulus regalia, blew past our car and we blew past them
And when the train came to an unexpected halt in the deeply darkened woods of South Carolina
And only little strips of his tiny face showed from scattered light
And his thick black hair melded with the dark and although barely visible, swayed left then right then left then right then left then right in quick movements under the humming ventilation system
And his now dark iPad screen showed me my own face barely visible but content
I could see myself and a mother among us quietly answering our children’s silent words in smiles
Beneath the glory of a pinkorangebluesilvermagenta fundip dusted sky, the truck slams through the deserted twilight streets illumined by twisted neon green orbs that authoritatively dictate above the silky half and half cream colored, crossed, and strong legs of suburban mothers who sit along the main drag gabbing.
A thousand dollars. A thousand stares. A thousand fucking times down this sick road where my head pounds from too much sugar and hotdogs and the toxic glowingly phosphorescent frozen-to-the-package sludge that warms and glides through my torso into the disaster pit of my pale war-torn horrible diet affected stomach. And I know it’ll come out guns blazing in the morning, when I’m cold, ready to stare up at me and say, “what gives!” And there is no languor whatsoever, which would be so nice
The dying dog under the hood ululates its sick cries down the highway and begs to have the key pulled from the synaptic ignition to its motor brain and the demon in the wheel screeches on tight turns throughout roads giving bullshit gift baskets of OCD accident scares and every-bump-is-death-crazy paranoia
So I scream loudly again and again down
the pavement in this smorgasbord
Slicing through the crisp yellow divides
Trying to beat the inconvenient turning of the earth so I can maybe see the light in the sky untarnished and unboxed
On cold nights when I’m lost and damned to rot in confusion
Ostracized and bleary eyed
Slam jam me with thousands of blankets of understanding and freckle faced love that pours out of every word and body nuance
I’ll return the favor with a big smile and a bigger bite into your delicious Polish chocolate
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.
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.
“Pier 11 Ferry to Belford”
Brooklyn bridge sun
Throws yellow grace at Jersey City towers
Steve, Tom, and I
look through yellow sunglasses
Ripping through untouched waters
“Sea Bright to Asbury Park”
Everything the same
Then,
Mansions
Sweeping walls to block the opulence
Or to block the unwanted
Mansions sweeping mansions
They must have snipers
-Reality check-
Through the Asbury Park Boardwalk tunnel
Impassioned carousel music keyboardist
Cigarette dangling
Hair dangling
Teeth dangling
Life dangling
Talent raging
With a huge smile
And we smile back
“Asbury Park to Seaside”
Picture with B&B proprietor, George
His sincere excited grin like my nephews
Swiss army backpack has to go
Giant welts on my back, oh!
Inland detour
New backpack from army navy surplus
Big ass camo
we find our way to
Point pleasant’s people and cigarette caked Boardwalk
The sun casting powerful rays all over
“Route 35 Mania”
Shark fin flippers for torpedo powerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr -breathe- errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr -breathe- errrrrrrrrrrrrr (drawn out for goofy comedic effect)
(said in an old man voice):
uhhhhhhhh help meeeeeeeeeeee no water the sun the heat our legs our feet the sun the heat nail clippers are what I need please please please nail clippers are what I need give them to me!
Water from a hose on the highway was never so tasty
Seaside sand graced, we
Boardwalk cheesteaks ate, expensive not free
Mozzarella sticks and fries, tasty!
Sleeping on toms construction zone house deck, yes please
“Seaside to Motel”
Stop at rite aid
Cover up cuts and blisters
Break, eat almonds, drink water
Stop at rite aid
Cover up cuts and blisters
Break, eat dried fruit, drink water
Stop at general store
Cover up cuts and blisters
Break, eat almonds, drink water
Stop at rite aid
Cover up cuts and blisters
Break, eat almonds, drink water
Sun block in my eyes
Toms legs fried
McDonald’s bathroom flushing will surely fix my eyes
B
R
E
A
K
Into
P
I
E
C
E
S
And über to a motel
Where
Everything’s closed
Out of water and we can’t even find somewhere to buy it
There’s a nuclear power plant nearby
Let’s just order a pizza pie
And not buy drinks
But be dumb and not think
So order water and something else from dominos
Chocolate lava discomfort follows
And getting really choked up by
the ending of Finding Nemo
“Motel to New York”
Was Route 35 mania
Then Route 9 depression
Now GSP North Blues
And Immense Blister Horror
But godammit we walked 70 something miles
And it was wonderful
To see strangers seem familiar
Thousands of rubbernecking friendly smiles
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.
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.
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.
Our Good Ol BoyWho art in a jacked up truck
Hallowed be thy 35s
Thy women: taken to a cornfield
Thy will: be done
As it is played in adult bars, purportedly, in a middle school dance too
Give us this day our daily catfish and ice cold beer
And forgive those who think of something original
And lead us not into downtown
But into copulation under the guise of hackneyed repurposed studio beats and not-even-subtly sexual lyrics that shower young minds
Amen!
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.
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