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.


Our Good Ol’ Boy

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!


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.


Learn, don’t linger

I want to tell you I know what it’s like

To feel dumb and worthless
and 

make mistakes ripe
But don’t you know there’s golden wisdom 

under 

the skin?


Dying breed

Watching little league 

behind a tough Italian

Scary 

Big

Huge

Divine presence

Facade

Nice

Family friend, I guess 

Figures

Just a guy with 

gold chain and cross 

Warm dark 

brown eyes

Slicked back jet black hair

Thick hands 

HowyoudoinTighthandshakelookineye

Track jacket

Track pants

Like my dad

And all the other old souls 

Spinning away from the sun


On an island staircase 

Unfolding bones

With weary magic

Look closely and see

On an island staircase 

Underneath burnt skin 

And stinging winds

tired faces that walk

And token bus token surprises

That Chug chug chug by hibiscus sprinkled hills

Opening and closing

Rising and falling 

In morning glory time


Downtown Bars

Tailored sharp Suited gargoyles With death covenants Promised by Life

And Pretty girls in tight black 

Sometimes bothered by wannabe sugar daddy’s words knives

Who roll life’s precious bones 

all Perched on circular red leather precipices 
But thank god there are cheap ramparts 

For those who need transient escape

Like the human mosquito attraction glow 

of

screens

screens 

Sports

Sports 

News

Sports

Screens

Screens 

Screens

Screens

Sports

Sports

News

Screens

And more screens 

So You can cop-out

From an all too real mis-en-scene


Mystery Is The Answer

Because of the angel breath of  10 pm evergreens tangled in streetlight

that sit next to large purple stuccos in darkness

surrounded by thousands of woodchips

 

And sitting with my one-eyed cat

his quiet disabled divinity in soft black

 

Or walking with pendulum arms that we let swing wildly behind the middle school

to savor every bit of cold strawberry ice cream

laced with rich chocolate sauce that stains pants

(but who cares when you’re under a blanket of stars and the orange cream New York City pollution light glow?)

 

And lovingly,

The generous southwestern hug of the sun

and her overwhelming Jewish mother ‘optimist in adversity’ consolations

that grow to be a bothersome pain in the neck

but soon after are greatly missed

 

And strangely,

Wide Eyes

above loose motorcycle shirts

baggy blue jeans

and dirty white reeboks

agape and starry

on

the uncomfortable strip of 42nd between 7th and 8th’s dollars cents and nonsense galore

 

And curiously,

the workings of a notion because…

 

 


sad boys

sad boys

live sad lives

in this sad town

in this sad world

with these sad wounds

that sadly won’t heal

with these sad smiles

and sad jobs

in this sad house

where even the walls cry.

 


Shimmering Emerald Eyes

I practically ran

from your shimmering emerald eyes

that looked wild in the twilight

to give my cats food

and pick up their shimmering poo

that quietly hardened under a stair light


33

We all pass

The homeless men that cops chide

That the Union Guys learn to hate too

And the Subterranean Queen who gives cheap favors

For some sad lonely dudes

 

But a slow 180 to freedom

From dark moon tar

 

Will bring meadows soaked in sun

Nimbus sprinkled skies

And the easy repose of an hour bus ride


put in/Show Out

It’s a dirge,

 

for shot down kids in the street

 

A fragile ego on a Friday

Who says: “If you don’t

punch him,

you’re weak.”

 

It’s Rosy cheeks

Cross hatch sweaters

 

Irish dinosaurs slowly sighing

and saying “hmph”

 

It’s the life blood surging through your cancer ravaged broken down death blood body

And a whole body naïve kiss

at a repass

 

It’s pretension in the color of red

It’s vom in the shade of black

It’s acceptance in dark scarlet rooms

It’s success with an olive

 

Sexy

Hollywood star

C list

D list

Extra

Halfway House

Obituary

 

Then

the birth of a teenage star

with trusting parents.

 

parents that don’t care

 

It’s dollars in carbonation

And pension down the drain

hard work rewarded by temporary soft silk against sad puppy-eyed pores

 

It’s a warm chest

While cheating on your wife

after swallowing the worm

and feeling like a man

 

It’s Adult hands being kid hands

So they forget boundaries

Or build thoroughfares

with no lights

Traversing comfort

Through the labyrinth

Of a one night person

And

the frames blur

While the cinematographer

employs dutch angles

and goes wild

 

Digesting the self

Alcohol is an invisible person

 

Liberated from

the chains of reality

Imprisoned in

translucent shots


Somewhere in Between

Draw

more drawings

 

and

Paint

more paintings

 

Of farts on

Fire

 

And massive babies

giving birth to tiny adults

 

Spindly Blue Men licking their own asses

 

Women Skydiving

with babies attached to umbilical cords

That are also skydiving

in spread eagle form

Wearing helmets

and parachutes

donning faces that fight the wind

 

Because

 

When we look at them on canvas

We can’t help but laugh

 

Being 8th grade fuck boys

Which we still are

hiding in bags of Cheetos

that lie below beards

and Cheetos stained wine glasses


Partnernless and Stir Crazy

You should have said, yes

to the guy who asked you out at work

he could listen to your paranoia

so we wouldn’t have to

a lover would have better ears


Post Hoc Death Blues?

Traffic seemed to sludge by us and the sun hit our collective black shroud. While my sisters  son hid in front of me from pretty middle school girls yelling behind us, “Hey! Tyler!”, my sister, with red hair flowing and freckles gleaming in the light, said that Verona air smells like peaches and gasoline. Tyler’s friends were probably drinking cokes, eating disco fries and fun-dip, and talking about hot girls. Babies were being born somewhere, babies were dying somewhere, and I couldn’t deal with the intensity, so I put on my glasses to hide while we smiled to the girls because: What else do you do?!

It was a forgiving father that I saw at the post office smiling, but grimacing, because his daughter filled out a form wrong so they had to do it all over again.

And it was a smile because death is awkward and peaches and gasoline create beautifully fucked up tension.

So what else do you do besides calmly submit to the horrors of the endlessly intricate world, and smile in a confused transparent bubble.


cant you see?

will the pearly whites just slam shut

and stop that volatile spittle from spewing

i just dont have time to deal with your desires

your agenda is far from first

on the list of what matters at this moment to me


Mother

no one can pamper you

like a Mother can.

no one makes better mac and cheese;

or hot chocolate

just after you’ve come inside

from building a snow fort.

no one makes a better breakfast

on a lazy Sunday.

no one gives a better hug

than a Mother can.

no one gives better advice

when you don’t know what you’re doing

with your life.

no one is more comforting

when you’re having a rough day.

hell, No One else knows you well enough

to notice something was wrong.


untenanted words

I write songs with no music

I write hooks with no beat

I fly with no wings

I run with no feet

I drive with no wheels

Do you know how that feels?

I think with no brain

They call me insane

I swim with no air

I’m a broke millionaire

I act with no part

I end with no start

I love with no heart

That’s why I’m falling

apart


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.


i guess that’s what drugs are for

take me out of my head

just for a few hours

a few minutes

anything, really.

stop the racing

thoughts of inadequacy

that constantly badger me.

i guess that’s what drugs are for

but they don’t seem like the answer,

not this time at least.

a temporary solution

to this permanent beast.


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.


The Heat of July

Billy walked to his death

and held his head high.

He knew no matter what Judge said

he never told no lie.

He never did shoot that boy,

he wasn’t there that night.

He never did pull the trigger,

he didn’t start no fight.

Now Billy spent the last 4 years

stuck inside a cage.

Barely any sunlight,

only room for rage.

He didn’t let that get him down,

“In my mind I’m free.

I know that I’m innocent,

no matter what they do to me.”

Young Billy walked to his death

and held his head high.

He knew no matter what Judge said

he never told no lie.

Now they tried to say Billy

was a cold and callous killer.

It worried Bill so much,

he could barely eat his dinner.

Billy never hurt no one

he could barely squash a fly,

he was ‘fraid of the charges

and what they could imply.

It was his word against the dead

He knew he stood no chance

They were gonna do away with Billy

without a second glance.

So Billy walked to his death

and held his head high.

He knew no matter what Judge said

he never told no lie.

Billy had one goal today,

to go and die with pride.

He stiffened up that upper lip

and lengthened up his stride.

He walked to the table

and began to shake,

for he knew this was the last time

he’d ever be awake.

So Billy walked to his death

and held his head high.

They killed Billy that day

in the heat of July.


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.


Pride

Well I never thought I was lonely

until I looked her in the eye

and I never thought I needed her

till she said goodbye

and I never thought I was broken

until she helped me heal

and I never knew comfort

like the way she made me feel

and I never knew scared

until my father died

and I never did cry

I guess I had too much pride


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.


%d bloggers like this: