Laying Down and Underpainting

She called our love kitsch

From the 17th floor

Williamsburg high rise

Overlooking homeless in the park

Under dressed and over exposed

Was I kidding her or just killing myself?

Fascinated by her manic beauty

As she tore apart the morning in disguise

Throwing fits of rage like I’d paper in a bin

Stripping away my senses like her past

It wasn’t as much a choice as it was survival

Leaving her lust like the vanilla

She tasted on my ghost

While laying down the underpainting

For her latest masterpiece in loss

May 6, 2014—Only The Silent Can See—A Journal Excerpt

Tangled together in clustered chaos, rising from the soil.

No bark alike. No height specific. No two seeds the same.

Are we so different from the natural world, I ask?

Tangled together in clustered chaos, rising from the bed.

No skin alike. No gender specific. No two wombs the same.

Are they so different from us, I ask?

The answer cannot be sung. The answer cannot be heard. The answer cannot be praised.

The answer shows itself every so often, in between the tangled clustered chaos, where only the silent can see, where only the silent remain.

Aprils Fool

I wish I could have been

The air of reason

Forever calm

Before the storm

Instead of becoming

Those howling winds

Those howling winds

You knew before

But having been

Picked over plenty

Like a jukebox full

Of another’s score

And though I never

Sought to reign

Like Aprils Fool

I seem to pour

Our Current Social Dilemma

We went from public displays of affection

Straight to public displays of everything

Now leaving nothing to the imagination

Embracing it all, then apologizing for it after.

It’s like some convoluted social stream of consciousness

That forms a figure eight of disingenuous pandering

One which tastes to a choir of social unrest

Like change, its value null, when in reality it’s all just

As sad and dull as high school sex.

My studio by the sea

The incense

Cigarette smoke

The neighbors next door racket

The dirt, the grime

Reminds me of Grove Street

And Mac, sleeping

Angelic snores from a lofted bed

Where I sat, idle in the morning

Last nights memory a circus

Holding my piss, hungry

Waiting for Forest to finish his shower

So as I could relieve myself

And head back to Long Island

Where I’d dream of dying

In my studio by the sea

Left: Mac, Right: Me looking down the hall at Forest, BK 2013-2014

A Song Once Sung To An Infant Under The Gun.

Today the time ran out

just as it had begun—

Hot water fills the tub

you swore you’d never become—

It’s warm and shallow now

cut servings for only one—

The echo down the hall, well

that’s just yesterdays love—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

Today the moon refused

to trade place with the sun—

Sidewalks full of people

but still you know only one—

It’s an impossible force

that drags you from yourself—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

I try, you know I do, to balance

fault lines and faith, the surgeons

steel blade, it draws a bridge between both—

It’s a symphony of simple things

that will seem eclipsed by the sun—

Cause it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

California, 2020

to lose and to gain

We lose—only—what we must

allow ourselves to lose,

regardless of the pain

and suffering we choose, to lose

and to gain—

to have what it takes,

to further ourselves

to a better tomorrow.

Boba Raton, Joe.

The things I can not change

The things I can not change

remind me why I’m here.

They are but the souls

reminder—to stay the course.

October 2020

A walk in the park

What looked like yesterday

out a kitchen window I saw

tomorrow and everyday

moving forward

as carefree as

a walk in the park.

Key West Florida, 2020

A message from that time I cut myself off from the world. (circa 2009)

What I lost in my depression

What developed over time

Who grew within my absence

Who called but couldn’t find

The person who they once knew

Who only wished to die

Where deep within my fortress

Of solitude did I

Salute them in their merit

Who tried from time to time

To free me from my burden

Which words could not describe

Though even in my heartache

I never told a lie

But took pride in them knowing

Their strength I too could find

That’s why I keep them with me

Past lovers, friends, and my

Gratitude for suffering

This awfully fragile mind

Grown with understanding

Like fruit picked from a vine

I’m grounded by their blessings

And grateful for this life