Month: September 2015


Someone sang it once and they were right
“I only have to do it”

and I was a little fucker back then
when I heard it and I thought it meant

I was meant
for more than what
men are usually meant for.

Someone picked up a brick and
dipped it in cow shit and threw it

threw my dreams later

that summer
and it didn’t matter anymore.

Someone went away and
now the songs are even worse.

Anyway, I say this only now to you
because for one,
I wanted to know you loved me

enough to follow me down here,
and two, because you are just another

character who will either be
or not be

new poem

new poem: let me black out your early morning smile with the knowledge that nothing will ever last as long as this night let’s contort for a bit and pretend our limbs might have some sort of secret locked between their shuffle let’s joke the seizure of dance into being anything else I want to hear your limbs cascade the rocks the ocean knows how to lie because its been stuck around us all this time let’s get a good ole sing song around the fire of this camped out shit song and when it hits hard lets not forget that everybody rots inside the same earthly shell lets not let ourselves forget that as nice and kind and good as you think you are being in the end we all rot in the same contaminated earth let’s not forget that as much as you played and prayed and weighted in on this thing that in the end we all rotted to the core and were left as we started when it gets ugly don’t forget the ugly are here waiting for the cause know that we are all waiting for some other ugly fuck to replace us in a long long line up of others who have just fucked their existences into this moment and know that you are nothing else but another warm snowflake in the shit of now in the shit of now there are many, many new promises made know that death is your blessing it is your chance to not give a fuck your chance to be bukowski and when you get really dark and down know that you wasted all the moments in-between to know this is to at least have some sense of truth in between your knees before it starts to bleed irrevocably until it seethes until it secedes itself to the throne of your own final, rattled breaths lets be real it all ends and nobody can stop it nobody can stop it and nobody can ever hope for anything else but this lets be fucking real a scream in the face of life is a scream nobody has a goddamn chance we all die alone and our bodies are instruments left to rust that just happen to dance again before anyone thought possible and when I go I hope I go like a dusty trombone like dirty saxophone like an ugly piano like a simple struggle I hope it breaks open a pit inside me in surround sound and fucking sing-song I hope it oozes out of me like no tomorrow like no sparrow had a shot outside my own vision when I go I hope I go narrow against the edge of it I hope I redefine the idea of a crow that pecks its owns eye out I hope it spills speaks splurges outside of me like there was no tomorrow when I go it better be worth it because other wise ill get hard and wronged and horny and ill flip every fucking table in this joint and every head will and every eye socket and every limb will pop will blow


I wrote your name on beach rocks.
It took me all season but I made sure to cover
a decent plot of the summer-lands
so you would find it attached to mine.
You could keep your name, we could both hyphenate.
I laughed.

I wrote your name in swirling fonts.
I added hearts.
I was sick.
I knew we were never meant to be.
But I practiced the dangerous devotion
of all early love in a kid’s hands.

Just like when at 12 I knew
Steven King was meant to adopt me.
He just had to meet me, hear my stories, and

I planned it all out.

The T-bone over the high iron gates,
to distract his Rottweiler’s.

I buried a dream or too as well,
but they were mostly muffled screams
and kisses that got lost in the rain
on a night where a baby fox watched us
make love,
and it was too beautiful afterward
to think about more than once
after every new major life shift.

I learned the calligraphy of tired and high
and over-excited bodies in beautiful folds
and creases, sleeping in what is impossible
yet never even for an instant awkward.

I rolled a joint from a Bible’s page once,
with honey and desire.

I swore it was the last time
I lent out my papers at life’s parties.

I kept going.
I found new loves, new chains, new homes
and new rocks.