The morning sun

takes away what night did want
and makes the way for cleaner font;
words that drive and move you forward,
but place in time that moves you toward
the race that rhymes do often run,
like busy schoolchildren at falling sun,
playing toying throwing wishing
unicorns and sidewalk fishing
jamming dancing with reckless appeal.
beneath the fount of youth there hides
thriving green upon the window sill.

alone in the morning sun
we bask in its smokey haze
and wander through its fields of gold

refracted packed and pounded clay —
do wish you’d come to hear me play —
you warm my shoulders take my dreams
and break them out from seam to seam

oh sun, oh noonday first to break day,
to those lost in city gardens
of the nights that bleed on true,
passed the daylight’s witty pardon
for muse’s that might misconstrue,

oh sun, oh noonday sun,
that surely flies and burns near home,
take yourself from here remove
and to my mother’s side do roam.

please oh God oh anything holy
take yourself and all that’s good
to the bedside table full
of mediclutter and much water
that she often hates to drink.

oh sun oh noonday sun
bleed towards that afternoon
and let that moon not early come
to take away what night did want.

 

 

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Lines while listening to Regina Spektor

My dog at my side,
music all around me,

a desk lamp on my night table
craned up to the corner near the ceiling
where it glows warmly into the room,

My guitar inside her open case
like an invited guest
happy to be around,

Remnants of this morning’s coffee
cooling on the floor,
inches from where it was brewed,

 This morning’s Post God knows where
But Lorca here on my bed,

And all this while
my roommate’s dog
who I only met yesterday
sits by my side
Basking in the brick reflected
morning light of 156th Street,

And he looks up at me as I type this,
as this song wraps up
and we share a, “Yes, I know” moment.

He enjoys a warm pat from me,
he takes his leave of the moment,
and comes back during the next song
and answers with a, “It’s Okay”
nod of the head
cocking it sideways
at that strong neck of his,
“I understand.”
He nestles at my feet.
To protect I assume.

I wonder what he’s thinking?
Because I’m not thinking a thing.

“If I was stronger
I  would up and go
But here I am
and here we go again.”
_Regina Spektor

 

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And so it starts

with wine and music,
and so it starts with heartfelt passion;
with a yearning sadness
that weighs down
on your chest
like that bully in second grade.

A little shaky but full
speed ahead.

 

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Hello world!

I’d like to throw a clean slate on the proverbial hang drab of mental literature. And start recording things that cross this crazed  cryptonitic quixotic cryptic head of mine. All meat all brain. Too much thinking all the time. It never stops.

Here’s what I plan on doing:

  1. Making art all the time. In every genre and in every rhyme. Notwithstanding any crime.
  2. I promise to make it as current and on topic to normal and popular culture but I’m also recording everything in every way I can. That’s what it’s all about.  So pop, it may not be.
  3. My little red book of writing is lost and can be found on the downtown A train tracks at 145th street. *

Let’s find it together!

* Update:  My little red book of writing is lost.

 

 

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Ides of December

ides of december

and his head sloshed in his
hands with the weight of a
pendulum of antiquity.  like
a steel ball and chain tied
to his drunken youth.  To and
fro, to and fro, there was
no rest to this clatter and
unrest in his heart.  Every
so often he would clothes his
eyes with perfunctory lids yet
concentrated breathing.
Drained from the night before
and sick to his head and
stomach.  The train was like
purgatory but outside was like
hell.  At West 4th Street now
he recalled his last night’s walk
across West 4th passed H____
B______’s door where he snuggled
up and kissed and never
knew exactly where he stood
with her.  He was content just
drifting… but now his demure
steps and furtive glance took
him way passed and far away from
yoga days and chai filled nights.

Bus to NYC

Leaning back against the retractable seat, a blonde with a plain but pretty face and nose ring, and bose quieting headphones, leans back into my right knee that is propped against the heater which spurs forth a precipitant onslaught of too hot heat and I awake again after most certainly bobbing around and swaying back and forth as I tend to do while sleeping sitting down.  I’ve grown accustomed to this stretch of road between DC and New York.  I’m quite used to its twists and turns and picturesque bridges, small cities we slice through and fly over, the long straight dulling stretches, the latter of which we are being expended upon for the better part of an hour or perhaps I wish it was an hour because at that point the trip would be nearly finished.  This stretch after all is the New Jersey Turnpike.

The most recent bus rides between DC and New York have been nauseating, cramped, and too long.  What once was bearable I’m no longer able to handle.  There was a lovely sky to my right, falling sun casting light of orange pink and emerald red against the cloudless celeste sky, but I keep seeing the blonde’s hair in front of me (she’s been snoozing for a while), the black and checkered dress of my seatmate, my pea-coat in my lap… and feeling warmth and general listless agitation.

I awake as I was saying and felt my general condition worsen even noticing that my seat and surroundings had gotten smaller, I felt encroached upon.  Could this get any more cramped?

Debussy’s “Jardins sous la pluie” seems to make the headlights dance through these damn rose glasses and every fiber in these seats stands on end and gets closer together and closer to me.

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Summer Beer

A Boddington’s in front of me, a Jack Daniel’s on the way, but hopefully he heard me decline his offer.  Already two sips down and the Guinness harp is plucked by frothy white beads like sand and my chair is surrounded by meat heads, frat boys, over grown dude-boys and I feel like… the filling sand against the grain of my glass.  The sphere, the glass wall of this bell (ding!) jar.

Auburn trapped
like ancient sap,
prehistoric dinosaur

grunts in moonlight,
nothing’s sore
in the heat
of love and war.

The discussions around me have ranged from football players to Tiger Woods to fishing to world travel to things unmentionable in mixed company.  There’s a woman getting pulled by her shoulder strapped purse for being overly chatty with this group of three blokes.  Her balding and fat and big nosed buffoon boyfriend is quiet and stupefied at a distance behind her.  She’s obviously drunk and he leans back on the wall and pillar behind him and takes a wishful gulp of his pint glass filled with water and ice.  He stares at her for a second, still; while his glass is in the air, his head cocked back taking the swig, his lids and whites of eyes dart down revealing cold black pupils, and he chews his ice in half with his two front teeth.  He seems upset at the attention he’s surely not getting or maybe he’s really looking out for her well being.  Maybe he’s really out to look at her chest and backside.

There are purple wisps
that turn brown-like pollen
like stalks of barley or
corn on the cob pipe that’s been
flattened and stretched long and thin
as if reaching for the sun
too long in vain –

“A shiner’s knot” would be a
misdirected description for
surely it shines for I see
without assistance.
But it’s white all over
the surface of the ceiling.
The sky.

It seems as though the
moon’s been flattened
and smoothened over the
Earth. Or perhaps
there’s a lens over the
ground that magnifies the
moon so much that
it seems to take up
the entire sky.

It doesn’t feel
oppressive at all; it’s
New York already,
and it’s Autumn.

There’s a blue patch
of runway and a
translucent glow
it catches like a floor
lamp over my desk.

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