I can’t quite make it out
but I can feel it giving way
to the pressure of my fingers
I can feel that joyful squish

I can’t quite make it out
but I can feel it giving way
to the pressure of my fingers
I can feel that joyful squish
I am bones when I see a friend
I am bones when I eat
I am bones when one of us survives
dancing on floor made of
cracked and splintered bone
skin stretched thin
scarred pink and white
two devil’s on my shoulder
both on one side
one sat down, gently
with grandpa’s big smile
there are bridges i’ve burned because I didn’t want to be followed and there are bridges I’ve burned because I was careless with fire.
The heart slaps along
write as a vulture;
And his lover
having had decent
and good parents
will reply,
There is a man
crossing the street
talking to himself
or
There are beautiful things
There are such beautiful things
I’ve literally written
a poem
You’ve literally read
a poem
coffee
black
like letters perched
on invisible wire
sit
under gray clouds
and burnt sky
under waving patriotism
tattered
Hello fellow readers and writers, Recently, I had the unique experience of participating in a podcast episode of Soul Asylum, a podcast on Blog Talk Radio. I was asked to share one of my poems, […]
Find yourself a house
made of brick
or cement
cinder block, if you can find it
we giggled all the way to the arcade
I pushed in two quarters
and we
played Farting Hillary Clinton’s
Make me a phone
out of living bone
Caulk it with marrow
wrap it in tissue
I offered to send him toys and help me pick.
He said I want my papa for 100 days.
The ants are back looking for their food
and I don’t see them until they wind
And beauty slathers itself
on rusted sheds
cricket legs
a field of dust and weeds
And beauty slathers itself
on rusted sheds
cricket legs
a field of dust and weeds
god and all the other little people
Me and Jack Kerouac
The heart slaps along
sticking
to hot asphalt
with each rotation
And I see
not much more than
string
wet and woven
And of the toilet brush
next to porcelain bulb
resting in its holster
all bristles even with the lip
and the more beautiful I see
the more ugly I do
and the more ugly I see
the more beauty I do
you know you’re alone
but that little blue ball
Bukowski’s little blue bird
still hops
Two hours in the dryer
still wet
try again
I saw him, second
In meetings anonymous
Old and bruised
Bewildered and staring
and you can’t stop
so you don’t start
and they pile up
and you lose sight
I don’t want to smoke
and I sneak away
to coffee shops
and think about smoking
Now I have the time
to pay attention to the names
of musicians
both living and dead
I know a great writer
but you don’t
her greatness is planted
in not knowing, not
snow buried, re:
whites, grays, haze
Trieved to a
Saint slobbering Bernard
Oh, rolling tongue
thick fatigue
lolling numb
“I’s” and “Me’s”
My eyes glaze, I lick my lips
and dream of your apocalypse
I called it names to which it spat
‘til desperation made me scream
I know not, love, for what you dream
we want to see beauty
and we’re the same
with different words
so I choose carefully
I tried drinking
Like Hemingway
But the loneliness was unbearable
Light’s fingers press in darkness stains
Colors froth through milky grains
Teddy bear
picking seam
removing fluff
piling up
Teddy there
And I want to find words that aren’t in a book
And I feel too much pain will allow me to look
And
I write them out
So plainly
Too quickly
The pianist’s fingers bleed
for the raised voice
recognition
of barfly’s and
passersby
Follows
Gravity
Mixed
Literal
I tried drinking
Like Hemingway
But the loneliness was unbearable
A train not even crashing
No explosion
Just quietly retiring
Off the tracks
And if you let yourself go
you’ll bloom in a shimmering galaxy
of golden hair
And I keep pressing down
And I think of a pianist
And I want to make music
And I hate the things my fingers leave
And I make noise