I can only dip my pen
so deep into the well
before it comes up dry
and thirsty for more.
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Teen’s Wet Dream In The Sun
There’s grass and flowers blooming
in Magnolia park
And this absent minded feeling
while the sky grows dark
Lily pads and grapefruit
growing in the yard
Fences form a fortress
full of dull remorse—
You left me standing idle
like a broke down car
Listening to Layla
watching shooting stars
Visions of Johanna
all just fell apart
Romanticized by healing
and those tarot cards—
Now I’m drinking nightly
at an empty bar
They gentrified the valley
and closed the bodega
I still see you smiling
from the bedroom floor
Hailing that taxi
with a broken arm—
A tincture of illusion
pressed beneath the tongue
Awakens the compulsion
to hold a smoking gun
There’s two sides to the story
I’ve got another one
The party’s in the distance
Teen’s wet dream in the sun
Parlor Tricks
Whatever I had to say
can wait until tomorrow,
with everything else
and all her parlor tricks,
scattering my brain
and blurring my focus—
people have that power over me
that no substance ever dared—
as if a bottle of whiskey
ever could compare
to the power of a woman.
Failure of odds
I was in love with the odds of failure
so I did all I could to succeed, and did.
And didn’t.
All in the same go, all in the same stop.
Another type of love—
I was a handful and
she had very small hands,
handing me love I
couldn’t handle and
it was no secret
we knew eachother’s secrets
quietly speaking through tears
and farewell in exchange
for another type of love—
one we both could afford.
Holiday On Ice.
Now all we have’s the memory.
I’ll keep the one to forget
if you keep the one to remember.
The one never to forget,
the ones kept best from afar,
and the occasional Holiday on ice.
The Magnificent Magician
Don’t call me by my name—
Call me The Magnificent
Magician Of First Impressions,
where all the world’s a stage
and every player has his part,
where women played by men
no nothing of the difference,
where fragile lines seem effortless
written by the long hand of night,
where smoke is thick and endless
in the mirrors of wasted time.
Call me the Magnificent
Magician Of False Positives,
where anything seems possible
until commitment to the narrative,
where hope is built on trust
and not the other way around,
where kindness is a give and
not taken as an afterthought,
where love is solitaire
and not a solitary place to die—
Call me The Magnificent
Magician if you must,
where pain relies on burden
a burden I can trust,
and ABRACADABRA heals
this feeling of disgust.
The Crap I Write
I finish the crap I write
over coffee I can’t afford
in the mornings on
my days off from work
and I call it poetry.
Before the ice waters down
my Ethiopian cure
I can usually turn 3 or 4
workable pieces I find alright.
Nothing’s ever perfect and
I don’t strive for perfection anymore.
I just do as I do and that seems
good enough for now, besides
nobody reads poetry anymore unless
you’re dead or one of those Slam poets,
but that’s a pack I’d never run with—
the dead are fine but the Slam, no thank you—
since I’m no actor I haven’t the stomach.
I just know how I feel and put it down
whether or not it kills—HA!
If anybody actually cared what I had to say
I’d still be broke. I’d still be here,
no longer curious but still sincere,
breaking 8 balls and biting glass for reasons
only I can understand.
Walking home I no longer debate, I just
spit laughing blood and repeat,
waiting to be called back and told what to do.
Tongues
I’ve tasted many tongues,
but saved the slammed doors
and holes in sheet rock for
the one’s I’d somehow outgrown,
knowing them sincere like
an afternoon alone or
tastebuds in the morning sun—
after enough drinks to make me social,
after enough drinks to make me honest,
after enough drinks to make me pure—
unwilling to apologize for the bad taste
tongue tied like a little kid hoping
to be lost in the shuffle and left alone,
where features seize to be and
voices make no sound where
nobody feels and nobody hurts.
Mary’s Kid
There’s one thing I know for certain
And it’s the same thing I’ll never admit
Because Hell knows that even if I did
Not even Heaven could save Mary’s kid
Words Of An Average White Male 