Here's to our livers,
here's to short lives.
Here's to nagging epitaphs
written by our wives.
original works of parts
Baseball 2
To know how much work
goes into stepping onto that mound,
not in terms of
effort and homage
to a game
I could not give two shits about,
but effort
in terms of
wiring myself
to aim at the strike zone and
nothing else
three times as tempting,
is to know
a thing or two
about the sport,
but at the same time,
to know next to nothing
about the real depth of the game.
goes into stepping onto that mound,
not in terms of
effort and homage
to a game
I could not give two shits about,
but effort
in terms of
wiring myself
to aim at the strike zone and
nothing else
three times as tempting,
is to know
a thing or two
about the sport,
but at the same time,
to know next to nothing
about the real depth of the game.
Smoker 16
I really wish
you would stop telling me to take it easy
between the span of my
tenth and twelfth shots
on the evening.
Life doesn't take me
one day at a time.
Life fights and claws and kicks
like a sleepless newborn
made of glass shards and
rail road spikes
swaddled in ammonia doused rags.
so when I don't have the benefit of
wearing gloves or an apron or a cup or
the benefit of keeping it
at arms length.
Do not ask me to not do
the one thing I can
to protect myself
as I look after and care for
the only life I've got.
you would stop telling me to take it easy
between the span of my
tenth and twelfth shots
on the evening.
Life doesn't take me
one day at a time.
Life fights and claws and kicks
like a sleepless newborn
made of glass shards and
rail road spikes
swaddled in ammonia doused rags.
so when I don't have the benefit of
wearing gloves or an apron or a cup or
the benefit of keeping it
at arms length.
Do not ask me to not do
the one thing I can
to protect myself
as I look after and care for
the only life I've got.
Horsemen of the Sun (EP)
I suppose at some point
we are all going to starve.
The gnawing will not abate.
The little hole inside of you,
patched poorly and thinly
with this and that webbing of belief,
systematized thisery and thatery
calling itself something
or the other,
will become the bigger hole inside of you
and will beg you to eat
something, anything.
Eat you will and to a fill and
lovelier blushing between
photograph stills
you will be marvelous and joyed,
but we're all going to starve
at some point.
I suppose there is good
money in teaching a body
to love the quivers,
the tongue to the roof shivers
of the long minutes before
hunger touches cell again.
we are all going to starve.
The gnawing will not abate.
The little hole inside of you,
patched poorly and thinly
with this and that webbing of belief,
systematized thisery and thatery
calling itself something
or the other,
will become the bigger hole inside of you
and will beg you to eat
something, anything.
Eat you will and to a fill and
lovelier blushing between
photograph stills
you will be marvelous and joyed,
but we're all going to starve
at some point.
I suppose there is good
money in teaching a body
to love the quivers,
the tongue to the roof shivers
of the long minutes before
hunger touches cell again.
The Coast of Baltimore
If you could believe,
in the pigeon nests of memory scabs
still warm with the rush of nerves
and blood and brick,
the weight of a sigh
could be measured in
the dots of sand and bad luck
and so much God awful silt
torn away from it
to reveal its bald sea glass shine
as it sank
and if you could believe
that underneath the November wind,
chasing inland
like hounds after the sunrise's
nine tails of red, orange, and bruise,
something could hold fast to lips
tighter than any secret
fastened and buckled
beneath grid blocks and
iron sewer locks
burbling wino cigarette lipped
in dim confidence
and more significant still
and if you could believe
that the Atlantic
is not home to the land she grates
as much as the land she touches
is a wall between her and
the warmth she could know
if a city state had not sprung loose
like a droplet of salivic humanity
on father time's already stroked out face
you could stand on the coast of Baltimore
and believe you had a right to be there.
But you're just a fucking tourist.
We all were.
in the pigeon nests of memory scabs
still warm with the rush of nerves
and blood and brick,
the weight of a sigh
could be measured in
the dots of sand and bad luck
and so much God awful silt
torn away from it
to reveal its bald sea glass shine
as it sank
and if you could believe
that underneath the November wind,
chasing inland
like hounds after the sunrise's
nine tails of red, orange, and bruise,
something could hold fast to lips
tighter than any secret
fastened and buckled
beneath grid blocks and
iron sewer locks
burbling wino cigarette lipped
in dim confidence
and more significant still
and if you could believe
that the Atlantic
is not home to the land she grates
as much as the land she touches
is a wall between her and
the warmth she could know
if a city state had not sprung loose
like a droplet of salivic humanity
on father time's already stroked out face
you could stand on the coast of Baltimore
and believe you had a right to be there.
But you're just a fucking tourist.
We all were.
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