I drank a glass of whiskey every night to fall asleep. I thanked the clouds that missed me-- burly smoke that choked the grass and the leaves, but not me. The Social Contract had no dotted line though if it did i'd jot and sign, to give this house to the phantom who deserved it a bit more-- dredful at night and mazes of doors.

I stayed fast away stacked away like papers, closed windows so as not to blow away, yes, even the hated maiden of fourth street would be safely kept if I were not as spent, as to be fondling jars of change that were worth not a cent. Or the things to be said that just float in one's head when you're passed out on the floor tugging at sheets from the bed--- wide---

but I drank my glass of whiskey, and could not fall to the dark. The basement had a hole in the floor, and boards were in pieces and parts around this drain-- facing it, a whole world of mirrors and trinkets from the vain, to be stuffed down the middle floor's heart or to be flung to the wind to swim like karp.

I was up and awake, mad with anger, pouring a drink as out the dark sparked a wink. A flash? no, rekindling ash, the cigarette's not completely trashed, as I searched the tray to take final drags, I'd not had one since quarter past, one or two, and the clock said "20 2's"
I assumed, "2:22" seemed more like time's path.

Dull in the night's hung molecules of anti-matter-- voids and sad words that disappeared into the erected nothingness-- clang!

My glass? My tray? My window or mirrors or things to keep vain? No, God's had no presence it was Cerberus' works, as the bottle had thrown itself 'gainst the lip of the drain.

Dear me, no sleep-- no peaceful night's sleep. No horsetail's silica to keep the frequency down-- Flashes of light grew louder, and I grew madder-- mind control and the government had its tracks set on me-- yes, they had wired my cellar to dab tabs on me-- they had taps on me, bloody fucking son of the enemy; what could they want from a man pushing 20.

The glass? I'm not of age, but I drink of the flask that was past from my father and his very dad? The one that bore blood when they were gone from the war, and the world war before he was taking for less in a land where forests and jungles replaced flags raised at half mass?

More light lit like a night light, though I had no outlet, just candles full of wax, burning in copper, sat clear from the stacks-- the paper, ah me, the papers must've been confused as a crook's book-- some cook book of schemes to plague liberty's entity.

These papers though, were poems, and little one lines for the love of my life who disappeared from the tyrants and high time doctors who shrunk heads at the hospital-- she escaped, I sat for the harder course of 8 days, reading the notes that she wrote and left at my feet-- "I'll kiss your cheek before I leave, I've kissed your lips many times and I'll kiss them just once more. Love forever," the name of some whore. No, the name of the cure from all of life's pain and digital age--

Thrashing the hall burrowing smoke came rushing inside the room where I hid oh, or the room where I hide? Present or past, soldiers footsteps were rushing to flank me-- to skin me, waterboard's and take me, erase my name and feed me pieces of the paper's that conspired--

The smoke turned to fire, that danced around me, present or past, the roof fell to ash, snowflakes of nuclear's age to create the "snowball effect" so I flung myself towards the drain-- wires and full cups, spirals and spirals-- blue at the tip, tailing and trailing, by inches it missed--
"What do you wish! I conspire not, I am the son of a murdered man's son who was murdered as well in 1971-- and the flag as his cloak hangs by a rope on the pole near the path that leads to the street. My energy is man, not liberal nor fiend."

Digital sparks lit the drain beneath me. I stopped red in my tracks, dead in my tracks and lay white as a rag. the wind blew over an entire tree's stack turned to paper and ink namely "The Social Contract." To some men, words are to be admired-- but the men who are tried decide to will great words to fire.

the suspense is worth
hot tea, a white tee
suspenders
and dreamy we stand
till we sit
laugh at the fan
and i can't feel my hands
or my veins or the shit
will kill me someday
but i hope its tonight
where broken tongues
are twisted and dumb
relaxed-- relatively speaking,
wonder from the wisher,
well from the spells
and my soul in the picture
lashes in the flicker,

doubtful, black cap
black cats
relaxed so
tell me secrets
or keep them
with pictures of me
pale skin to green
contrasting "he"
doesn't get wiser
he only gets older
a kiss on the hips
bliss lips
on her shoulders

Deep in the end of seas,
they say there's more than women,
the gravity of all them,
will make it way more than a womans
worth in gold

Deep in, the sea
the gravity you pull on me,
deep in the sea
deep in the sea
where every want turns into need
deep in the sea

Seesaws and silverwear,
before silver turned tarnished
fuseless colorless flares;
responding on instinct
responding on instinct
tarnished and torn,
before
we were ever warned
the land was diseased


Deep in, the sea
the gravity you pull on me,
deep in the sea
deep in the sea
where every want turns into need
deep in the sea

well i sorta got to thinking
and thinking got to wishing
i got wish myself to bringing
sad luck up to a charm
and no one here was willing to go,
brought myself to chicago

down down down
arlington hostel
the parisian apostle
pushing the pedals to me
cause i was sad and incomplete
the aussie kids are buying me rounds ou-ounds

can i kiss your hand
how about your cheek
my german is a little off,
and she doesn't understand,
she doesn't understand me
in love with every girl that i see

the bus didn't bring
and the drunks didn't wish me.
very well--
i've been thinking
i'm never gonna find myself.

My eyes
My eyes
I close my eyes
Shift the blur
And fantasize
This poor girl
Is not my type,
Instead she’s someone else
The kind where I’m
Not worth her time
Where she would never fantasize
That I am on the other line
Of the least romanticized
Of ways to waste of time------------------------------
This bed this room
It hurts my chest
Throwing fits hold my breath
While she’s twisting my neck
This house is dimly lit sometimes
I wish this 409
Were a bottle of Bacardi lime
To put a shock back in the light------------
And its making me ill,
To the root
That love and will
All add up to the truth
I’m not telling you either,
I’m telling you simply,
I wish I wouldn’t bother
And my heart is in the swollen place,
From falling down a spiral case,
A direct case of counting days,
Before I found some grace.
I love the taste
And I can’t chase
Anything to erase
What lingers on my lips
After the days fade away

he sees a she
look wonderfully
who believes in "we"
you over me;

one who can compete
and defeat
the monster who raised
and cradled a baby
abandoned with a rattle,
managed just to straddle
on a heap of maybes
The turning pike,
Turnpike's bluest bars
where people paddled
never dive--
stupid never wise;

all they say is
never ever mind;
he's in back of your mind;
I'm not even a glimpse,
i'm nothing you think, about
not a who,
not a why,
oh why.

I'm thinking of a child hood
the one that was never too useful,
misplaced kisses on my first,
not the one I would've prefered

the after taste of a memory
whispers to me,
remember me?
i loved the chase I hate pretending
things are better left
when they're unsaid
like you instead

would you ever wanna try again
take me to the motel we broke down
we could fix the walls and make it a house
its just a cloud; that stands there now
its just a bed,
its just a scent.

chewing on the meat
and on the fruits,
of neat alternatives to solitude
numericals and poli-science stole our youth,
and I remember parking lots,
smoking with chris before
a lot took his life,
but god he would like
to live again in days where I was so high,
that you didn't mind---

I'm still attracted to the life-style of self-harm, and self-destruction. I watch my friends destroy their lives, and it's not that I get off from it-- its the secret sort of pain I know they feel; the intimacy and silent prayers they speak with god when they feel the fear that their hearts might give way, or that they're going to be working delis and dead end jobs forever.

It's the envy in my gut, when I see the tall, red haired one pretending to be a famous poet-- speaking rhymes he wrote years before he lost his mind, knowing he'll fuck a prostitute and they'll live off of each other's sicknesses. I wish I'd be as sick as he, to have her, to cradle to health, or out of health, and lose my own. And instead I have this cough, and this pain in my head, behind my ear-- that I've completely given up all acknowledgement of, except on paper.

Or the cheating-- they can eat mushrooms and blame it on the beer, and wake up with a new girl-- pass her around, and the consequences are a slap on the back of the hand. My atonements are dreams that spin like webs that weave uncontrollably to the arythmia of my heartbeat. And dare I become unfunctionable, my credibility is in question-- if a simple task is functioned correctly, they're praised.

So, this raises the question, and in their stash under their noses, between their shaking, hyperventilating chests I found a pulse, and a pen. Where is the muckraker?

Waiting, patiently, to change society.

he said one thing
something, or nothing
i thought poetic of him
to piss on the bible
not the great book of hymns;

a modern day marty
relates more to more of some
artist than lyricist
until the accountant and clerical
discredit him in theoriticals.

the ghost of my past
making passes
trying to keep me up all night
when she taunted me,
all of the last
when I spent with a different
but the spirit still came
in my veins

and its a pedal pushing day
beautiful dependent;
the boy who doesn't sleep
doesn't need an american dream

and I'm so cold
from whatever i've done
i've surely attoned
in sufferings,
offerings
prayers
fuckings
beatings
screamings
the night's never over,
and I wish it would end
not inside, beside
behind her;
this is just a reminder
I'm not really dead.

we ran with the mis-led
hung by the swing set
passed by a sign of some kind,
watched all the cops swarm
before we warned
and took our drags and zagged

I can see my face then
frozen posture
burst to laughter
while the other's toughened
I watched a muffin
come alive;
And I watched a film shoot
shorts of dumpster dives
shoot a burnt alive problem child
who was more afraid of turtles
than hypothermia or being ignited
talk of the town, smashed a bottle over his head
just to drown himself out

our tallest friend,
so we read,
whom our necks would ache to sight
found a feud with a hypothermic
trip one night;
to stay 20 for a life time.

We didn't need stomping grounds
when everywhere we stood, we stood in crowds
and gathered weekly to support the scene
a made up mob of kids just like we--
drunk and doped up
propped up table tops and chairs that topped up
sky high above the balcony,
no wrist bands-- pullies
markers and tricks up our sleeves--
whatever it took
to support the scene
and score the night for free.

But as time will,
killed even the strongest
of thrills,
and first to fall victim
was the biggest, to drugs
Atleast 3 got arrested
easily before 16
I got a felony,
dropped the dream
that one day we'd all
own a bar to split evenly;
"and only drink from the stash
cause the trash get the tap"
and we'd laugh in the woods
behind Mike's in the back

Where we'd hid a couch,
to pound, and pound,
and then black outs--
dizzy spells began to uncurl
splendid dillusional
visions of worlds
became true where even past out
you could still get the girl

Johnny Law strutted through
like he seemed to know me,
but he's just a nothing to you
a scrawny fucking bully
who got fucked with in grade school
and tripped picked spitted
flopped dropped popped and shocked;
ditched by his siblings,
with daily dose of lickings
and decided to step in,
no smiles,
no tongue
just a badge and tape recording
and force and a gun

he shot each
and every
child
inside of us
and what's left of us?

curriculums, pay stubs
and occasional pipe dreams
long walks to work
divided and conquered
and worse

clean streaks, dirt paths,
but none of it really matters
because its cheap talk
and "matter of fact"
chitter fucking chatter
wives tales to be told
when last names grow stale

and what we have
are swing sets
and tape decks
and board wrecks
our historical memorial--
shows
nothing done now,
has been done before
and catch ups---
are far past small talk,
and Johnny Law--
behind the Pizza place
on the turnpike with a betty--
or whatever term like this
they give to the face of the petty,
pretty low downs who go down for tickets
to be washed up and torn up
Johnny Law the Magician---

So we sing,
and we laugh whenever we pass
swingsets;
cassettes and regrets
and romance that resurfaces
all around's our stomping ground
and the consequences touched none
Johnny Law grew fat,
and our crimes got expunged.

Sidewalk Mouthing

Silent waves, hello
we can't all remember faces
but circumstances leave impressions
better than names
remember whens are so worn out
we need a handle to drag them down
to be recycled, for what its worth
I'll wheel bottles
on a radio flyer,
until it doesn't hurt--

Show me a man with something to lose
I'll show you a coward,
who's afraid of death
debt makes him lose
the feel of power
under green cards, red cards
bent in cards; its all margin
debit cards that turn orange,
Like my American Flag isn't something foreign

But I'd rather chew
the shitty news
in zip locked bags
and sewn wool hats
than ever be the man who invents
the tool to be used for the craft
or the secret stash
for a sunny day
where supplies just meet demands
but never reach the hands,

yeah,
I'd rather shoot the breeze
then scrape my knees
and keep my hair neat
because no matter the size
of the badge or the king or crown
or the lock or the hinge
or the sound of the cocked arms
ready for more wars--

I'd rather silent waves
of common names
pens that take the tally
tabs-- dibs and dabs
of hands that shake
through common ground--
our "philosophy,"
"I dig what you're into,"
our 401 k-- "can I bum a drag,"
or social security harasses me
and photographs me

and Orwell never told well
of the sectors private investor,
dare I venture into public affairs
clean air passed a bill in 2007 see
for me to be taxed heavily
on a pack that's taxed so mightily,
but we won't dare go there

Once the most fucking
disgusting
perfect, beautiful thought
about my neighbor's wife
became reality
because she needs something

Now the most
precise,
worst usual cost--
I'll round the price down
if it means something
to be touching.

She glances quickly
and just turns away and smiles
if I had one bit of decency,
I'd second guess,
but second guesses are just a lesson
that first impressions are worth pursuing
because it feels good,
when the lessons wrong.

Fading crisp summer
carry me to anywhere--
she said, "you don't need a car,
it's the Big Apple, and you're
floating anyway,"
It sure doesn't feel like floating
more like gliding--
clean enough for a jacket--
cool sweat sweet and, sweet
comes clear down my cheek
clear enough for you to see
"you don't need to try so hard,
its just a block away,"

Tick tock
and its Times Square
Like its counting down to Doom's Day
or my 21st birthday--
Stephanie just couldn't wait
chubby fingers so malicious
that fed off the bottom of sign scripts
and decisions that made even
pit wretching gut cut bone dry
"doing what I have to, to get by"
seem more like a cop out
than an alibi

And I'm sad on the subway,
subdued on the bench
to count the faceless strangers
predict where I'm heading
because I'm doing just that;
heading where they are,
down the wrong track
like its my job
maybe the third time will be a charm
or maybe I won't have the chance
to see another crisp summer
folded like a twenty--
and admire Mr. Jefferson
to think about the duels he won--
and the ones who lost.

When I look at you
after I've taken my truths,
and shoved them deep down
into my shoes
I can't even fake a smile.
This makes you unable to
fake a smile.

everybody who knows me best,
calling out an s.o.s
trying for what i wont confess
in confidence

and when you want
the best from me
like an entire army
strategically
plotting a plan
when in reality,
i'm just compared to a flee

no room for error,
no patience for sense,
i'm just ducking out to re-live
consequence
and in return from me,
you'll get an s.a.s.e
with no return receipt.

Doc Martins--
Concrete from NYC
to Chicago and Albuquerque--
Santa Fe, hey hey,
to visit Adri and Jay--
Open armed strangers
knitted quilts; dogs jumped
and lapped up the drool
from a 30 hour train ride--
"all aboard, who're staying aboard,"
and I watched the friends I had met
Shane and his 17 year old child baring wife
who'd beg me to help her
settle into something
a little less permanent
whenever he'd take the baby back
to their compartment,
"I hadn't had a gentle touch,
or a quick fuck,
in god know's what"
Shame; Shane'd come back
and we'd sway forth and back,
looking for scraps

30 dollar Amtrak feasts
must've been too rich for
the fine dining
class, because we took handfuls
as carts would dart by--
"Coo" he would blow towards the baby,
Grabbing my finger
Silver seemed to dazzle
as wheat never seems to stay still
on a 26 hour train ride

I missed Chicago--Marco,
His flight home-- I had given him Xannax,
I was still hung to hell
Irish boys and Australian kids--
Maxime speaking spanish
slightly spoken with a French Accent--

Ah, and my beloved German Gem;
Valerie;
I hit my head on the train, and Shane
And I smoked a cigarette on the rail cart--

"If you want to hangout,
grab a bite,
catch a show--
play guitar for us,
we'd love you have you.

he's signing to draw
a cannibal mauled
a standard form,
free verse worm
who shits out gourds
because his insides worn
eating the field of the fruit
the grows in the valley of evil--
talley the souls of the ghosts
who pretend--life is the beginning,
work the is the end;
death is a promise, dare not forget--
substance holds no weight,
haha, life holds no eloquence
when words spurt and fail
upon blasting off--
paper weights, and feather flakes
fake feathered rubbed ribbed
hot felt pens-- signed names
coming from my home,
checks bouncing in my name,
its such a tedious job,
if you can get it just right
the pay off is fine,
if you can control your mind

the pay off is fine,
for a dream line pipe--
manic sundays
four days till monday
cash flows the days
and even screams in my face,
"in God we trust,"
and in God I can buy,
lust drugs guns and blood,
and in all of the above,
I can buy someone
who decides to find the time
the time to love,
to love the things I want to love.

Its hard to describe
not feeling the rain
when you can hear it inside
and it clangs and it pelts
and it stings
and it bangs,
all around on the glass
with a splash 'gainst the screen;
drips and drops gather
a collection of friends
weekly meetings
monthly sessions
on my window pain

I never thought much of summer,
but I feel every fall
to be tripped up another
and some other time
I should've gone to bed,
or counted the rosary
said a prayer instead

and its an in between,
sad and sweet
recipe
tasteless
and my buds are tampered
its an in between
tangled feet
in the sheets
escapeless--

sooner or sometime
they'll pull them over
but for now
the rain let a bit
and sounds sort of
like a footprint.

I sort of feel like just giving up today, and becoming a normal college student. I think my ideas are a little too un-orthodox and irrational. Sometimes they're bright but too vibrant, and other times they just don't have that measure of luster that the finer things are measured in.

Oh, Hail New Jersey,
Don-- Hail, My Don, New Jersey,
Metro and Retro, spilling soda
and stains that look like blood
with a touch of hate that slips
from the tongue,
and I hail, New Jersey,
where I fell asleep at 20
and woke in 1963,

The sun must've followed a fellow--
fell far from free fair carts--
luncheons, lunch ins, lunch outs
stand in--sit ins--stand ups,
carry ins--i'm carrying on,
they give you a pen
to write your own order,
and this particular order
was no strange order,
in no particular order
"a cheese-steak, and water,
m'am, when you get the chance,
I'll be sitting by the window,"
to feel the breeze blow
or to see the pale folk
hide from the shade
where the sun don't glow
on the ghost folk

And my what a breeze blew
the napkins flew clear off the streets
and the gutters cleared
straight up and snaked themselves clean
probed by a stake, territorial crest
like a wave break---wrist flicking
point taken

A meal grew cold,
as the service,
decided not to serve
and the stand still
stood still
and even the ghosts
held their breath
as the the sun hung,
and tanned this man
worse than any of these fellas
decided to

And hailed a cab
to leave the scene,
in good old new jersey,
9 years after a millenium,
and they should've just beaten me.

Hungry so feed me
forcing peas
cigarettes
thankful for whatever
comes these days
well, brittle skinned
black and bruised
pieces of my palm
are pointing my fingers
and dabbing my prints
into diesel ink
for a measily sip
from the gauntlet's rim,
circumference is grim

Prison breaks
these days--
bumming a drag
and humming a tune
while the cool blue
sky reminds you,
you're alive,
so exhale for a while.

Blow out on the sheet
Blow out on the sheet
Blow out on the sheet
So I can feel you breathe

Cover up girl
Concealed to a circle,
Drawing the curtain
Never know who’s looking
Cover up girl
Concealed to a circle

Empty ash trays on the street
Empty ash trays on the street
I’ll brush my hair with maybeline
And pretend it’s snowing,
Fling a flurry if its slightly pleasing

Blowing on the sheet
(strolling on the street)
So I can feel you breathe
(holding on your collar)
Struggling to keep
(like we’ve both seen a ghost)
What we manage to eat down
Screaming in the wind
(screaming in the wind)
And its more like a banshee
(Cause it reminds you of me)
Steam comes from the hall
And its more like we’re drowning (seeing)
Sails and flags are waving,
Or waves are crashing flags
And our limbs lifelessly are sailing,

I'm an ugly body
on a dirty ground
I'm a smiling two cents
turned upside down
I saw a fake leg
fall in pieces
on a man who
played pretend
wasn't a pirate
looked like a giant,
may as well been,
and he couldn't
walk a straight line
but he wasn't drunk
and they kept him over
till he was sober

He's a lovely jet lagged
pair of metal wrapped around his ears,
signs his language,
says his name its never
how it appears in silver

I'm an ugly body
a double shot
and another round
falling asleep on a bar stool
waking up in portland,
a double dose of porcelain
does the body good.

A zig zag
became so good at zagging,
a chorus tried to coerce zag
to not zig;
mellow little zig zag,
thought that zigging would make him
an artist of the heart,
if he felt that zigging
described how felt
so he scribbled
instead of zigging,
and dragged his cuffs
instead of wearing a suit
that wasn't his.

"but life is beautiful
when the moon is full
your words are ugly
and you need to learn melody"
said a stern looking elder
woman from some crowded pocket
of family

Magically,
I zagged when I should've zigged
and everything tasted like
my family described--
like some sort of success
I didn't want,
some ugly poem
that read beautifully;
resplendence from a neon light,
and I wish, that I could die
but it wouldn't erase
the memory and marks--
the trace and tracks
desicrated deserted draftless
fucking disguised, and now i'm left alone
and not the alone I wanted
all this time

Everything I taste,
tastes like silver,
and my fingerprints are green
and my morals are dollars
and my family's digging my grave
and reaching in my pocket
all this time,
I should've zigged
instead of zagged,
g.r.w.h.s.m.30.3's./i.m.i.s.s.y.o.u.s.u.m.m.i.t.

I hopped a train
after my first stepped
we won't talk about that
Had a migraine
half way to Chicago
tried to catch my breath
Ohio, said goodbye
in German, Du buste vie eine der blume en
die vuste;

Made it through Michigan mom,
my bags are by my feet,
Made past Flint, Dad,
Let me talk to mom again
Don't seem too enthralled
to be on the other end

And i paid for the instance
long distance,
saying I missed you,
before I saw Arlington,
Chicago took the feet from me
and he became a memory
I'm sorry I'm not the man you see,
You'd thought you'd see at 20
Sorry I'm not the boy I should be,
carving my name in a tree
sorry its just the two in between
stuck in a dream
sorry its the two of me
and its all I'll ever be

And I've got blisters on my feet
that peel and bleed
from working every beam
dripped from me,
and I'll walk to way back
to bring Chicago back to me,
and bring Chicago back to me
and bring Chicago back to me

I'm never gonna be
a thing,
like how you thought
I oughta be
the only thing
you want for me
is what you thought
I ought to be
the only thing you want for me
is for me to be,
a spitting image
of misery
and you can take a wet dream
the family portraits
less evenly.

If I die in my sleep tonight,
its because I went against my will
deservingly my gums
fire do my gums feel
my insides--
"inside out!"
More to the hellish
tone to try and re-create
and re-enact
such a hellish act,
such a stupid act

I blame Freud,
before I blame myself,
and I curse
the very date
of my birth
for the worst of the worst
acts to follow to the first
is the last breath to swallow
because there's none after
to follow;
no roses to flutter
and fling to a stage
no cape but to flung
over shoulders and blades
no swings to be swung,
not curtains to be drawn
no encores no backstage
no "glory day" songs

And next I regret--
Oh just about everything
I've ever dreamt that I've did,
or said that I've done
to just about every stranger
I've known
or thought about knowing,
or acknowledged via motion;
the constant seperation
of myself as a person of
substance in a world without taste,
just because I deemed myself a person of character;
a person of worth-- a real hard worker ha!
hardly, the hardest profession, since the beginning,
if you'd beg to differ, it's a big book profession
outlasted recessions, professors and confessions,
so "shh.. me" and ah me,
and keep one last secret
before the tips of my fingers
lose feeling completely

"We're missing a step, or two,"
You're missing a lot more,
and you don't know what you want,
and you'll never get it either--
I'm sorry to have been the one to tell you,
but you'll get a lot more
and I pose in the mirror
once a look of terror--
"Dorian," someone will gasp
"No Non-Sense"
"Nine" someone will say in German,
"No-Nosxyl?"
"nine"
"Non-sense"
"syl?"
No, "Nine"
I'd rather look at the trees before they're damaged completely
and remember the summer,
lonely, anxious little summer I became a man before winter,
and didn't see the snow pile,
and stayed clean a full day. and died sober, a day or two,
but none the less died sober, happy, lov-ed, lov-ing everything and everyone family, familiar and un-the latter in which i've become unfamiliar.

try poetry
try ambien
try melodies
leaves begin
telling me
incoherently,
other than the language
of oranges and peach--
more of a mellow,
relaxing, asphyxiated salmon I'd have to agree upon,
do we ever speak on;
we mix our colors like spit
and our tongues' tips hit
and mix, and
we paint all the mysteries
of autumn,
in a language
that even smells nostalgic

and sweaters shed the scent
of closets, closed in corners
hung by hangers,
and sweetly
start to smell like smoke
and the stale cold staring down
your sleeves until they cover your arms
and staring down your zipper
until it covers your chest
and staring down the sun
till subsidized means ready to rest,
and margin and income
means the rest of the bed
is shared gain and fair game
so here I come

and there we share the mysteries
and secrets of autumn,
dizzy autumn
orange and peach
pumpkin and plum
and sour
and sweet, smooth
and clean,
wet in the street
in the gutter
but clean next to me
not near the gutter drowning to death
drinking to keep to their necks
by the flat of their backs
hardly not drunk swallowed half passed drinking to death
and man can serene seem like
decisions or eternity
or gambling or rambling
but i've been doing both
for so long,
my heads still full
but torn black jeans
have half full pockets
of winnings i never blew
they stay full
but not like they used to.

you
can
convince
yourself
everything
will be the way
you
thought
when
you
were
10
or
change
your
ways
and
change the standards
watch things get better
and fall in love again
no
grit
or
dirt
rocks
pebbles
grass
stained
knees
is
this
who
you
blow
kisses
to
are
yellow
teeth
turning
your
wheels
or
are
your
wheels
turning
and
you're
afraid
to
take
your
foot
off
of
the
break.
and you could love you,
and blow kisses
the
way
the
sky
blows
kisses
in
twinkles
and
winks
and
wrinkles
and
satellites
missiles
endless,
forever,
doesn't
need
to
seem
like
a
sentence,
it
can
be
a
beginning,
the
future with arms around you
a
promise;
the
past is forgiven.

hahaha
i'm running on fumes
and borrowed time
I can say it in three languages,
just so you know
oh linguistics are so cool
and cruel and i won't try to prove it to you
it took a lot of scribbles
until i jotted down
"i got the right words
in my mind
i exceeded expectancy and then some
so talk to me, and i'm blessed
because morte, mort, muerte and death's face
could've stacked me on their shoulders
to kiss god's great face
and lick his fucking beard
and skin his knees too

and i'm stealing tunes
and borrowed lines
i can say it in three cliches
one day at a time
cause it works
if you work it
so work it, you're work it now work it you're with it
and live and let livc the life you want what you need not what you want from me? all of the things I can't hold on my back atlas, i'd rather be the one without the liver and have the silver beak pecking each night, or stab my veins like achilles. Instead I hear all their voices and all of their battles, et j'entends l'ensemble de leurs décès.

my minds infected
just like my foot
and i fucking hate working
more than i hate all of you
and the cost of my soul
isn't worth the trauma
and the price of being
buried up to neck
in the shit show after-shock drana
after the party, just one party
watching a SYSTEM un-containable,
suffocate and bleed itself out
sometimes even a dog runs away;
sometimes it stays
and
sometimes the fucking roof caves,
after a hurricane
and after,
you can bolt the doors
and caulk a new window pane
but the fucking design of the
floor will do no one any good
if its never ever changed
so rather than day time fixer ups
its time for any get rich quick tips
to keep me from feeling in same.

but I work on one foot,
but I work all day
minimum wage,
maximum distaste
to live in discomfort--
a New American way.

yeah the worker bee
pines its honey just for me
call it slavery
and the worker rat
keeps the boss rats
wallets fat
and he sneaks
a piece of cheese from me
and the field of mice
work each day
and die each night
just tickets out of time,
standing in a line

side a jar
in a line
product name on the side
turn the tide
we can earn for our kind
a different kind of life,
one that feels right

an upset stomach
drinks and pills
liquid form
and prescripts
to stop chills
from the stacks of your bills
and the economic plummit
they sell on margin
and they love it,
work yourself to death,
to the pearled form gates with debt.

sionara
say goodbye
the same t's
are crossed in blood
and i's aren't dotted
not at all; so they say,
but who're we to believe
what they say
anyway.

I awake in the deep
of the well,
of my sleep
and I shake and I jerk
violently in the deep
of the well,
in my sleep
and the sentence
is all but complete
in the well
in my sleep
and confessions
come out of the well
in my sleep

and it all hardly feels
hardly well
at all
(good night J,)
"sweet dreams terror" sighs me
and I don't feel hardly well,
not at all
like me
but the truth
is a lot more ugly
and looks more like me
in the well,
in my sleep

so I fight to dream
the dreams that I dream
of the uglier me,
the mirrors I stand before
planting escape
just before I awake
from the awful mistakes
that I make
and the "better off dead"
re-counting calls
over calls
prepare days to amend
the wrongs in my head
that demand to be fixed
whose supplies can't be met
and whose sorrows I've--
borrowed acquaintances
and made myself apart of
and been lost of
in the well
of the deep
of my sleep.

Act 1

hang on the railing
she leans on the doors
and he's painting a picture
of whores who are wailing
and beating their wrists
insisting on sailing
discontent with the progress
and process of living
in lands that're selling
the margins of debt
in the process of giving
technological depths
in the fruits of a city
where living isn't breathing
and air molds gritty
little finger tip
tripped traps leading
towards holes in pavement
where dying men are
enclaved like caves--

and leviathan's brother
a steel train's angry wheels turn
like the breasts of its mother
feeding its daughter till
her turn its her turn,
oil spills and scraped wires
just burn,
the tracks all lead under water
and we're taking on lead
"yeah taking to water,"
like the paths of our fathers
old fathers four fathers
and their dad's and sisters
before them
before cloth calculated
leviathans direction;
he's moving so fast
the roads above are broken,
and we're moving so fast
our futures are broken--
so we look towards the sea,
and even Chiba
is silent.

a rose had grew
in a compost heap
mixed with water
and dew turned green
she’s feeling awkward
and she’s feeling like me
but I’m still
not clean
***If I had a different name
Or maybe just,
Had never been
I’m a coma
I’m pretend,
But you’re the
Make believe
That never ever ends
****I could rub you right
Like satin or,
Something
A lot less different
Than a vein under a belt
Never should’ve felt
Like the person
****I remind you of,
But we all end up with names
Of who we become
He’s not quite your man,
And I’m just your stash
Call it what you fancy,
And throw away the trash
And forget about me

so whats funnier
a joke about a stranger
reading a paper,
or writing
a joke
about a stranger
reading a joke
i'm writing
while driving,
while he's driving
and reading,
but not reading
what i'm writing

and what makes you laugh
louder and harder
my heart that pumps harder
or the head that gets less blood
or makes up more stories
and gets dizzy,
or gets less blood,
or just both,
either or, or just pretend
and wants to die so bad,
it'll do must anything
write up till the end,

and I can't say I knew exactly
when this started,
but I knew when this began
these habits
up and down
and pushing so hard
early mornings,
and i thought I'd watch the sunset
but instead I watched the swing set
by the bike rack
where we smoked cigarettes
and black stained white tarred
dope headed die rolling
dizzy no good too little learned,
and way too late now,

to tell what I thought i wanted to be,
is everything the sun sets on,
not what the sun shines on,
and my father will see the sun shine
far longer than I
but the sun shines for a little,
just don't think its a shame,
that when I close my eyes to rest,
its not because I'm passing out,
or taking it for granted,
I want every breath now,
and I wish I wasn't so selfish,
but my ways have caught the best of me,
and I just need to rest.

I didn't have any nice clothes to wear to an engagement party, or any money to give, or a decent face to show. I went to a comedy club and laughed hard for the first time in a while. I won a t-shirt, a dvd and an autographed michael ian black, and the cast of some tv show that scotty went ape shit for and paid for my dinner/gave me twenty dollars for. Patton Oswalt was hysterical, and the rest of the night I couldn't stop laughing. There wasn't any poetry in this. I broke my 90 meetings in 90 days on day 2, but I don't really care. I ran into this guy Steve from rehab last night-- 50 years old and strung out on suboxines or however they're spelt; withdrawing from painkillers and xannax-- he was glad to see me, I was glad to see him-- he slept most of the meeting. This girl told her story, she started the program when she was around my age, and didn't drink on her 21st birthday. I hope thats me.

The doctor said there's something wrong with my heart, briefly explained it works too hard, and my blood pressure is too low, which might be nothing, or could mean internal bleeding or that my heart is going to fail because of the massive amounts of medication I'm currently taking. But, on nights like tonight, I worry for about a minute and smoke a cigarette until I realize there's always something wrong of some sort, and I decide to fall asleep "serene" and relaxed.

I gave away 100 dollars because I thought I was helping a friend, but my dreams just sort of lie to me some days. I gave away 20 dollars because my failing heart is over worked and sometimes the blood flow mixes with my "gut instincts," which is a feeling I've been trying to battle. I gave away a lot of things, because the medicine I'm on makes me feel like all I'm worth is a Son House album and Billie Holiday- God Bless the Child; not to mention my new found love for the Duke and Beethoven.

I've stopped talking to a lot of people, and I don't think I'm better than them. I think they're far too happy, and too beautiful, in their ugly habits and secret lives and far more hurried along than I could ever scurry to catch up with. So instead its easier to just be left behind, or walk in a different direction. So I'm doing just that. I'll keep the small talk conversations, I just don't feel really too much apart of anyone's life anymore. I work at a deli and I sleep the other 16 hours I'm not working. This isn't to feel sorry for me, this is to understand I'm not some sort of ostentacious arrogant prick. I'm not John Lennon. I'm not Neil Diamond. I'm not Nick Drake. I'm Not Elliott Smith. I'm not better than you. I don't think you're any better than I am.

Its just time for something different, and I've decided, you can't turn back the time, and its become too much of a drag watching the clock lag, so I'm moving forward. Keep in touch all 3 of you who read this, and all 1 of you who follow.. my email is Joe.Pignatiello@hotmail.com

Your Friend,

Joe.

no one's there, when you need them there
there's some string lights about
as solid as those packages of cheese
we can't afford to buy to eat
but its no mind
really, its no trouble
I pay for a square,
that breaks away,
when no ones there,
it doesn't move
or shine,
or light up,
and there's no voice on the line
the says, "J-J, are you alright?"
So I conceal it in my glove compartment
and erase the faces
and names
and numbers
and digits
and anything that resembles people
to go along with it.

And all of the things that remind me of anything of a past life I've given away, or sold, or thrown out, except for my guitar, and my record collection-- some of notebooks are in a dumpster in haledon, some poems are scattered on highways and ripped pages of novels written by yours truly, "J. Despers," are all along 80 without the ending. I needed a friend, and woke up with none. I'm haunted with nightmares, and wake up where they left off. They adjust medication, they suggest meditation, and I wish this was just a poem, or some rant. I work everyday of my life, and I needed a friend, and woke up with just nightmares. So I crawled back to AA and my head stopped shaking, and I don't have to tell anymore stories. I don't have to write songs to get someone's ear, or write poems, or stories, or do anything I don't want to do. I have 11 phone numbers in my cell phone, and an 85 dollar acoustic guitar with strings that buzz more than they make music, and I feel just fine.

Fall into the sleeping well, or fall in love. Get your vitamin d, get your fix, get your groove until you shake even when the music isn't spinning, until you're just spinning, and the medication you take to go to sleep, people try to buy from you-- the only time they call on you, is when they need you-- or the girls that will do awful things for the things you need? because they want it. What a wonderful lie of a phantom life. Fall into the sleeping well, out of the xyphoid dilemma, fizzling sizzling black-bird on my nest post, and make an honest man out of me.

Until my next post, keep your chins up, or listen to some music.

www.myspace.com/jdespers

Thanks.

So its still morning in my youth,
the sun is getting warm,
and raising slightly higher than
what feels comfortable
in the unfamiliar morning in my youth.
and the grass leaves
are rising a little higher
in the still morning in my youth
and its growing older
a little older than
what feels relieving
to your brows,
which wrinkle and start to tire
in the chill morning in my youth
and these new people,
seem less exciting now,
words of wisdom
spew words of shit
and seem far less provacative
on the uncreative morning of my youth.
And tiresome wires grow
likes weeds of what
I knew as loads
and barrels of
grass, as it was known
before we lost
our land our minds
to regionalism
and the no go
no good war prophet
o-zone and sand
and blood gas
and tear gas eco-blast all seems
to cry into slump baths
machine gun economics
and battle field politics
replace
the comfort
and the passion
of the early morning in my youth;
but I saw a picture
of a boy who looked just like me in my youth
whose eyes were
like the diamonds of the cool,
clearest blue waters
in progessive
fixer-up photo-opportunity
cities; American T-shirts
on African children;
with my face on his body,
I never knew the Mets had beaten the Yankees
in the 2000 Subway Series,
but he wasn't sure what a Subway was;
but he explain what beaten was,
and beaten just once,
as beaten was.

Half past one,
on this mid-day afternoon.

I panic playing basketball, in the pretense I suppose I had a panic attack, in the present I'm still on the court seizure-ing re-playing my child-hood waiting for my dare shirt or some cop to come and save my life. I listen to the words but man I can't make out the syllables and everything is mono-syllabic, everything is dreary and monotone and skips every other half beat, every measure adds up into jumping rope and not for my heart, or for my health, just because I'd like to stay on track and hear the words as if they were floating like I wish the leaves would do. The leaves remind me of autumn when I was a child (the sentence structure as you will notice will not be quite as punctual as it probably should be.) I would lay dizzily in the grass under trees before the neighboring house behind us put up fences and cut down all the trees-- and let the leaves fall on top of me. I used to think that's just what dying was, because even then I could never sleep, and I thought dying was just sleeping-- like those wives lies white tales they tell you, "Grandpa's just sleeping," I used to wish I could sleep. This started my 11 year long infatuation with death. Crackling wood stoves diagonally mixing aromas with a pipe being smoked on the porch and an old man would laugh. I'd play football somewhere, or maybe I'd just have a car some day and have a lady to keep me company on my trips to California. I wanted to see a real ocean-- even at 9.

Even at 9, there were no girls. There were no ladies, there were no friends. There was just an empty, indescribable lusting for this piece of life that I knew was missing, and wasn't sure would ever come.

I wake up from the basketball court, and its 1 am, no cops have come, there's no dare shirt, there's no E.M.T, there's no friends, there's no girl and there are no leaves left.

Even at 20, there are no girls, no ladies, no friends. There's just this empty, indescribable lusting for this piece of life that I know is missing, and I'm not sure will ever come.

Hi Mom

Hey, How about this,

We drank from the bottle
to throw fits at the fridge
and when the tap went on the fringe well,
we threw another fit
and its better luck next time yeah,
its better luck with him
and its short straws and party time
and its sophies draw on ladies night

So we fill the bars oh
its nothing but a dive
and we wish the stools
weren't jacked so high
and we shoot our mouths,
but only blanks come out
and glory big crammed jams
and beats-- rhyme a few more times,
cry a few more times,
tell me something real this time

so she left, and then he stayed
one felt empty
the other so fed up
to the ears with everything
they chose to hear,
with real big words,
a black book full of spells,
that couldn't spell
a fairy tale from just a tall tale;
or the kickless joke from a boxed in quote,
signed the note with the wrong name,

but you look mighty well fed,
and you look pretty clothed,
and when you're broken
and you're alone,
I'll be on my way girl,
on my way home
where no one waits,
no not at my home
an empty big bed,
that's always froze
a lone impression,
and a sober tone
and all its missing
isn't what you think,
so go on girl have another drink,
and another look around,
and drink the water from the tap,
or straight from the bottle
there's no scheme here,
just a fucking flow,
because I wake up everyday
and thank god I'm not you,
or him, or anyone that waves to me,
and thank myself for not waving back.
So drink from the bottle girl,
drink from the tap,
look in the mirror,
see if you'll wave back.

Dear New Jersey

so there will be no poetry right now. This is supposed to upset you.
I'm not necessarily unhappy,
I'm just more or so neglected.
You taught me a trick,
and I'm performing it
in a park by myself.
You let me off the leash
and no one wants to walk me,
and I get it,
I can walk myself,
but how fucking hard is it
to take a walk with me.
And I'm smoking a cigarette
in the backyard,
and I can hear you breathing,
And where've you been the past 10 years,
Ay lady?
Dinners always on the stove,
Cause I remember Mets Announcers
relating more to my fucking day
than any sort of family;
eating alone,
night after night,
and its all right.
And college?
yeah what a dream that would've been
a summer broke my back
and a chiropractor fixed me up
and I would've gone back,
and i had 6 classes stacked,
but, I guess I'm just not the priority
an overdose, a failed suicide,
I fell into a pit of shit
and now I work 50 hours a week
write stories and songs,
but they're all just fidgets and habits
and wasting my time--
i fixed my behavior,
but I'm taking my drugs ay?
Topamax to go to sleep,
Lexapro because I have to pay
someone to pretend to be my mother
for an hour a week.
My family means nothing,
and that doesn't hurt as much
as the fact that i turn to my friends,
and all I see is a pile of records that I bought
at the store for 99 cents,
and the dust on sleeves,
mean more to me than your
shitty fucking hobbies,
your small talking--
great deal of nothing little
bullshit bakers dozen parties,
and your man up drunken
threats. thanks a lot
for not one good fucking memory,
anyone, anything,
ever.

I'm tapping on my heel--foaming at my mouth--friends appeal--in a sexual aura--that screams so loud-- but she's like the dove thats dipped in ink and I'm the crow when you clipped its wings before it chirped "may day, may day" fire away and cuban missiled straight into shit; and its so damp--dark and drowsy, when you're stuck in this dry spell you're stuck in the drought dry junkies and dry addicts and she lives on the top floor but I live in the attic.

when
I'm wrapped in the wings
of some bug
that i've crushed
in the leaves of the grass
someone described once,
some famous no one
meaning much once to someone--
but Walt Whitman
means nothing to me now

She told me I wanted to take three,
So I did

And I thought of a bookstore down in Lambertville or some strange early named town like that where everyone was gay, and took quite a liking to me-- browsing for type writers, to write written reports on my philosophies of human existence in its absolutely most beautiful form-- silence-- not morbid motionless death, not china doll trances and sick cold skin, just jaundice sort of sleep like dreams where fluttering eye lashes make me feel as if maybe someone's dreaming of me.

I can't quite be what you want me to be, and I can't quite ever be what you think I'll be. But I think I could pretty much fly if you could cast a spell on me. And I'll work three jobs, if you'd just sleep all day, and atleast save a piece of the day for me, and we could split the bed evenly in thirds, one for me, and two for you, sprawled out and writing notes and thoughts that are too dark to revise, too dark for me to read over your shoulder, its just the thought of time, and days of differences, and childhoods and never wanting to be my parents. I could make you happy, but I don't think I could sit here any longer to think of things to say that would make me feel any better, I can't decode you, and I wish I could. So I fall asleep to Beethoven and fucking wake up the Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and laugh to myself, because for years I didn't understand it.

Fluttering muttering blackbird,
glistened unchristened castaway dove;
cross us, we'll be swans,
not pigeons.

sweet black top,
rain smells hot
tell me a writer can't describe,
even the smell of rain
in the summer after the clouds
ejaculate over the footprints
of children-- God's heel
and god heals,
and the Earth is new again;
Meet Joe Black,
in his new body,
this one doesn't smile
this one doesn't yearn for life,
or love anything sweet,
that tastes like air,
or looks like butter
crisp and delicious
or coffee grinds tasting
bitter; salt doesn't
quite taste like honey anymore--
oh, and Kennedy
never sent a thing
into space,
other than an un-marked letter
with a hint of cologne,
that fell beside
a bed; perfectly arranged
with a bottle of pills
and a bombshell;
blasted with well,
leave it up to your imagination.
Buried under the blacktop
are twigs, and small organisms,
that once would've evolved,
but are now just living off of
garbage, and sadness
and nothing grows,
everything survives,
or dies.
They can make do, though,
and that's what they do--
families of organisms stay in
touch, contact and breed
and fuck each other's mouths
and kiss the same mouths,
and feed with the same hands
they touch gashes with
and sleep in the same beds
they slept in other beds
of shit and garbage.
And a chimney shoots more black tops,
to fill the sky,
to cover you and I,
and we build things,
some are lost in
what the goverment calls, "cities," and, "empires,"
Greece, Sparta, New York, Chicago,
Even Dreaming of Speaking Romantic Roman---
But I--
I just wish it all would end.

ORNELLA PLEASE TRANSLATE =)

You can flick your hair

and hide your tattoos

ashamed of your past,

and smile for dollars

conversations for cents,

Take me aside

I'm crazy inside

and we all sell ourselves,

I just wish I could buy the next day

or two,

and

catch a flick

temporary tattoos

right our pasts,

and sing for quarters,

dance around in circles in tongues

take me inside,

I'm crazy inside,

and you'll never feel ashamed again--

I'm only hurting you now,

I'm only singing for quarters

but I'm sure that I love you.

Challenges are fun.

I'm not in love with tragedy, I'm in love with happiness. I want to be happy, I am happy. If you'd like to be happy, we can be happy. If you're afraid of being happy, then you can live the same routine.

New Challenge: Impress me. Out run me, Out smart me. Tell me something about something other than someone you idolize. Tell me something about art that I don't know, or something about music that I don't know. If I don't know about it, does it interest me? Speak a language to me-- fix my computer, talk to me about philosophy. Does this upset you if none of this applies to you?

We're wasting our lives, and I'm not wasting mine anymore. Tonight was the night of nights, and no one was there for me. So thanks a lot kids, my fucking crew. My fucking glory days crew. Its time to grow up.

Kentucky Loves Our New Oregon Pictures In Neons (3 Mega Prints)

I took one and spun
like a top
that turns right around
and stings when it stops,
in front of you,
and I then I took two
to reach out for you
but fell short to a pocket
with a number in script
and felt dizzy and short of it--
sort of sick--
and I was looking just for a friend
not the one's who just play pretend
not the tea time brigade never on call
not the see through who make me feel small

and I was looking just to connect
with a mind as pretty as a face
and a tongue that doesn't just race
whose thoughts don't take up space
and i found myself in a daze,
a parked car in shock and in pain

when i think of writing about this,
and your eyes just trying to shift
between melancholy and confidence
I was looking just for a friend
a late night call to pretend
i'm not as alone as I am.

and I'm wishing up at the stars
blurry eyed trying hard not to squint
look to the ones who've taken advice
from the ones who didn't know shit
and I would've taken it,
it I hadn't taken them,
maybe I'd stay awake,
and find a friend,
not to pretend
that I'm as lonely as I am.

I can't complete
a full nights sleep;
a cycle or three
eat healthy
and hearty
and healthy,
yeah smart
with my wisdom teeth
and I'll tell you who I am
I
watch you sleep
a full nights worth
of tosses and turns,
and kisses your shoulders,
to taste lotion pressed skin
sun tans and sun burns
and make breakfast in bed,
breakfast for lunch,
breakfast for dinner,
because its all I can cook,
but its always breakfast somewhere,
and we're culturalists,
you can clean the dashboard,
with the heels of your feet
if you promise to play
Tumble Connections
again and again on repeat,
and cruise control
tells me where to go,
and a map in the back seat,
crumbled fair; fair skinned
and neat, so we retire
at walmart parked car
e-breaks and fast food
and junk food
and milkshakes
and westcoast
and we.

The last time the headline
used my name sake,
they thought I was homeless
passed out drunk
hospital and god knows how they treated me
the next time they felt sorry
and thought I was dead,
Then I gave my keys
to a friend in need
who needed to get high
more than I wanted to drive,
and after flashing lights,
a DWI
the psychiatric chop shop
to pull apart my mind,
he finally got his fix,
and I got all the fines;
rehab and an overdose,
and I can't say that I'm fine
but now the name in the paper,
isn't mine,
My cousin holds a trophy,
because she's doing more than all right--
the teenage softball league
I'm so proud I could cry,
for my name, my families sake,
even shit like me can see something beautiful shine sometimes.

Anonymous

"When Everything Was Crooked"

Mother, I am afraid of my emotions,
of loving someone
who will someday die.
The future is inevitable.
If we stay cold we are safe.
How cautious have I been? I'm so sorry.
I miss cool tiled floors,
shadows swaying on my carpet,
bare feet burning on the driveway.
Life was solid.
I'm letting time slip through my fingers.
My memories have no temperature.
Skirts, colors, sounds.
Feet shuffling through St. Peter's, your lullaby, whistling,
yelling echo on the lake.
When I was seventeen
I woke up in a field.
I woke up to singing in Germany.
I forget the weather.
The past is distant, intangible.
This is unsettling.
Our will can be surprising, our wants maybe more.
I was my own hypnotist for years.
The fallacies I fed myself, repressive at best.
And each time you hugged me
I held my breath to hide my tears.
"I'll miss you so much."
Apathy is easier than pining.
"Yes."Mother, I could barely stand to touch you.
Your warmth was frightening.
Your embrace, dangerous.

False Messiah, I took advice once from you:
"Guard your heart, don't block it.
I learned to build trenches.
I learned to sabotage my own fortress.
Feeding on deception, seduction, adrenaline.
We taught each other insecurity.
Sweet words were only sounds that summer.
Love was warfare then.

Lover,
Yesterday I rode the C.
I saw the future on my hands.
I own my life. A nutmeg purse.
This oriental scarf. Our slanted staircase.
I never regretted living with you, but,where were we going so fast?
Our truths come out in dreams
I first said "I love you" half-asleep.
You answered me with questions,
asking, "Why?"And so I know how it feels to cry on Christmas.
My birthday.
To cry myself to sleep.
To wait for devotion.
To fantasize in blood.
Have you survived betrayal?
Have you loved and hated simultaneously?
You've melted me with so many questions.
We are tired, but we are trying.
We'll look back on this and say,"when everything was crooked."
Let me rewind.
I fell in love with Robin Hood at six.
I fell in love with outlaws at sixteen.
I missed the part on charity.
Sheltered danger, desperation.
Do you know what it's like to kiss a mouth who longs for someone else?
I have twice.
People circle back.
We unravel, we return.
Dark-eyed lover,
What let you to me?
The night I met you you looked familiar.
You filled my trenches before they were dug.
We must surrender our games in order to feel.
In autumn you helped me to cry again.
With your hand on my back, I melted.

So happy,
Lets get coffee
but its such a tarnished flavor
in a chipped cup
and I've drank enough
to cut myself off
So sappy
Lets just fuck,
But its such a boring task
i'll kindly decline,
yeah generously pass
but both cut a smoke
So maybe,
we can get married,
and get divorced,
all in one week,
and I'll have a new feeling
to delve over, and delve head knee xyphoid and deep.

I saw you walk
in such a way
that made your legs
look like milk,
and move like silk

You spoke a phrase,
in such a way
It made your e's
ease their way
into silent a's

And I sang you songs,
in such a way
stupid and awkward
I didn't belong

And I watched the blue
in your eyes
disappear in the pool
and it lies behind you
and the sun blinds my eyes
and I wish i were drowning,
oh, in such a way
in the pool,
oh, behind you.

Talk of the town
Trash off the street
Hand me down
Pass me around
Knee deep in the gutter
Hands fro

come back later.

Decode me;
I'm a box, much like a photo album,
only I use shortcuts,
and sparks like a computer,
except, I hide my stash,
so my parents do see
and my friends can't find
what I hide,
cause its mine
And I can never erase
the days
though I try,
And when I spill my drink,
everyones face seems to fade
and create just one, dull, person;
but when I decide to dry them,
I can make out faces, just barely,
and these pictures bring out the best qualities
of everyone; I've ever met;
My books are right there next to them--
so everything is relative. I hang a crucifix next to my bed,
my bed though is secondary in this equation; mix and match,
choose the words carefully-- swear to me, haha, playfully yes yes, okay alright.

she fell asleep;
stayed dreaming..

she needs a ride to bring her
to the day
where we'd talk
Bukowski
and poetry
and coffee
and sweeteners;
and email
and phonecalls
and ice cream
no politics,
no small talk--
black dress to match the day
I combed my hair,
and wore my black boots
and scuffed my shoes too
and I lost my bandana,
but three years later,
she found it,
it looks better on you, too
and I don't know your name,
but its better than shady drop offs
in wayne,
better than never knowing
I'd see you again
better than seeing you look
more or less than the same
better than knowing
I'm not the same nice boy
who did you a favor
with all good intentions
kiss me girl,
and kiss me once,
wish me to sleep,
a lullaby,
we'll stay silent
sleep outside
stay inside
a tent to hide
the golden sky
it hides all the tempting
spoons and straws
on the silver tray
that lasts a life time,
but ends too soon,

so kiss me now,
we'll stay quiet
sleep outside
a tent to hide
the rainbow tide
hides all our temptation
miss the wide
and endless times
we fell asleep and dreaming.

never a dull mood
under a full moon
every night of june
has a new theory to prove
that stars can stay strung strong
and die years ago
and still lie where they belong
and the birds in their trees
chirp wildly unheard melodies
and the leaves stream as they leave
the brances embraced with bark; stems weave
in and out and in and out
and we don't have a childs chance in this world
to ever appreciate the blistering mysteries
like the wind in autumn touches my face
and the shadows that carress my strangely beautiful spectrum
of black, black and more black,
though white on occasion
it depends on my mood,
wrapped with the wind it spirals
and i admire the winter moon when its through
illuminates the sky until a new moon blooms
and not a moment too soon
cause the candles are dim and fair sighted apparitions
petition traditions of accepting every condition blindly,
as we cup our hands to our eyes to struggle to see
they believe what they see is a dream,
and our reality is ordinary--
ending far too soon,
but life is not short-- life is too long if anything
write your name on my will in good faith
and give you everything
i'll take a year to myself and slowly disappear
reappear and write my name in water
and see clear
that one day,
just maybe i can reinvent myself at 18
and blindly at 19
i'll re-evaluate dreams
as they seem, so far out of reach
and the startling sun sets strangely soaring
and settling
somewhere far southwest of this state,
simply to rise once more in my direction
stretched long out of sight.
the leaves are gone, but not for long
and it hits me, these seasons change like a song
but this sequence of timing is only one moment long,
and its horrible these days to say
i look through the obituary like a familiar photo album,
to see another face thats passed away
"he was a friend you see, a friend to me when i was just sixteen
he's gone at 18, and its strange to me
that when i beg to sleep
for good, not to speak
not to see, but simply to be
at rest and at peace
with this world and this life
that someone so happy, so modest
and auspicious
can drastically leave this
world in an instance--
and i the tortured the sinning the cunning;
addicted afflicted and dare i venture malignant,
am cursed to live on and on and on"
and sometimes i see the same thing twice,
and its alright, just alright
and sometimes i use the same words twice,
in a different instance,
but never more than a second or minute
and even still i feel fine
but life is overwhelming;
i imagine when i leave in autumn
back to the gutter to dream
the wind will seem calming--
and i'll be the chosen
and be cured of the curse of 30 moods a moment.

Straight Days

we sit and talk about it all
maybe its more about nothing
but it's still everything to us
we'll take what we can get
we'll take what we want
because were still young
well young enough
to not know what's going on
but we can figure it out
alone or together
we're both here
doing the same thing
wasting away the days
while the rain wastes it all away

By: Amanda Miskar

two poet tongues
that only touch
on tuesday's rain
blue and gray
and all cliches
but only on paper,
and its only okay
one paper crumbles,
dirty hair that smells like smoke
slick sticking straight around the sides,
I can't see the other face--
imagine a smile, or an upside down frown
or make up all made up,
or maybe just one flapping tongue
spitting streams of words at a screen
with an empty seat
on the other side of the screen.

I post this everytime I'm depressed

I lost ten pounds this week
Cause on amphetamines
I don’t really eat,
And I lied to my girl when I swore I’m still clean
And my what a bore is this world
Without sedation I have no patience
And without my addiction my therapist would have no golden patient
And,
If you’d like to compete in the subject of addiction
I’ve been cashing fake scripts
And prescriptions since I was an infant,
And bending the truth with white lies during month 9
Like the worst day my first day yes my fucking birth date
Blowing lines while still inside
Fucking faded and wasted
getting high off my morals
my first words were a warning,
“Enjoy this pain whore
let me have your epidural”

and its two decades later
and what do I have to show
I got a deviated septum from snorting too much coke
I broke up with my girlfriend cause I missed being alone
I’m high as hell writing this,
Not for sympathy cause I know she don’t miss me
And she left me for some new prick-- some rich kid
With a small dick cause she couldn’t look pretty trying not to scream on my dick
Cause that bitch knows I ripped shit
She flows like her lipstick
After that sappy sloppy quick shit,
Nothing spells romance like trying to watch her
gargle my backwash and forgetting to stop her
before I go.

and I’ll admit, none of that is true,
and what do I have to say, well first off fuck you.
Fuck you with your lies your self-asserting bullshit
For hurting my ego, for trying to handle more than I could put up with,
I haven’t drank in 6 months until I relapsed last night
Trying to get a grip on my life
But she swallowed my pride
So I took a few shots and went for a drive
On the loneliest highway to be seen with two eyes
And i called everyone I knew
To find somebody to talk to
But it clicked that no one likes you when you act the way I do
So I’m driving backwards jerking off laughing
Imagining a stained glass windshield on the moment of impact;
Shining lights flashing, am I coming or rolling,
“Jay, you’re truly an addict”
Oh,
I’m addicted to what, the lack of love?
The fact that I love to lack having someone
You’re worth a dime dear,
Cause the calculations real clear

First you get 6 cents on behalf of my sixth-sense
A sick sense that senses a girl that spreads for attention
And you get 4 cents for both times that I lied
When I gave you my two cents
And you followed me home
And just got up to go
After my consolation present for telling you how much you meant
And it hurts less and less
the more and more I confess
And in total confidence, you’re not worth a dime or a penny; not a cent

Or in this lie of a life, this phantom childhood that haunts me each night
Waking up in the hospital with more i.v inside me
Than blood on the bridge where they were surprised to find me
Or two months to the day
The grave yard is grave
A year to the day you abandoned me
But I don’t believe in heaven,
I just believe in hell
Because every drink that I have leads me back down the spiral
Waking up in the psyche-ward to a new clinical trial
Where a cop can get his jollies
Casting me cynical smiles,
But if he took these handcuffs off I’d show him whats what
I’d slit his throat with the back of his badge
And order dispatch to bring my shit back
I can’t drive myself out when they won’t give me my keys
And I can’t sign myself out while I'm strapped with i.v
Because this pig took my i.d
After I was trying to be nice
He threw out my license
Threw cuffs on my wrists
With a vice grip and razored lip
So if I tried to resist they were lifted to dig in
Or when he smashed my chin on the ambulance on the way in
And took his flash light to my ribs cause I was giving him lip
But I wasn’t giving him shit
With the back of my head to the stars—
Face to the pavement
Lips kissing concrete
And the heels of his pig hooves stomping on top of me

Oh, or perhaps I can tell of the lowest level of hell
Swallowing pill after pill
Just to kill how I felt
The only thing I felt when I fell
was the promising grip of the tip of my belt
Wrapped once around the bed post
Twice around my throat
I don’t make threats see cause when I’m ready to go I’ll go
I’m dressed in my best clothes—a black cloak-
My death clothes.

I didn’t cry as I choked,
I’d rather die like a pro
the best message is the ending,
and deservingly so
And the best ending for a poet as most writers know
Is die before the ink dries on this suicide note

I'm a Comedian

I stepped in shit today, and it yelled, "come back soon"

Sex/Poetry Via Email

You sat in the bath with your mouth wide open
You'd stop if I asked but I knew we'd keep going
Scalding water--the only matter between our bare bodies
Said you loved me--after a bottle of cheap corner store wine
a whisper and a kiss in your ear does the trick
Wrapped in soft towels--
A peaceful seduction that resurrects our drives
Claimed I was your sexual healing
and you swore you were only mine--
My poetic muse
but I'm not good at being used--With my legs propped
and your face cropped from my mind
I claimed a monopoly on your body
and a black out from the wine
and a dream of dreams to follow
from serene peace from bubble sheets
and bending knees
curling toes
and poetic moans;
water floats,
but we--
we just sink like ships
too wise to float
and we rock like boats too
violent to know
that if we just laid still
there'd be enough water
tomorrow.
Enough water
To rinse away the dirt
And hangovers with burnt coffee
To forget
And to never call each other again
One night stands
With no emotional strands
Caught in each other’s hair
But a memory is sweeter,
When you're the pick of the litter
Even the coffee I make
Just seems to taste bitter
And the taste in your mouth
reminds you of me,
dirty and gritty
straighten your hair
your shirts not neat
maybe they'll see,
what you see in mePassion and intensity
A little ball of frustration
With bags under my eyes
Delirium grown into normalcy
But still you think it's nice to fuck and use me
Until I blow a fuse
Turn it into the misuse of you
And you run away
Following the others
but you blow my fuse so well,
that it makes me swell and sweat
until I pop
and makes my head
dizzy-- and I think if you're here again tomorrow,
I'll think these thoughts
of what we could do,
the girl I never knew,
in the hotel room
and maybe,
you can write your fantasies
on your hips
like a mystery;
And i can solve them for you,
and blow your lid,
yeah, blow your fuse.
Take it into the bath tub with you
Savor the shock

Sincerely,

Ying Lam, J. Despers and The Cyber Process

J: Not everything I write is about you, you know, I haven't seen you in over a year.
L: I know, but what the fuck J I read your poetry and you haven't changed since I met you in the hospital.
J: I have changed-- I've gone through hell and come out sparkling clean. I've died and gone through limbo and hell and purgatory and finally I'm back into some state of clear--dream like, child like reality-- and I'm finally thankful for these stupid little miserable days.
L: You're not though, and I'm the only one who watches when you think no one's watching. who are you lying to? You're just caught in this web of sad, lonely lies, and you're going to suffocate. Your brain is dying J, its spinning in circles and it's going to just stop one day-- in your sleep, mid motion, mid thought, it already has.
J: I think about that a lot, you know, it takes a thousand years for a star's projection to fade away-- how do I know I'm not really dead.
L: Why do you say shit like that? Why does everything have to be metaphysics and poetics and rhetorics and bullshit with you?
J: Because I call your phone some nights to hear your voice because you're to only beautiful thought I can't taint with my hands.
L: Aww.
J: But, I'm not sure what's worse, The fact that we're dreaming, or the fact that even in dreams you'd never love me..
L: "Somewhere in the world, roses are green."

Sketch Pencils and Small Talk

I bummed a drag we cut a smoke you caught my name I made a joke
you tossed your hair and i fixed my chair you crossed your legs and i spoke too soon
you smiled and said something funny and I said something funny and you smiled again
and this went on like a carousel, and people came on for the ride, and got off
but we didn't run out of change we were fresh on this run around
too afraid to motion to you that the carriage next to me had an open seat,
but the horse carriage driver casts such dumb luck dirty looks,
that you just tilt your head my way,
and me well I just shook
and we talk some about music,
mostly just about how stupid
we look when everyone else
is stupid smoking cigarettes.
And I thought before,
about falling in love,
and spending evenings
on mountains,
but never about sweating to get there
or sand in my socks combing dunes
but I think about an outsider's point of view,
or two, and it makes me want---
it makes me feel like maybe I'm not so dried up inside,
and my xyphoid--my eyes, are in for a grand surprise
toes touching tapping to tapes and records
and the sounds of clocks and
hours and paws and hallway ghosts
and lurking laundry-- waking to nothing,
nothing to yawns and stretches morning breaths
kisses-- far off still dreaming, a warm shoulder--
the rain outside seeping though it feels more
and more and more like dew,
and sweet like honey, than anything
that makes you or I feel ugly--
cups of tea as we read and we plead
just to stop in between
paragraphs to paraphrase ideas--
a sunrise like an aurora pops into your lense,
and you obsess with the west,
and a mountain erects into bed,
so enough with our text--
and we work on our accents
to worry less and less about jersey
and the things that can't help but hurt you
and can't help but hurt me.

i threw you a curve ball but you swung for the fences and I wish it would've knocked me flat on my back because I had to sit calmly and watch those ostentacious short and sickening kisses, "just for show," because i love you babe, so i wrote you a song using the same four bars, the same four chords, same melody, any musical terms I can use to make myself seem like an artist because he has dirty boots and can take his shirt off and make you love him. I lie to myself, to everyone and I don't deserve to sleep at night. The sun blinds my eyes, so I try to tie my blinds, but they bunch so tight and bind---I don't mind, but its that same slipping I felt my head doing way back when, and I'm not gonna wake up soon, I can feel it. I need to breathe for a minute.

I write a lot about things that I want. I don't want anything. I feel as though I was so thirsty and someone filled my entire mouth with sand, and now that's all i'll taste, for now and forever. I am dry and unsatisfied-- I'm thirsty, and yet filled with sand. I had a lot of smiles and memories from when I was a boy. I write a lot about sad things, mainly because happy things hurt my stomach too much to think about too long. I wish I could touch you like in E.T and let you know how this feels, just how today feels. Monday can't be gloomy though, Monday is its own spectrum of some ugly adjective that hangs like some sort of cloud. Tomorrow the sun will shine too brightly, and wednesday maybe osmosis will kill me from puking all over my mirror from every glance. If not, surely working Thursday will be enough to kill such high hopes. myspace.com/jdespers I really enjoy my new demo song.

365365365365

Saturday, July 26, 2008

light hearted she smiles--lights a smoke and she starts to ask---apologize i'm heavy headed.

8/1/08

Friday, August 1, 2008

Crazy calling out depression depression read all about it--i can't walk past mirrors cause i hate the shades of gray in my faceand i can't stand up out of bedcause the feeling of falling right on my head over heels silk eyes wrapped with lead maybe calling was a bad idea got the neighbors in the back throwing fits lately tomorrow is like one bad dream stuck in the gutter the clean my teeth with grit and grime, don't notice the butterfly seems to fly on by and flaps airwaves spelling out your name with his wings wish i were a dragonfly i would follow you all night then die wish i was a firefly id burn out and it'd be understood how i felt wouldn't have to write these poems i'll close my eyes and hope to god--tomorrow i can hold my head and pray tomorrow i'll be a blackbird looming around cause you chose the wrong kind the wrong guy who has my eyes but not my mind, and he'll be your new dragonfly.

You Think I'm Such A Quiet Boy (but I should never have said this.)

Work for free
the sound of sleeves
crisp and neat
writing my name in corners
graphite; poems
order, dismal
messy, the way you like it
the way i want it
work for free,
Holiday and The Duke,
Me and You
know a thing or two,
about a thing or two
poems in circles around
vinyl--- adopted through
melodies, customs
finger picking folk styles,
he turns throws names
I've never heard,
she throws looks
I've only dreamt I've seen
dirty dresses
fingerprints--stains and smells
that leave my 9 year old mind
feeling much like a child,
but I tip my hat to you---
tumbleweed and lips chapped,
roam the range,
you don't know my name,
dress flapping,
"Fare Thee Well,"
Oh and even though I shant,
I fear this is---

J. Despers and The Beginning of The Worst Decision.

And I watch my feet watch
the cracks in the sidewalk
side steps and silent walks
to the back of the porch,
where the smoke of a cigarette
and something else scorch
all alone in a room
by myself on a porch
hear the drip drop
pelts of rain being felt
against the leaves
of the trees
sound as if she,
is inching towards me,
but I see a shadow
I see an elbow
I see legs with no hand on a knee
I see lips,
with only one set
I see a man, afraid to call himself hers
I see myself in the mirror
transparent; silent and awkward
and knowing my worth
I finish my cigarette,
I finish whatever else
will finish the job,
and sit by myself,
and watch, oh, just watch.

The pain in my head is from days of abuse, cigarettes and prescription medication-- convincing myself I wasn't worth the shit. The pain in my shoulder the keeps me up at night is caused from playing my guitar. I'm tired tonight, so I think I'll sleep. Tomorrow is another day off from work, maybe I'll get ice cream.

Back into the attic,
the shadow days
the ivy days,
one for me,
two for you,
one and one and one
plus one, for you,
five times in a parked car,
and six times I woke in a sweat
7 months ago, I felt worse than I do now.
Back in the attic,
The shadow days,

Sincerely,
J. Despers and The Sleeping Well.

I got a mouthful of thrush
and a back full of aches
they say its all the rave
when you're using too much
and a pocket lined with cuts
from the holes from grave days
and a bad thought turns splendid
when I'm using again
and I sure could use
falling in love
getting used, out of sync
out of touch
broken in,
broke in to touch
another persons stuff
to touch something that was
touch by someone
that didn't look a thing
like someone that looked like
anything like me

July 21st 2009

I tried to sleep around 1 am, I woke around 2 am drenched in sweat-- my leg was tingling and my foot felt like it was wrapped in barbed wire. My knee gets this feeling like there's a golf ball inside of it and I can't move it. I lay in bed and a flurry of dreams flutter over my forehead and it feels much like a fever and much like I'm dreaming-- I dream myself into days from now, and the children of the Kongo play their drums on my chest, and occasionally someone drops a stick and it ricochets and a loud cymbal crashes in between my ears. I jolt out of this sleep, and the clock either hasn't moved, or I've been back to sleep for around two minutes. My forehead tingles and my chest is imploded-- creating the sensation that I am suffocating. I walk down the stairs-- everything is in strange double vision, particularly this morning and I smoke a cigarette outside. Some electron inside of my head whispers, "Stroke" as I think about my numb leg and my numb forehead, and instantly my heart races to the point where I become light headed. I finish my cigarette and hold a glass in my hand and scale the steps to just outside my parents room. Why a glass? If I fall, my thoughts are that a glass would make noise. This is the refreshing night of sleep that I am privilidged to indulge myself in every night. I'm not trying to "one up" anyone-- I don't care about my shitty life more than I can about yours. This was just to add to the sleeping well.

Midstream

Grape vines and gray skies and yellow dafidils and blue tulips all hang arranged by chance around a hickory fence. The posts are dirty and chipped the way wood becomes when it rots in the sun un-finished after years have had their way with it. An oddly shaped house, much like the back of a house, only with windows that looked like great oval eyes staring down the street and staring down the children gave you the impression it was indeed the front.The door was coloured like ivory, off gray and too dull for anyone to knock on. Behind the door was a living room, no one lived in it, but sometimes conversations lingered long after company left; the wood smoked faintly as the embers were drifting to sleep. The couche cushions held memories too darling to ever let go of. Lint and loose change kept these secrets to themselves, and swore never to tell. Besides, how often do you probe for change under the cushion. Unless you're in a bind.Jay was a quiet silent dreamy type of kid, when the rage wasn't pouring from his finger tips onto a fretboard of an old acoustic guitar, they were spelling words out on an antique desk top; each firm stroke of any given key on the type-writer would spell out places or things he dreamt of seeing or doing. And once in a lonesome while, they would spell out things he dreamt of being."F" he tapped, beginning his first career choice. Probably just a fire-fighter. He had often dreamt about rushing into a building- abandoned and burning and by chance stumbling upon some unconscious victim. "Miss, can you hear me? Miss, listen to my voice. I'm going to get you out" he'd scream in between gasps for air under thick dark smoke. Rosey and ripe as oak smells just fine when its burning."Ar.." he seemingly began to ask. What was he asking? To whom was he asking. The woman in the building? Jay didn't know, and he tried scribbling out lines onto a piece of scrap paper. Are you alright? No, that didn't seem heroic at all now.Arielle, can you hear me? But how did he know her name, he thought in spells. He crumbled the paper and walked to the window, the big oval eyed window and he peered onto the streets. Not a drip of inspiration perspired from a blue sky and dusty cracked concrete streets, and inside he felt tarnished. Tarnished like his car just melting in the sun, or so it appeared to him.Black birds flew in the distance and he thought, ::i'm never doing anything with my time. I bide my time to sit and wonder and take life in stride and accept the way things are going, as the way they have to be. But i'm not sure they really have to be this way. Sometimes words mean the same thing like cause and 'cause::His thoughts began to race, as they did from time to time. About now was the time he would check his pulse, as he felt his heart beat in rhythms that would make a percussionist dizzy.::I feel a pain in my leg, a pain in my head. Maybe its a blood clot. I don't think it could be a blood clot. But do you even know what one is? Well, maybe i shouldn't smoke so much.::Anxiety began to tackle him until his pale yellow walls turned red, and everything had the same aura around it; screaming stay away, stay fa"r away" when i grow.After fumbling for his phone, he called the man whose last name was mystery, and first name was Real. Real mystery was just that, and Jay didn't ask questions. He didn't care, and besides, how much do you need to know about the person selling you drugs.'I need 5 Lorazepams" Jay sounded frantic over the phone. Static from satellites distorted shakiness for panting, and he began panting in real time."10 tokens," was the real replay.Jay reached in his pocket, to find 7 dollars. He looked under his bed and found a 2 dollar bill. He walked down the stairs and they creaked, "Nt" "eee" "nuff"He made it to the living room and realized he didn't have enough. He checked the kitchen counter, hoping someone had left spare change. He found 3 pennies, and took his chances somewhere else.He looked at the couch, and tried to think hard about what the couches meant to him. They looked familiar, but he couldn't remember sitting on them. He couldn't remember anything really, except that he needed another dollar.::Look under the couch, okay, i feel something.::He found a dollar and 37 cents. five quarters, a dime and two pennies. They clanked together as he dropped them in his coat's cigarette pocket. Jay didn't know it, but.:: I'm going to quit smoking.::And it was decided, he would quit smoking cigarettes. Things went like this quite often, sometimes his thoughts ran so wildly that it appeared they were on track to just eat his mind inside out. To have to subconscious attack the conscious is a grave battle. Sometimes lithium and other salts and medications could cure this. But sometimes, there's always room for sometimes.