you Are him.

What do you do

when you look inside you’re own house

and see a stranger.

He looks like you,

he has your clothes.

He’s in your house

but he runs his mouth.

Who does he think he is?

Intruding on your life.

Push him away,

but your only pushing yourself.

When did this happen?

When did you become him?



snow is literally money

falling from the sky.

all you have to do

is pick it up.

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


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)


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.


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.


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,


and then


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.


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?


Hold it steady now.

Slow down your breathing.




Land of the Free

America has Fallen,

welcome to the waste

We are what remains

of the once-were Master-Race.


can’t you see that all I want to do

is get through to you,

To watch a moonrise

over Manhattan

from the Jersey side,

and hold your hand on the palisades,

be young and be brave,

while we scream from Fort Lee

for the skyline to see

as we wash ourselves clean in the Hudson

my friend (please come home)

My estranged friend,

Wherever have you gone?

I am missing you again,

it seems it’s been so long.

Have you decided

To read Kurt Vonneget books

and study agriculture in the West,

to work on how you look,

And make sure you be your best?

Are you listening to old Bruce Springsteen records

on long walks in the dark,

Or are you listening to hobo stories

Somewhere deep in Central Park?

Are you flying in an air-plane,

to Montenegro or Mozambique,

or are you lost in Atlantic City,

crying desperate tears at the Sea?

Are you running through the Meadowlands,

naked and young, wild and free

Or are you infiltrating corporations,

Dismantling society?

Are you on the run again,

from yourself within your mind?

Are you scared and savagely lonely,

like you were that other time?

I cannot help you now,

The Night’s too dark for me to see

But you’ll find your way somehow,

and it will take you back to me.

Wherever you are,

Looking up at the stars

or Driving Parkway South in your Car,

I wish that You

would find your way back Home,

My dearest friend.

Bridge Over the River Passaic (Marco the Baptist.)

Just yesterday, I was Saved

When an Elbow broke my Nose

and Split my Chin,

And MY Blood Ran like Wine,

Down my face,

Dribbling through a crimson grin

as I cried out in pain

and spit up dark red phlegm.

It’s both sad and amusing,

Funny and confusing,

that so few can find Redemption

in a Deviated Septum,

That so Many see Defeat

In broken buildings and concrete

But I

Have been Baptized

in the waters of the lower Passaic,

Noxious, Toxic Dioxins

poured over my head,

Grabbing hold of


floating like tires

On that spiritual superfund liquid.

God is in the cancerous flesh

of a catfish caught in Kearny,

Hungrily devoured

By a Starving homeless Central American

beneath the bridge,

And with every bite

of that putrid, Cancer meat,

He is Saved.

A Secret for you before I go;

The Bodies of Italians

and murdered little girls

that decorate that muddy river-bottom

Died for Our Sins,

So that We can Live

And So

I Do.

SLAM! (work in progress)

Here’s the Deal:

My Bones are concrete and rebar steel, with copper-wire veins,

and my Telephone-pole legs

Run Electricity Through my Body to my Brain.

There’s street-art spray-painted across my Shoulder blades and scrawled along my Back,

and my hairs a goddam mess of tangled plastic bottles, butts And Bags.

I roar With Engines and diesel-coughing Motors,

Spitting Gears, Ears Bleeding oil from collision-caused Incisions

of scrap-metal fed into the Side of my bonafide Head,

Parking-lot weeds and dandelion seeds growing between

the cracks upon my Asphalt Skin. But

Here’s the thing;

When I turn on my headlight-Eyes and shine High-beams


onto broken Cinder Blocks and dead cops,

Here’s what I find;

The Loping packs of Hyena-Men,

circling you And staring Hungrily at your Ass,

undressing you and Feasting on you with their Eyes

Wide, yipping with just Lust and snapping Jaws,

tearing at your jeans and leggings with Claws,

gaping maws kissing your Cheeks,

covering you with blasts of hot breath and licking paws clean.

Puppies slammed Down Hard on Formica counter-tops,

the force of Impact cracking their little Puppy-teeth,

making them Bleed

before they’re tossed Limp into boiling vats of cloudy water,

World-wide Hunger

Puppy Soup for the Starving unclean Philippines.

Clips sliding neatly Into the Chambers of Guns

(paid for by Hippie pot-loving funds!) and click Clink cha-CHINK

then BAM

painted Brains on a Mexican street!

Woah So gruesome, that’s an ugly way to word it,

Give me another rip of that dank-Ass Shit, another Hit

and let’s sit and watch a funny movie and trip…

I find funny people Holding their Hands over their ears trying not to Hear

the sounds of words like Nigger, the same people who

are walking contradictions, The ones who contribute to gentrification

and the segregation of peoples

but also think that whites and blacks will someday be equals?

I don’t know

The world’s a circus show, just go with the flow

and pick up a Hoop.

Just sometimes

the shit that I see

really starts

to get to me

the Center of the World (and WHAT a center!!)

Homeless and pregnant-

please help…

Oh God

This cardboard sign isn’t a joke

It’s not a scam to get your money

I am going to die,

and so will my child

Please help…

croaked the woman in Manhattan

as 8 million people passed her by.

The White Chicken

So much depends



the off white



with their yellow



and life giving


this one’s for the dreamers

this one’s for the dreamers,

who believe in life after death;

Go wherever life may take you,

and never hold your breath.

But no matter how or where you’re led,

Remember to Always

keep Polaris overhead.

listen (seriously)

Don’t do drugs, but always stay high

don’t get rich, but be sure to get by

Break the rules, but always be cool

be mature, but never a bore

Try new things every day,

Hitchhike across

the USA

Explore the limits to learn their ends,

Be very careful

with who you call friends

don’t love violence, but never deny it,

Know the time to be loud

but also when to be Quiet

Do everything you want to do,

but just be sure

To do it for you.


There’s a wolf running loose in the Meadowlands,

with a murderous slack-jawed grin

God only knows how hard I tried,

but I just couldn’t hold him in…


A wolf behind the wheel of a car

is sprinting down Route 3,

The rush of PATH trains through Secaucus

have somehow set him Free


He’s listening to Led Zeppelin and T. Rex

with his eyes rolled back in his head,

And I fear If I don’t catch him soon

He’ll wind up shot or dead.

Lessons Learned

if you should see a tree,

then climb that shit promptly!

if you should come across a square,

Always be prepared

To turn it into a rhombus.

ghosts (Backyardia part 2)

Memories keep Haunting me,

and they’re everywhere I look

In the smiling Eyes of photo-graphs,

or pages of a Book.

The Boards or the burbs

and in Manhattan too,

in the crack of ever bat,

or in the Ocean blue.

Nothing’s how it was,

and never will be, I know,

but don’t you just get lonely

For those places we used to go?

When our Neighborhood was immense,

and we’d explore all day,

When Amir just couldn’t jump the fence,

and we had to think of

Something quick to say?

I miss it all,

the backyard dreams,

sun-baked mud

and climbing trees,

grass-stains upon our knees

with no responsibilities,

just summer breeze and Autumn leaves

and July’s at the beach

Where’d it all go, I want to know;

does it still exist?

My brother is a Physicist,

and he tells me time

is relative.

Maybe I can find that happy place

when Portia was still alive,

See Dwight Tooch’s smiling face

as we give each other high-fives.

the Jamaican Angel who was made flesh as a clerk at K-Mart

I came to you with a pair of jeans, windshield-wiper fluid and a baby-helmet.

You looked at me and mumbled,

“Cash or credit,”

The gorgeous black ropes of your hair Hung like vines,

And I wanted to tell you that you that you looked like some Caribbean mermaid-mythology come to life,

A Heavenly creature that sailors would go on adventures and risk their lives Just to find the fabled Isle where you live

But instead I looked down and swiped a debit card

and I left K-Mart.

New Jersey (in just a few words)

Piles of old Highlights magazine sitting between me and a grease monkey,

pill junkie, with the tattoos of names on his arms, I pay him money to fix my car,

and then drive away, never to see him again, Remember When

That woman with no teeth

pulled up to us in that brand-new Jeep,

When we were in the parking lot of 7/11

(she was a tweeker) and told us her husband beat her?

Yeah what the fuck, that was weird!

Did you see me

Throwing trash from the overpass

down onto cars on Bloomfield Ave,

wearing camouflage cargo-pants

with the Rut’s Hut tee-shirt on?

I might as well have a Garden State license plate tattooed on my arm,

just to sound the alarm

and say HELLO!


Rules That Shouldn’t be Broken

1. Always be responsibly irresponsible.

2. Laugh at the joke, because it IS funny.

3. Never cut your hair.

Scream of Consciousness (or Less?)

Oh boy here come the words,

this Boer-War’s got the shot-gun muzzle in my mouth

and I can’t seem to get it out, Apartheids got me tongue-tied

in a tizzy, leafless trees coming down in windstorms of sound

liquid spheres of Tang bang against my head again

Hydrating my skin as it begins to drip along my bones;

Scream to life when the key turns and the clutch presses down,

revolutions of tires cause en-tire Emp-ires to revolution-ize,

grab the still-smoking chamber of the fun-gun and squeeze the trigger at the Sun and make

the Cadillac never look back after the vicious Attack on Fleetwood Mac,

smoking weed because my Parents got a divorce! I just can’t handle it,

there’s no remorse! put that shit out and catch a trout from the cold-ice countertop

of Marco’s life, chop it’s head off, then retreat to Fort Krosnicoff by the Sea

Have the long hair hide your face and never look into your Eyes of your Enemies.


I’m crumbling apart

and I don’t know what to do

So I Drive my car to the Ocean

and dunk my head into the frigid November waters.

I walk up and down empty boardwalks,

reliving ancient history

I eat alone in casino restaurants,

and slowly chew my food.

I drive the Parkway late at night,

listening to rock and roll,

singing along to every word

I look at the skyline of the city

and think about the people who live within it.

I’m crumbling apart

and the world that’s crumbling me

doesn’t seem to notice

How is it even possible to feel this alone

when you’re living here at the center of it all?

Hey Marco;

Nobody cares!

we’ve got our own problems.

What Can I Get For You Today

Symphonies of Sighs as time slides by, and

I Push another knife into another lobster eye,

take another lobster-life While I Try to figure out why in the world am I

Doing what I’m doing.

I’ll decapitate a fish With the quick flip of the wrist

and the flash of a blade,

throw fistfuls of shrimp corpses into an open plastic-bag grave,

But what am I doing REALLY?

My world is a polished steel counter-top,

And a cold macabre menagerie

of dead animals and creatures of the Sea

Some times it just seems like utter absurdity,

The construct that we see and make be,

Packaged nature becomes a commodity,

‘I want a Slice of Salmon that’s thick all the way across.’

Sorry mam…that’s not the way that those animals are shaped.

What you’re asking for does not exist.

Your meal will not cook evenly. Your unreasonable demands

Cannot be met, we haven’t found a way to so alter fish yet

but I’m sure if you can wait just a few more years

I’ll be able to sell you nice, even, rectangles and hexahedrons of flesh.

Honestly, the rails are calling me to the West,

and soon I’ll answer their song

Because There are no Saints here, no San Francisco,

so I try to find my own

but sometimes even that

gets hard.

Los Angeles (the City of Angels)

City of Angels, City of God

take me in and save me

From the Horrors of the East;

I know that things are different somewhere,

because they just have to be.

There’s a Man with a coffin chest

and Holocaust-oven Eyes who follows me

He’s walking through the Desert night

and He’s steadily closing in;

California please, I implore,

Has the Western Coast got room for one more?

I know Big Sur will save me

from the Jersey shore.


the Gun Rule

there is an exception to all the rules of the world,

And I call it the Gun Rule;

All rules are changed

when a gun is pressed against your forehead

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