Birth

poetry

She looked at me through smoke.

Exhaled, brushed past her lips.

The shock of her gaze, stopping me dead,

What things could she teach me?

It was there, at that moment,

I was born.

Squalling and red, bursting into life,

After years of solitude,

I drew my first breath

Light flooded my eyes

And I saw the nudity,

The reality. The truth.

The innocence of life.

Simplicity.

And I saw my previous perspective again,

An eight legged beast,

Gnashing its jaws. Ready to devour

Any innocence I might have had.

What hell did I stare into?

What heaven has eluded me?

I beg for life.

a poem about going crazy

poetry

when it’s cold outside
and facebook is slow-moving
and the city-streets are grey
and your wife don’t love you
no more,
and the kids won’t look you
in your eyes faded from years
of looking
will you turn to your hope
chest
set up as
a time capsule
to remind
of what you asked of yourself
long ago
and will it be too late?

when i see you
standing in the cold-grey
street, my head barely
above a desk,
with your arms like propellars
i will wonder for a
moment where you’re flying
off to until you get crushed
under the weight
of the commute–

then systematically you
get cleaned up off the cement
like a stain on a white counter
that stretches for infinity
for absolutely no reason.

with friends like these, who needs hygiene?

poetry

you cannot help but comment
on everything you produce
be it the written word, a
creative project, the happiness
in your wife’s eye, you’ll always
point it out. something must be said
you say.
when you cough and it’s productive
you comment, when your home-
grown tomatoes taste wonderful
you comment.

and now in the distance i hear
“oh yea”
and i know it’s coming from
the bathroom where you cannot
help but comment on everything
you produce

poetry

Here I sit,

Watching greatness on television,

Inhaling smoke to get high,

Inhaling smoke to get low,

Already low in a dark canyon,

Looking at the sun,

Too high up, as to be a pinhole in a black sheet.

I light a candle to see,

Light a cigarette to breathe,

Take a sip calm,

Take a hit to feel.

I’m lost in the darkness,

Holding the walls to guide me.

Josh

poetry

It was a sudden act that brought you here,
I’m sure,
laid out so tidy with
your hair done right
and they got the clothes good, too

It’s an interesting place to spend a night,
all boxed up like that
and everyone in the other room
trying real hard to
have a good time

You’d love that the booze was free
and they got two of your favorite things
and all the acoutrimahhh to boot
and they did it, man.
With a few gospel tunes just for
added support,
and a couple old audio tracks with
your name on ’em,
they did it.

They could have used your help,
though.

a sprig of mint cut in three and some ginger sliced in my sand-porcelain cup to ease the youch

poetry

five days in the ancient city
void of internet
(yes, that ancient)
walking winding streets
with pictographs where
an alphabet, or even characters
do not suffice
seeking a restaurant of refuge
or a moment away from the canal
where you wash your clothes
dump your sewage
and generally swim for funsies.

five days in the ancient city
days 6-11 of my cold
and 10 hours overnight on the
second floor of the train
to bring me home.

as the stress falls from my shoulders
i’m hoping the oppressive weight
of the mucus in my throat begins to ease
and as i walk roads paved with
black-top instead of hand-carved stone
i thank the Lord for civilization,
good food, 3g, and overwhelming sunshine

and a bed i call my own
naps i call my own
and hot water
i foolishly call my own.

In All His Splendor

poetry

If Solomon was the wisest man that ever lived
then I say, give me more wisdom than Solomon.
If a man unmatched in wisdom
found his delight in the ceaseless gathering of innumerable riches—
the captivation of hoarding of chariots and horses—
and the pastime of collecting seven hundred wives
and three hundred concubines of foreign princesses—
I say, give more wisdom than Solomon.
And if that harem could deceive his heart,
convincing him to build shrines of idolatry
to worship the abominations of Moloch and Ashtoreth—
rejecting the very God who gave him
the wisdom to attain all that he had—
I say, give me more wisdom than Solomon.
Tear me in two.
If Solomon was the wisest man that ever lived,
make me a beggar.

Back-to-back comparison of two practiced (unrehearsed) methodologies for having a time

poetry

I find all the simple things
that make the more impressive things
and I ask around until I
get them all smashed together
just right
and I
don’t speak more than English
though I find the Russian tongue to be absolutely
captivating

I call ahead some nights
and I check availability and I
place an order so I don’t stand
in lines so long and I
stop for supplies on my
planned-out excursion in to
whatever

Most nights though I’m
out of town with just enough
to make it back no problems
and I left my coat and I
don’t have money for oil and
I think my car needs some
but the trip
is the whole point, I think
and even this way
Especially this way
I get right directly over to
whatever

I laugh more most nights

The Speculator.

poetry

I am the speculator,
I am mixing your words with cloudy water,
then pouring them over the pavement.
I am mad without delay, my lips are frozen fingers.
I photograph the dying fish
that wreathe in greasy splendor.
The table has been set for hours,
a candle dribbles idiotically.
I am padding the insides of your cheeks
with blank cheques; you’re coughing on the telephone –
monotone. Wash it down with bourbon.
I’ve filled a bath with sulfuric acid,
set jazz upon the radio. I’ve
emptied out the garbage.
A flight to Puerto Rico
leaves in fifteen minutes.

Tomorrow I am washed like bed sheets,
set exposed to the afternoon,
flinging myself like a dancer in the airstream.
I am a merry-go-round in summer,
my joints are oiled
with ecstasy
and yet my heart grinds
like an aged boiler-room,
my stomach corrodes like playgrounds
and my eyes are as vacant as winter.

Where shall we go for dinner?
They can wait on us until midnight trickles in,
until glass clinks against
glass and glass slips into
rubber and rubber smells like
decaying mammals.  And people would know
that something died; or so she said on Mercy Street.
There is nothing left to do, but cut ourselves off
and walk home like children.

When the crystal ball
spits into your ogling eye,
what do you do?

I stay up late.
I drink like no one’s watching.
I like to be atypical,
You’ve got to be disarming.
A jury mingles outside the convenience store;
chewing gum exchanged for story.
And the heat will turn to dusk.
The five o’clock drinks roll in,
along tongues, down, down, down
throats of boundless secrecy.
And the outcome will be polluted,
by a cigarette butt thrown by the woman
with long brown hair and a son by
the name of Lucifer,
who likes to make Churches with
cereal boxes – just like Daddy taught
him.

Hunger

poetry

My stomach growls,
it’s rumbling call,
beckons for sustenance,
something to fill it,
bread and hard cheese
with wine. I never knew
how much of a void
was within me. But,
no matter how much
I force down
my gullet,
no matter how much
I chew and swallow,
the void grows wider.
Blacker. Deeper.
The delights I craved,
no longer slake.
The delights I crave,
will not abide.
Lodging in my throat,
compelling controlling chokes.
Christ it burns…
But it’s worth the effort.
And one can hope,
that one day I’ll be sated.
Fat and happy.
Dozing,
ready for a nap.

a poem about shutting up

poetry

ah the phoney drunk on
god’s greens in this modern
age they’re much easier to pluck
which plays to the phoney’s luck
and the critics agree
that his poetry on sitting
is of the highest degree
and his necketh doth strain
as he rigidly rambles

repeating retarded preambles

his living quarters in shambles

his bookshelf lined with candles

about hypothetical rain.
this, with none to gain
but the lull that come with refrain.

Poets should be rockstars

poetry

So it’s a little past midnight
Right?
And I’m on winter’s stoop
Listening to 4 attractive women
Asking me to write poetry about them
(they tell me they are muses)
And although, Yes
It is more or less in jest
I’m going to take this moment
To pretend I am Mick Jagger’s
lips and hips
Gyrating unendingly and
Demanding to be kissed
Every body
Needs a moment like this. I
Bottled my drunken rock star dreams
A long time ago
So, honey
If you need poetry written about you
Just ask me slowly
You know
I’ve written a million poems
About brown eyes, and long necks
And soft hands
All in secret journals that
I’ve swallowed whole so
When somebody
asks me
to write them a poem
I have a hard time saying no
And this
Is my poets poem
The one moment I’m going
To revel in knowing
That last night four women
Wanted me to write poetry
About them
Goddamn that’s something this kid
Never expected
That Mick Jagger moment
And yes it was jesting
But for five brief seconds
I let myself pretend
Again
That this stick is a microphone
And this dirt is a stage
And that tree is a stadium
And the leaves are all people
Watching me
Just watching me
And wanting poems about them

Hopeless

poetry

Each breath you steal floating off
like the Angels come to take your soul away
and goosebumps on your bare arms and
a shiver, but only just

crusted cars wander by aimless-like
no people you can see driving them
everything alright on their end
you are invisible

you’ve got a fair three miles
two hours with no stops, tops
and an emergency blanket to wrap
yourself in, and your tennis shoes are
soaked already

Keep stealing breaths, though.
You won’t be invisible for long.
Someone will come for you.
Even if it’s the Angels.

Forgive me this

poetry

For D.M.T.

The moon is battering my blinds tonight
Bright like
The sun’s only wife. Making
consummation
with the east only because
No One
Is watching

I was seventeen
You always said your best friend
Was
an “ethereal beauty”
I guess I forgot to tell you
You were too