this is for the ones i left unfinished

poetry

this is for the ones
i left unfinished:

fuck you anyway
i hope you are waiting
and shivering at an
abandoned bus stop
waiting
mouth full of cotton
i hope you grow real
legs
just as the sun sets
i hope you walk to
cedar
and put one in my dome
while i’m sleeping
peacefully

and then it will be
fuck me,
then.

poetry

say what you will about ball sports
the truth is there are guys out there
with the talents to make incredible
things happen in split second decisions
without a second thought and then
they’ve the muscle power and memory
to execute in a way that i can only
ever hope to mimic in my pipe-packing.

speaking of which, football is on
and i have a particular latakia blend
waiting for me

hank. born.

poetry

i feel i’ve planted something
here, by this place for words
but forgotten to water it or
something equally as life
threatening. i return with some
regularity to check on things but
find the withering distressing
and move on, blaming my lack
of a green thumb for the death
here. the decay. but I know a
bit of elbow grease and forgetting
for a moment myself for the sake
of these organisms would do some
good. i’m just unsure of how to
proceed from here. i know its
hard to begin to kneel and get to
the work when your back is
out of shape from lack of kneeling.

and these fingers. they need newly
acquired calluses.

(Edgar Allan Poe) In My Pants

poetry

The Raven in my pants.
The Black Cat in my pants.
The Cask of Amontillado in my pants.
A Descent into the Maelstrom in my pants.
The Gold-Bug in my pants.
Hop-Frog in my pants.
The Imp of the Perverse in my pants.
The Purloined Letter in my pants.
Eldorado in my pants.
The Masque of the Red Death in my pants.
The Oval Portrait in my pants.
The Pit and the Pendulum in my pants.
The Premature Burial in my pants.
The Haunted Palace in my pants.
Annabel Lee (Er—I mean my wife!) in my pants.
The Tell-Tale Heart in my pants.
The Bells in my pants.
The Conqueror Worm in my pants.
A Dream Within a Dream in my pants.

poetry

i can’t believe these new surroundings
are smelly like this
and the grass grows so thick
i can rub my toes through it
(you know, it it weren’t covered in dog poo)

the driver says this is what it’s like
and i should get used to the rain
and the grey.

the neighbors tell me it doesn’t bother
them.

the police work with the shades closed
and terrible dark blinky blue lights
reflecting off pale white walls and
a grey ceiling somehow pretending they’re
not in deep depression, or perhaps
genuinely happy.

who knows.

but foolishness and foolheartedness,
and fattiness will be life.

thusforth.

To the boys and everyone

poetry

Roads run red in New York City
or so I hear from time to time
on various news-stations speaking
over stereos and PAs in public
houses and restaurants

But here I sit at 25 years
and I’ve played a few parties for
guests who I knew would never
arrive but those times were the
hardest that I’d ever played

And blood in streets doesn’t
scare me, much, but bodies in
boxes bother me more than I’d
really care to admit right now

And I want to sing a lot of songs
but none of them really say
all the right words in just the
right order

So this sappy poem will have to do

nothing there but this

poetry

the one who knows
does not worry about the future
or about the myriad of reasons
condemning him to drudgery

he maybe of mud, but he knows
as long he breathes, he breathes

and when, he loves- he loves
not just when it’s convenient or
comfortable

he does not acclimate
to seasonal pettiness or
begrudge in silence
he speaks his mind

he shows you the end of the road
says “what have you done?”

when you’re trying to hide from your
mistakes or from
all the time wasted

he changes your mind, but will not
cash up on the lies you’ve given him

he may be too late to catch on
on what’s floating in your mind
but he is not indifferent

he sees the good in you
he wishes to read happy endings in
the palms of your hands

but the one who knows
knows he knows nothing at all

he simply puts forward a sincere heart

here to there.

poetry

uprooted for weeks
in the in-between
waiting in nothing
living with nothing
hoping for little
until the dust settles
and is swept away
then replaced with
new carpet and the
sunshine is removed
for rain and gray
because life sometimes
throws you a fastball
you mistake as a
curveball but discover
altogether too late
to do anything about it.

at that point you’re
already settled.
waiting on nothing
living with little
and hoping for nothing.

when i ran away, rachel robinson

poetry

if i could live
16 again
i would meet you
in the open field
with your boys
at 2 or 3 am
and knowing then
what i know now
i would close my
laptop lid
and walk miles
in the cold country
darkness and
fight you with
everything i had

even if your boys
came in, as i
had feared
and stomped me
to pulp
i would lie my
bloodied face
on the thick,
dew covered grass
of my hometown
and laugh a crazy laugh
and spit the blood
out and laugh

and if you didn’t
kill me,
i would be better
for that

maybe better, some
how
than i am today

maybe i wouldn’t shake
or worry so much
maybe i’d be a better
man.

becoming

poetry

a lengthy buzz ricotches
between my eyes-
I hurtle from the bed
before the second splits,
lights on, shoe
in hand, manic
with mosquito possibility.
black comforter
is shrunk into a crack,
pillows launched into closet,
hands lusting to smash frantic,
too late. The itch,
the unbearable itch
pistoned into dwarf bumps
begins. Left arm, three bites.
Right arm, five. Forefinger
marred, my back
one big bug bite, pulsating
scratch down my veins.
I blanche and blotch pink,
speckled skin crawling
so fast it vibrates.
I can feel them on me,
one million tiny feet
caressing, digging
thirsty, penetration,
a well is spring
I lose myself, straws
sticking out into lips
red like I’ve never
seen before.

The windows are sealed.

I check under the bed.
Gestated swarm
fills my mouth,
I cough out MOSQUITO,
legs caught in my teeth
whole body surging
bug wave washes over me, clinging
to every vein. Three
fly up my ear
and my brain goes MOSQUITO
bones buzzing I claw wings
from my back, fly
through the crack in the door.

What is that light and why
is it so beautiful?
Where did all these legs
come from?
The itch
is gone.
But the thirst,
the incredible thirst.
I drink,
and I drink,
and I give nothing back.

on josh at harvey’s

poetry

josh said “what?” to himself
dipped in disgust as we
crossed the boulevard

sometimes i use my body
to play with the universe

josh was disgruntled with
that,
as some can be,
raised in a modern
anal retentive middle
white class up-
getting

that too is the murky
gene pool i awoke in

josh would talk freer
and more openly with me
when i used my body
to play a human-being

just like at my job where
i tickle change from pockets

that night and through
alcohol he would forget
even more that i was actually
light newly freed from the
sun talking his language
and reminscing on
being human

and i like having friends
because,
it multiplies the
positivity

krokodil

poetry

i first heard your name the
winter of my returning home

you were the promise of respite,
a gentle wave lapping on the shore

your words were hyperbole and
placeholders for others and
you said i didn’t have to stay
or that you could go and

some years later it is finally
the morning after
the waves are garbage trucks
the sunlight is acidic
and my arm is rotting
from the paths you traveled,
krokodil

do something

poetry

the door is closed
i lie in a sugary filth
i dream of international politics
yet
the possibilities remain unheeded
the apathy in the air
fossilizes the skin

do something different
than you’ve done before
maybe it won’t leave you
empty and hungry
and lying in a cheap
sugary filth

do something or you
will be frozen in
time,
gasping for breath
with stone lungs whose
efficiency is massively
degraded

do something at all and
push a wave into the
maddening ocean and
try not to cringe
when it comes back
changed by the distance
and its intent foreign

do something so they all
stop staring.