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.