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Baby Blues

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I sit here, rocking

waiting for you to wake.

In your blanket with the bumps

snuggled close to me.

My butt? It’s numb, from sitting for an hour.

Trying not to move or disturb you from your slumber.

What’s that, my boy, are you laughing at me?

Because Miles, like always

you’re smiling in your sleep.

Or perhaps it’s the birds, singing at our window.

With the curtains pulled shut, this cave of ours is peaceful.

While the air condition hums,

the ceiling fan spins,

I hold your little hand with the baby blues again.

Don’t worry little one, it’s not that I am sad

it’s just you’ve given me such joy,

it hurts to feel glad.

So when you’re good and ready

to laugh and sing and play

just open up those brilliant eyes

and take these blues away.

A precious life

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Our baby in his crib.

My wife in bed.

And our cat on my lap.

I start my day in this rocking chair,

black cup of coffee, waiting for the sun to rise.

Though the curtain’s closed

just enough light leaks through, to

silhouette our little boy—

who stirs and coos and grumbles.

And reminds me just how precious life can be.

This neighbor of mine

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I thought I’d heard it all

until I heard a man

screaming at the top of his lungs

on a Sunday morning

at the mother of his child, because

for some people being an adult

just doesn’t quite fit in with their lifestyle—

This neighbor of mine

let’s call him Ray, he walks to the beat of his own drummer.

And frankly, that drummer sucks.

Whether he’s high all day, shouting who wants Champagne! (on a Thursday afternoon) or chasing women from his apartment claiming they’re trespassing while hollering,

YOU SELL SEX FOR FREE!

Hell, Ray does it all.

Record producer! Club promoter!

Youtube celebrity!

He’s a real stand up guy—

And all the while he’s shouting about custody.

Custody?

You mean the baby’s only in there half the time?

Well, I’ll be damned…

it’s 4am—and here we go again.

The best part is when he calls himself a grown ass man—screaming about a 34$ bottle of booze.

I mean, really?

You can’t make this shit up.

The Way Which We Evolve.

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If you look around you’ll notice

certain things are dirty

and certain things are clean.

If everything was dirty,

chances are you’d notice nothing.

If everything was clean, well

you’d notice everything that wasn’t.

I’ll never fully understand the anatomy of women.

Or what it means to be a man.

I’ll never fully comprehend

the way which we evolve.

If stones don’t throw themselves, what’s all this broken glass?

If architects were certain, would houses not be built to last?

So if by chance you notice

everything that wasn’t.

Chances are you’ll notice, that light reveals nothing.

Just empty rooms with empty shelves.

Just echoes full of dust.

Just empty rooms with unlocked doors

we dare not walk through twice.

The Wythe Hotel

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Sitting alone in the banquet hall, I can’t help but think, I know this smell.

Antibacterial soap.

Citrus.

And old water that I used to wash away the evening laughter, spilled drinks, and half eaten hors d’oeurves.

From the kitchen comes the smell of New York.

The smell of Maine.

It’s the smell of unserved duck and bison left out for the wait staff to take home.

Here, at the LA Proper, it smells exactly like the Wythe Hotel, in it’s unforgettable daytime gloom.

Where as a porter I’d use a damp cloth to clean the sconces. Blue liquid to clean the high-tops. And a pink substance—no one knew the specifics of—to mop the weathered floors.

Where as a porter I learned to bite my tongue, leave my pride at the door, and accept the minimum wage for minimum effort.

Ah, what sights there are to see in Brooklyn, and be there no better way than to see them than for 600 dollars a night!

Ah, what local fare there is to taste off the butchers block in Maine—Rosemont Market— where I too learned that minimum effort guaranteed minimum results—pairing cheese with port. I sold ribeye no Mainer could afford.

Where as a deli clerk I trained under a butcher who dreamed of owning his own knife shop and who secretly loathed his private affairs.

What lies between the swinging of an open/closed door, but a thousand emotions, a thousand dreams, and a thousand questions—we choose not to solve.

Yet here, in the banquet hall, I’m sure I know this smell.

And it serves as a vast reminder—that time is fragile, and outlook is imperative.

To know exactly what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it.

To take the bad with the good, and know nothing is permanent.

Listening To Brian

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He says his name is Brian.

That he’s been addicted to heroine and meth for 30 years

but woke up a year and 8 months ago,

decided to get clean,

and has been ever since.

He wants to know why he can’t get closer to our film set.

So I tell him it’s nothing personal, that it’s protocol.

He says he’s taking courses provided by

The California Department of Rehabilitation.

That he likes to edit video, how his instructor is very supportive

but he only likes to edit the things he shoots—

how some days he wakes up with extreme anxiety,

depression, and can’t get the idea out of his head

that he’s going to die.

He wants to know what PM stands for and why the woman in gray told him he couldn’t hang around the cameras.

I tell him that means Production Manager, and that she’s the production manager.

He maintains balance with his walker, and says he understands.

He says the hardest part wasn’t getting sober, but that after he did he realized that he really had no one.

No friends. No lover. No family.

I try to get a word in edgewise, but know it’s not my place.

He talks a while longer before wrap is called, then asks my name.

I tell him that it’s David.

That he should be proud of himself for the changes he’s made.

We shake hands and say goodbye.

For the next two hours I pick up other people’s garbage, wrap cable, and load a production truck full of equipment.

For the next two hours until now

I think of Brian, my life, and what we have in common.

Is it the night that’s hard to get through?

Or the day that’s just the same?

He says his name is Brian.

I hope he’s doing well.

Hideaway

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In the evening it’s quiet

and all so overwhelming,

how the floorboards creak—

listening to music,

the refrigerator hums.

It feels like Winter in West Haven.

Summer in Black Point.

It feels like sleepovers on Hill Street.

Has the world forgotten us?

Or have we just found relief?

A little sort of hideaway

that no one else can see.

So I pour a cup of coffee—

do all I can to stay awake.

For now the storm has passed.

And all that trickles in

from the window that’s been open,

are the cooing sounds of morning

that no more than a sneeze could break.

I Think Of You My Friend

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You would have been 34 years old, Alvaro

if not for that motorcycle accident

that turned your body cold.

I guess nobody knows until they know

how fragile life can be.

Or how in the blink of an eye

someone so kind, could be taken from us all.

Because at the ripe age of 27,

we don’t think in terms of death.

We think in terms of life.

We think in terms of speed.

And all the nights we passed the time with nothing else to do,

but laugh until our eyes grew wide with nothing much to prove.

And how you must have known, it meant so much to me.

Just know it’s with a heavy heart, I think of you my friend.

And from this chair of memories, I’m glad to have known you then.

The Progress No One Sees

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There wasn’t much pain anymore, just this numb curiosity that glazed his eyes with bitter knowing, as he understood that no matter how many questions received there answer, there would always be one, that only he could accept.

There wasn’t much pain anymore, not really. That’s not to say there wasn’t any sadness. In fact, sadness was still there, much like a dear friend, waiting and willing to drop everything in order to be with him, listen to him, and strengthen him, in times of need.

There wasn’t much pain anymore, just this constant urge to flee, and no matter how good the situation was, it came on like tinnitus, this constant ringing in his ear that seemed to say—think of all the things you could be doing…but you’re not…because you’re here.

There wasn’t much pain anymore, just time. Time enough to do anything and everything he needed to get done, if only he could grasp a sense of urgency, before being halted by this ability to fade within himself—hours on end—and not do anything at all.

There wasn’t much pain anymore, not really, just this introspection. It came on like a migraine, but left him feeling light. And over time this bitter knowing, well, it didn’t go away, but lessened with each breath. It was a private understanding—one he’d keep forever—in the tender of his heart.

Instinct & Irony

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Why does a dog chew a bone

or a cat toy a string

why do people do anything

other than sing—

why does sitting alone

in a park, on a bench

have to feel so good

when nothing makes sense,

but the sound of laughter

and a boy up to bat

while his father he cheers

hearing the crack

and the shadows with grace

dance light over page

of a passage familiar

as if written for me—

it’s instinct of course

the cat toying string,

and by the end feels pleasure.

But people write poems

and think too much,

they suffer alone—

ironically.