Worrying is
for people with something to lose
and if you were to ask me
what it is that I have now
that I would miss later
the answer
would be nothing
so don't call me liberated,
or somehow in touch,
because the fact is
I have nothing to hide,
because I have
nothing to show
in reserve.
My kingdom is still
an anthill in your schemes
of what is and should be,
the difference being
if I am on top of that
hand full or two of sand
I am happier than
others will ever be
with 32 ounce fountains of youth
and milk and honey landed.
original works of parts
Single
One of those things
that takes exactly two words,
like
bad timing,
get well,
bring booze,
be there,
shut up,
take two,
that you can see
everywhere you are,
where you've been,
where you're going,
with no camera
taped to your forehead,
and the photos are
too easy
because it's just so damn literal.
that takes exactly two words,
like
bad timing,
get well,
bring booze,
be there,
shut up,
take two,
that you can see
everywhere you are,
where you've been,
where you're going,
with no camera
taped to your forehead,
and the photos are
too easy
because it's just so damn literal.
Dropsy
I taught my left hand
to do many things
and in return it tried to kill me
and I couldn't help thinking,
whilst tying it to the arm of my chair,
that my last thought
prying it away from my throat
was "you ungrateful bastard."
We've made up since then.
We've graduated from box cutters
to alphabets.
Things are looking up.
to do many things
and in return it tried to kill me
and I couldn't help thinking,
whilst tying it to the arm of my chair,
that my last thought
prying it away from my throat
was "you ungrateful bastard."
We've made up since then.
We've graduated from box cutters
to alphabets.
Things are looking up.
The Break Up
Wake up. Someone is selling a miracle. Gadgets to make you slim. Because you eat too much. For your line of work and it's showing inside. Your belt line. In the creases where your belt line wishes it could still be. But not your's. Time is hard to come by. To eat. To think. About making food. Between commuting. And doing your time on the clock. Someone is selling a miracle. Right now. Earlier you stared through commercials.
Not as long or antagonizing. Through the amber of your squared off bargain. Bottle to nurse the child in you. Climbing to your feet. Can be done in stages so you press. An elbow to the couch hot from the side of your face. Cold in places. Where you drooled snoring. And woke. To the nudge and tuck of fingers prodding your skin. Where the veins come millimeters close to. Kissing is out of the question. You've been smoking again.
In nodding conversation with. Beasts. That come and go like cats through the kitchen door. At the back of your mind. Where things are burning. Smoke detector free. But there's no denying the damage. The black streaks across the roof. Of your mouth. The television is off. Has been off for hours. The bedroom door is closed. You reek of try try again and who are you to interrupt someone else's. Dream. Wash the dishes.
At 4 A.M. Or don't. You are fully. Shit faced. But only because you have not washed that face. In a proper shower. As though it matters. The face of Smiles is clear enough. The silent murk spins into a smile. You mirror toddling. Laughing to an inside joke he's spun to Totsy. Who lolls along the baseboard. Near the living room window. Like she usually does. Waiting for Mouthhand to show. And start the party. With a kiss.
But you are unkissable. Equal parts chemistry set. And throat like a cancer mossy flume. So wash the dishes. Smiles sings from between the rungs of the fire escape. As happy to be. Out of doors as you are in. The shit. You promised you would. Not drink too much. Tonight. You promised you would leave. Work at work and pay. Attention and sleep. Like other people do. Like the people that populate. The rest of the world.
Wash the dishes. It would be easier. With some miracle soap. And a rag. That cures musses like high dose radiation. Or was it stem cells. That realign. Brain matters. A bath of salts? There's no amount of lithium that can heal. Dislocated fingers. Totsy is sighing. While you scrub. Knowing. Full well that you are there and your love asleep. Because you cannot stand being. In the same room. With her. The gang in tow.
There are not enough dishes. To span the hours left before you leave. To hack away at work. Though Smiles coaches. And so you settle back to the couch. Mapped out in cold saliva dots. The place where your head belongs. And wish. She could sleep and never wake up. Again to see you so broken up. Symptoms playing like a continuous infomercial. For nervous corruption. And so you walked.
And they danced. Around their fire. In the cottage on the hill top. Burning its way into the Earth.
Not as long or antagonizing. Through the amber of your squared off bargain. Bottle to nurse the child in you. Climbing to your feet. Can be done in stages so you press. An elbow to the couch hot from the side of your face. Cold in places. Where you drooled snoring. And woke. To the nudge and tuck of fingers prodding your skin. Where the veins come millimeters close to. Kissing is out of the question. You've been smoking again.
In nodding conversation with. Beasts. That come and go like cats through the kitchen door. At the back of your mind. Where things are burning. Smoke detector free. But there's no denying the damage. The black streaks across the roof. Of your mouth. The television is off. Has been off for hours. The bedroom door is closed. You reek of try try again and who are you to interrupt someone else's. Dream. Wash the dishes.
At 4 A.M. Or don't. You are fully. Shit faced. But only because you have not washed that face. In a proper shower. As though it matters. The face of Smiles is clear enough. The silent murk spins into a smile. You mirror toddling. Laughing to an inside joke he's spun to Totsy. Who lolls along the baseboard. Near the living room window. Like she usually does. Waiting for Mouthhand to show. And start the party. With a kiss.
But you are unkissable. Equal parts chemistry set. And throat like a cancer mossy flume. So wash the dishes. Smiles sings from between the rungs of the fire escape. As happy to be. Out of doors as you are in. The shit. You promised you would. Not drink too much. Tonight. You promised you would leave. Work at work and pay. Attention and sleep. Like other people do. Like the people that populate. The rest of the world.
Wash the dishes. It would be easier. With some miracle soap. And a rag. That cures musses like high dose radiation. Or was it stem cells. That realign. Brain matters. A bath of salts? There's no amount of lithium that can heal. Dislocated fingers. Totsy is sighing. While you scrub. Knowing. Full well that you are there and your love asleep. Because you cannot stand being. In the same room. With her. The gang in tow.
There are not enough dishes. To span the hours left before you leave. To hack away at work. Though Smiles coaches. And so you settle back to the couch. Mapped out in cold saliva dots. The place where your head belongs. And wish. She could sleep and never wake up. Again to see you so broken up. Symptoms playing like a continuous infomercial. For nervous corruption. And so you walked.
And they danced. Around their fire. In the cottage on the hill top. Burning its way into the Earth.
Pittsburgh Black and Whites 4
My eyes are tearing up
where the 62nd street bridge bows
like the breaths I hold
against the night air cold when
I am gathering myself to run
the last midnight mile home,
but it is not the cold or the wind
threatening to wet
the corners of my lips.
Stars are not winking
on and off like downtown signs
in the water of the Allegheny.
Stars are bathing
naked in the current
unabashed beneath the moon and
I am more homesick
for a town
than I thought I could care to be;
the sleeping scrap yard,
the grumbling, heel dragging, coal trains,
the stairwells to nowhere and
the bad graffiti,
the bars with no windows,
the one bedroom huts,
the trash without race and
the messes of geometry
they have made, and all of it,
to a wonderful I and T,
all of it still there
waiting for me to come home.
where the 62nd street bridge bows
like the breaths I hold
against the night air cold when
I am gathering myself to run
the last midnight mile home,
but it is not the cold or the wind
threatening to wet
the corners of my lips.
Stars are not winking
on and off like downtown signs
in the water of the Allegheny.
Stars are bathing
naked in the current
unabashed beneath the moon and
I am more homesick
for a town
than I thought I could care to be;
the sleeping scrap yard,
the grumbling, heel dragging, coal trains,
the stairwells to nowhere and
the bad graffiti,
the bars with no windows,
the one bedroom huts,
the trash without race and
the messes of geometry
they have made, and all of it,
to a wonderful I and T,
all of it still there
waiting for me to come home.
The Line Drawn
I am finding it harder
by the day
to not get into screaming arguments
with animals.
Somewhere in there
we are on the same page
and I have not the knack
for whispering.
It is I who should beware the dog,
but that dog would be well advised
to beware me, too.
by the day
to not get into screaming arguments
with animals.
Somewhere in there
we are on the same page
and I have not the knack
for whispering.
It is I who should beware the dog,
but that dog would be well advised
to beware me, too.
Sea Foam Chevy Bel Air
Around the block
there are chain linked fences and
brick and mortar smoke stacks.
There is a church
that used to be a brewery
that used to be a church and
knee high grass
where train tracks are sleeping
to the sound of flood canals
quarter filled with run off
from the highlands.
There is a dealership
with paper taped windows
waiting for the painters
who promised to show
years ago and
open socket apartments above
still dark in daylight
for fire damage.
Around the block
there are dog walkers and
a couple of gas station way points
and a Chevrolet Bel Air
standing like a sea foam and cream
drop of water atop a bucket
brimming with as much time
as can be held in a hand
cupped beneath a broken faucet and
with beauty tensile enough
to strike notes against the chords of
afternoon's five barred song
in it's three hundredth interpretation of
a year long overture and
loud enough to be heard above
the ensemble familiar.
The body, the curves and points begging to be
TLC'd.
The chrome defies the suck
and winks broad
across the bar of empty lot and street.
There is so much you know
about me,
it speaks,
and so much more you have to learn
if you could spend the rest of today
with your body held tight,
fingers to my thin wheel,
with my pedals at your feet.
Glimmer shiver and tongue bit,
a heart weeps
to taste the glory of
a Valedictorian from another world,
another time, that will never sleep.
there are chain linked fences and
brick and mortar smoke stacks.
There is a church
that used to be a brewery
that used to be a church and
knee high grass
where train tracks are sleeping
to the sound of flood canals
quarter filled with run off
from the highlands.
There is a dealership
with paper taped windows
waiting for the painters
who promised to show
years ago and
open socket apartments above
still dark in daylight
for fire damage.
Around the block
there are dog walkers and
a couple of gas station way points
and a Chevrolet Bel Air
standing like a sea foam and cream
drop of water atop a bucket
brimming with as much time
as can be held in a hand
cupped beneath a broken faucet and
with beauty tensile enough
to strike notes against the chords of
afternoon's five barred song
in it's three hundredth interpretation of
a year long overture and
loud enough to be heard above
the ensemble familiar.
The body, the curves and points begging to be
TLC'd.
The chrome defies the suck
and winks broad
across the bar of empty lot and street.
There is so much you know
about me,
it speaks,
and so much more you have to learn
if you could spend the rest of today
with your body held tight,
fingers to my thin wheel,
with my pedals at your feet.
Glimmer shiver and tongue bit,
a heart weeps
to taste the glory of
a Valedictorian from another world,
another time, that will never sleep.
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