Now I make my friends from strangers
who hardly ever consider my passing,
who instead make plans to bullshit
and practice talking casually in the park.
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A Simple Game
His thoughts were tailored by
The absence of himself
Her words sincere but from
The mind of someone else
Each clicked like a chess clock in the park
Played by strangers in the nude
It’s a simple game we complicate
When we react before we move
Her thoughts were tangled by
The silence in the room
His words unclear because
They sounded from a tomb
Each fit like a shadow in the dark
Exchanging others clothes
It’s a simple game we complicate
What we wanted with the truth—
I’m not a gambling man but I’ve played a hand or two
I’m not a fable or myth but I’ve read what sounded good
A tired man sits idle in the park asking questions with his eyes
I’m not that man in the park but what separates the two?—
It’s a simple game we complicate
When we react before we move
It’s a simple game we complicate
What we wanted with the truth
April 29, 2014 — Brunch In The Village — A Journal Excerpt
While the money drains from my pockets like a busted water main I can’t help but wonder—has our existence really boiled down to name badges and paychecks, fedora’s and chino’s, tax breaks and debt? It’s no wonder the streets are filled with broken bodies.
It’s no wonder the idea of the “weekend” has begun to depress me. This invisible structure, unspoken, yet accepted continues to devour our living, chewing us like cud, and then spitting us out to white sheets where we can’t even reach the bedpan without assistance.
A weekend ago I was eating brunch in The Village, drinking a Bloody Mary, eating eggs Benedict, and writing a letter to a friend when I noticed two men noticing me. They asked if I was a writer—each in their 50’s debating women over Mimosa’s—to which I told them I was just going through the motions of my 20’s. They both smiled, shared a laugh of remembrance, and went back to arguing. If I was smart I’d play the game, perhaps try to sell myself even. One day I thought, but for now, I’m an artist stuck in his artist ways, trying his best not to care that he can’t afford the eggs, the rent, or brunch in The Village for that matter.
Poetry
What is poetry, but
a language of the dead.
It’s an informal dance,
a shared cigarette.
Poetry is
but a one night stand.
It’s a wine ring left,
sheets, stained
between strangers.
Nonsense
I was thinking how peculiar
right before I made a U turn
It was early Sunday morning
flashing sirens without warning
Looking both ways like a child
crossing with chicken on the road
there is this man who looks me up
and down as I begin to sigh
Then I look in both direction
turn the wheel with cruel intention
In the distance there’s this woman
picket signs read save the children
I am half way home before I know
exactly what I’m doing though I
stop the car unlock the door
and let the woman in
She sits criss-cross like a virgin
while I drive off she is urgent
I don’t know what you are thinking
she speaks softly without blinking
I was waiting for the bus when you
rolled up I must confess I recognized
your eyes from times gone by
like strangers on a train
It is awkward for a second
can I interest you in breakfast
She says sure she knows a diner
while she applies her eye liner
There’s a group of old men standing
with dead babies and demanding
that a women’s right is not all right
unless they’re in control
I’ll have coffee she’ll have coffee
yes please thank you two black coffee’s
In her teeth stuck there’s a poppy
seed my breath smells quite like onion
As the man from earlier walks by
the window just in time to see
again with no expression just a
long tedious sigh
He must think of me how boring
flashing sirens without warning
I feel seasick like a sailor
hey can you do me a favor
And that’s when she asks
to take her back in time for
her divorce of course she’d
first prefer some pie
On the drive home I was thinking
how peculiar she left winking
Shut the door then started walking
while I drove off she was talking
To the man who looked familiar
from the corner of my eye though
when I looked away then back again
they both just sort of sighed
Passing by the old cathedral
doors open releasing people
From their suffering they’re smiling
shaking hands exchanging sighs and
Across the street there’s signs
that read like jokes inside my mind
there’s men and women who protest
the earth is flat next to another group
who all claim there is no God.
strangers to ourselves.
My eyes burn
with exhaustion
scanning the airport
for any sign of life
though heads down turned
there is none
just a few lone stragglers
who look around
the same as I
unwilling to accept the courtesy
of pleasant conversation
we remain
strangers
and
strangers to ourselves.
it happens all the time
tell someone
you love
a simple truth
and watch
while they
twist
and disfigure
your trust
until it is
so unrecognizable
you can’t help
but help them
pick apart
every last piece
of flesh and goodwill
until there is
nothing left
but the laughter
of strangers
That is life I told him
He
felt
much
more
comfortable
in
the
company
of
strangers,
yet
still
searched
for
that
familiar
face
in
the
crowd.
In light of current & ongoing events.
Most of us have a hard time
having to express the way we feel inside
I
seem quite normal to the outside world
but really who would know?
We
don’t ask questions in public
for fear of stirring up conflict
You
could have said something helpful
but you stood politically correct.
Some like to engage in alcohol
others fuck strangers in bathroom stalls
She
to the world looked like an angel
something she’d never know.
We
don’t ask questions in public
for fear of stirring up conflict
He
could have given her confidence?
But sadly he knew the truth.
Most of us have a hard time
having to express the way we feel inside
I
am just a quarter in a wishing well
so here’s to wishing you well.
We
don’t want to listen to sadness speak
instead we wait for silence’s grief
You
could have the world at your feet
if you just put that bottle down.
It’s not a problem until it is
we’ve all got history I know this
He
made loads of money and hit his kids
but that’s just history now.
We
don’t ask questions in public
for fear of stirring up conflict
I’ve
been feeling good the past two days
I guess that’s a start anyhow.
Dance with the Devil at Noon.
Mother used to say,
“don’t talk to strangers now!”
And father used to say,
“don’t be a follower you hear me!”
What a different world
we live in today.
Mother I’m sorry says the boy.
Father I’m sorry, he crosses his heart.
But to make it in this
Brave New World
I must dance with the devil at noon.
Words Of An Average White Male 