Talking by her car — that night
our intuition brought us together —
I never wanted to leave.
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My Goldfinch in flight
Chainlink memory
In the dream state of night
Unshackled reality
Through a window of light
Which pours like rain
And puddles my sight
Until ripples reflect
My Goldfinch in flight
How do I write a good book?
“How do I write a good book?” He asks.
“Read a lot of books.” I tell him. “And…
“And what?” He presses.
“Remove the word good from your vocabulary.”
Shrugging, he digs, “and replace it with what?”
“Whatever’s wrong with the world, my friend.”
“I’m listening…”
And upon waving him farewell.
“A book worth reading isn’t always easy
but it’s worth the effort.”
When Butterflies Were Band-aids
Look me in my heartache
And tell me there’s a cure
When butterflies were band-aids
Where fact and fiction blur
Speak to me in virtues
The one’s I’m pickled for
When only field’s were diamonds
And playgrounds left you sore
Hold me in your sorrow
With hands so soft and pure
When bedtime meant tomorrow
Was absolutely sure
Hear me as the willows
Send shivers down your spine
When fluff was just for pillows
Where wonder’s in the pine
Sense me in my mourning
For those yet to be fed
When fear meant it was pouring
Where Rover was still red
Send prayers if you still got em
Though mine have long since fled
This well’s filled from the bottom
Where sailboats are led
My fragile mind
It’s hard sometimes to go outside
So I wear this hat, it makes me feel cool
It’s hard sometimes to pass the time
So I write these prose inside my fragile mind
No they’re not for you
No they’re not for you
No they’re not for you
They’re for me
Like an eggshell cracks so do I
What spills out is just membrane and time
I know we’re all the same, you and I
This was just another from my fragile mind
No they’re not for you
No they’re not for you
No they’re not for you
They’re for me
My work it shall begin
We are safe because we want to feel safe
And afraid because we allow ourselves to fear
All throughout the life I’ve know I’ve accepted what was
Hardly ever asking myself the real question, that is
What exactly do you want to be
Do you want to be loved? Feared? Saved?
Am I making myself clear?
Like standing by the railing of a ferry boat adrift
Looking out into the fog of early mornings spent
Nervous though I was, a child full of dread
Patiently awaiting the comfort darkness fed
Full of all my longings, too scared to make a sound
Reeling for the guidance, waiting to be found
But it wasn’t until I spoke the words
Which have placed me here today
And I wouldn’t place the blame where there is nothing left to blame
I could have got out long before that house we knew burnt down
I could have run away, what’s more
I could have made a sound
Though fear and faith are binding
For a child guilt is hard
And safety commonly looks like
A smile from afar
But now I’m counting crows, who’ve eaten all the crumbs
And as for beanstalks stalking, I’ve cut down every one
To grandma’s house goes Red, she no longer has to run
The piglets in their cabin, I hear they’re having fun
Released into the willows are fairytales Grimm
Now safe my inner child’s sound
My work it shall begin
Seated in the summer sun
Seated in the summer sun
drenched in heat
reading a novel, alone
how sweet.
With memories of you
drenched in heat,
feet stretched out
along the beach.
Where in the summer sun
you’d sit and read
a novel too, my mother
sweet.
While you’d watch us kids
the swimming sea,
and how you read
effortlessly,
I never wondered then
like I do now,
how a quiet lesson
could teach me how.
I turn each page
my mind at rest,
my mother’s sun
warm on my chest.
Through the air vents of my room
I’ve known a many artist in my day, say
Today old friend you come to mind
And how for a short time, your voice divine
Scratchy and old, though, you and I know
Age is just a number and it’s you who’d show
Me this: Dear, Gavin Heron Vante
Who needed a place to rest his weary head
For the night I offered you some bread
Where that night you had said, Ah man!
I haven’t seen this show in years, mind if I watch
Married with Children, Amen! Amen!
Then later I’d record you playing all the chords
I always had wish I could, watching your fingers
Slide and swoop through Sloop John B
I tried to sing harmonies but who was I kidding
Aloof in my eagerness to know everything and all
You had to offer and more, more, more I cried
Singing, drinking in the night like two old friends
Because we were in fact just two ageless nobodies
In the effortless night of somebodies
Giving me your time, cradling my wine
Looking through old photo’s now
I can still feel your spirit sing softly through
The air vents of my room
The next morning of course, saying farewell
Dropping you at Austin’s Coffee
Collecting your bicycle and taking the trash out for a buck
Needing my fix of early morning talkie
That I’m sure no one ever really gave a hoot about —
Now I hear you’re out of the Coma
That took you too soon like a phantom in the night
You were right when you told me
To take it easy man, oh man, Gavin Heron Van
Where there is no plan there in lies the plan
I now know the meaning of that age old saying
Those were the days, good sir, I give my praise
Sincerely,
Dave
P.S. There’s a place for you here, always
Manhattan’s in the Village
You know what they say, don’t yuh?
Can’t live with em, can’t live without em
But don’t get me twisted, I’m not talking about women
though the skin beneath my tongue’s still sore
my heart’s still heavy and well
there’s nothing quite like seeing her smile come morning
but anyway like I was saying to this jug of doom
in the evening gloom where I choose not one but two
and then two more to boot because, well, hell
who am I kidding? Nobody but the moon this evening
cause it’s this bitter sweet feeling
the kind you feel deep down in the rumbling, stumbling night
where it all gets so far gone, where nothing meaningful is born
where it all makes some sort of convoluted sense
and alas, once again I am but the floorboards dull creak
where I am like the riverbed flowing calmly and discrete
where life is but a dream and I am dreaming once again
of you dear friend, rustling like the leaves at my front door.
Oh dear friend, how I long to walk the beach again.
How I long to hear your sick, silly, sweet voice again
like those long ago up all Friday nights of old
all those Brooklyn winter blue’s and yellow streetlights
guiding us home, or at least to Crown Fried Chicken where
like two youthful bums we’d scavenge our pockets for change
enough to buy a couple chicken wings, coke, and pint
enough to settle the bone, cold, sidewalk snow till home
where we’d fall arm and arm up stairs
to that old wood, smoke filled, railroad apartment you’d call Grove.
And though I don’t often pray, in my own little way
I do for you now as I did then, driving back to my Long Island apartment.
I pray this little song of self, this little song of you, this small token of my appreciation
for your boundless soul and effortless style and class.
I ate too much cheese, I’d shout while holding a kitchen knife to my throat!
Where in a Polaroid our youth is kept,
where so many nights while you slept I wept,
where you’d give me your bed for a smile,
where I’d talk with Forest about everything and nothing for a while,
long enough not to feel alone in that maddening, crazy New York glow.
So I write this little poem, not enough but enough to show you
I’m still listening through the terror behind the walls.
Dear friend,
How are you?
I can’t live with you, but hell, I can’t live without you.
Manhattan’s in the Village
God knows we never had the scratch, aligned
I feel inclined to take this time and offer you my best
impression not impressed?
CALL ME SPIDER! CALL ME SPIDER!
I just had to get these salami’s off my back.
I just had to sing this short praise of you Mac.
Everyone I know’s the titles
Everyone I know’s the titles
They just don’t read the words
Writing’s an endless cycle
I start to feel the burn
Sunlight it is healing
Too much can make it worse
Moonlight is revealing
My answer’s questioned first
But who am I to argue
The writing’s on the wall
No pages left to sift through
Like dominoes they fall
Everyone I know’s the titles
They just don’t read the words
This feeling’s infantile
I know not which is worse
Words Of An Average White Male 