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.