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Not Me

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

My Brothers Face

My brothers face gives me pure joy
His freckles dance as he walks under street lights

His starry eyes glow like cigarette tips 

on starless Essex county nights

And his thin mouth fluidly sashays as he talks

Words drifting in golden fragments 

Completely ployless 

Where does the time go?

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

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

For the Anxious

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

The conversation of the street lights will pass as quickly as our words 

With green 





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


Good Boys of Days Old

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

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