Playing Catch with the Moon

Vulnerable Poems

2011-03-30T23:51:00.000-07:00

At 6am I’m never awake

From noon to 6 am I’ve been alert with the love light on.
I opened my eyes to 88 degree sunlight and
now I hear the earliest birds singing in cool darkness,
propped up on my elbow, punching these keys.
Stereo glow blinks like Christmas in my hot bedroom.
The ceiling fan doesn’t spin fast enough. I sit
with my legs spread open. I replay dusty memory
reels in my head. Old haircuts, the way things used to be
shaped and colored, thinking how life feels vintage to me
now. I strive to make the future old news, like I never used
to be a Toys R Us kid. I like to spoil my own fun. Paranoia
perhaps? Trying to dodge the cancer bug, but killing my cells
and feeding the surviving ones garbage. Eating like a greasy king
with a silly crown. I hate hats. The love light is so bright though.
Really, it is. It washes out the cancer bug with immense shine.
Who is death?
Fuck him!
He is real?
Still-
Fuck him in the ass!
The love light is now a sunrise at 10 to 7. The birds have began a chorus
with the squirrels and the frogs and the lizards.

What Gives?

Potato chips before bed-
Drinking from the carton-
Flickering flame on the floor-
Frigid as stone butcher shops-
Dream pop and whisky sleep together.
Why doesn’t she want to blaze and listen
to Aphex Twin,
in bed,
all day?

TERROR
WOMEN
ANGELS
NUNS
GOBLINS

TWANG

Little Skeletons

There’s little skeletons everywhere-
Happy valentines day-
Yesterday-
Lovely time slipper,
day sleeper, kill
the dragons.

Legs

I have beautiful legs.
They turn red in the sun &
I pour bottled water on
my pretty knees.

She has beautiful legs.
They turn dark in the sun
when she pisses down them
wearing skinny jeans.

Hours later,
my legs scream like
boiled lobsters when
I leave.

I put on high socks
that clench
my pretty legs
inches above
the ankle.

Hours later,
I am still wondering
about her shiny legs
and wet socks.

The 12 pack is $9.99 in this county

That means I am drunk.
That means I breathe through my nose heavily.
That means I’m thinking very hard about the past.
That means I’m letting the future head-butt my breaking brain.
That is what I’ve been doing for years and years and years and years.
That means I have a wrecked personality.
That means I force feelings upon myself.
That means I rape myself.
That means I’m gay.
That means I need to fuck my girl.
That means she is at home, asleep, without me.
That means I’m on vacation.
That means $9.99 is a good price for a 12 pack.

I’ve replaced smoking weed with masturbation

My lungs have been cleaning themselves since I left.
I cough up dark phlegm every morning. Can’t smoke in Florida,
I don’t know any dealers. But pot isn’t like crack so, I’m breathing fresh
air.
What can I do instead of burn?
Find a fetish site
and beat it, all day, six times a day,
while the folks are gone, while
the folks are asleep, beat it, beat it,
beat it.
A self-rape hobby.
Getting nasty, alone. Digital
girls make messes and I need
to smoke a blunt.
Soggy cotton
fantasy, a kinky spoof
for dank thought.
Cumming
into the carb of a bowl
piece like a condom.
Burning erections like leaves-
The fuck crop-
One outlet stripped,
another abused.

Blue

To mold you.
Brand new.
To scratch an untouched paint job is beautiful.
It becomes my paint job.
My blow job.
Mine to chip into a million pieces or keep shiny.
Curious thing
like a picked lock.
Curious about
my cock.
Amateur when you touched it.
Lovely, looking at it.
I’m blue now, I’ll be blue forever.
Unless, I change color
like glass bongs or raw meat or
bra straps.
Why blue?
I ask you.
“That’s the color I always thought it was.”
Too cute to be mute.
Blue is the new
blue.

I’ve done it

I nagged the right person.
I’ve done it.
It’s like I found the treasure at the end
of the rainbow.
All I could muster-
Making me blush.
I’ve done it!
I think I’m going mad because of it.
It’s wonderful!
I find it sexy,
cutting edge.
Like I’ve one up’d everyone,
a lottery winner.
Crashing and surviving and being the hero,
all at once.
I’ve fucking done it.

Go to my apartment, go ahead-
You won’t find me.

I’ve made off, with the girl, and
the money, and the record deal, and
the endless supply of grass on a
motorcycle with a bright red
leather jacket and my hair
grown long.

You fuck’n pricks, I’ve done it!
I’ve created a timeless memory!
I am invincible-
It’s time
to get
to work.

unedited 2010-2011

2011-01-15T21:09:00.000-08:00

MOTORFUHKN BUHLSCHT

The competition is water thin
Head stuck in a jar
Earache page turner novel
Spelling bee sting
Collapsible skeleton
Inflatable coffin cooler
Scarf fashion
Blackboard wallpaper
Sparkling bali shag
Final flash attack
Dumb dee dumb dee waahh
Tattoo scar
It’s not even worth it
Motorfuhk
Portable cd player- playin’ perfect playlists’
The needle goes in and out
Of your skin 100 times
Copper faces
Corn is in everything-
Calm like waves
God that saves
Concrete is paved
Motivated
to go out
in cold weather-
Cliff hanging shouter
shouting
yelling
screaming-
creature position
it makes you feel
horrible
dopamine flutters in-
the touch of her foot on yours
through your black socks,
the hit of the bong
lounging behind your eyes,
dulling the lingering
headache from the spliff,
making off with my brain cells
in a high volume police chase
through a lavender field
like a rated R action film
surrounded in butter
salted, wounded, making
love,
that
is
the
high.
Blow for blow
A gamble
21
no card games
23
life age
20
love cage
more fire- as usual
I’m slow
slower than most-
slower than you
to control
a lot
of things
outside
my power.

Win

Life smells like piss
disappointment
cutting my fingers off
permanent hang ten
Tribute
it seems.
Haven’t written
in a month
no poems
no stories
no glory
sad story
of my own
fault.

Un-nessesscery Roughness

Messy thoughts that
don’t require investigation
clenched by aches and chains-
Un-natural resources like alien liquor
slowing inner debate-
leaving clarity in dark mud-
punching my own nose
with overwhelming political disinterest-
Running Now- Running to tired safe
houses- Grab me by the throat-
Choke my dreams into gasps-
I woke up today, I am still a real boy
My body is not composed of titanium alloy.
I’m not composed- Lazy in a uranium cradle-
curled up next to Ginsberg
But I warn him not to pull
any gay shit. Empire- Monster like Contra-
Hate me all over- Hide me like a lochness
Bigfoot- Fake ass lie!
I crawl- I crawl- I crawl- and
Drool- Spit the fuck up-
settle down into my
own pool of slime
and sulk until the internet
connection can rub me into
artificial romantic explosion-
Raggity staggering
haircut laughing at childhood
cartoons- Fuck today- Where
is my promising tommarrow?
Sticky amplifier feedback
ringing my ear- shoot me down
stand me up- put me in a tin
garbage can covered in snow-
leave me there for 3 days-
boredom will infect my wounds-
let me throw my head around
violently- let the lights flicker
faster- let very difficult
processes flood and see
themselves through- money
is limiting limitless- It smudges
my mind Sludges my smile- I’ve
gone swimming- Catch me in a fishing
net with four lonely dolphins-
let THEM teach me
things.

spawn-tane-E-us.

2010-10-16T21:39:00.000-07:00

skunks breath?
it was.
we better move the girl.
set the mood with
the lighting.
skins and colts?
i never know-
mad people, lucky we got the table.
Hyped.
sleeping on the floor, leaping from the
windows.
is it me?
if you're coming home tonight- wake me up? ok?
breaking beer bottles all night,
leaving glass on the floor-
dead in 2 hours-
waiting for the word.
confessing everything,
closed my eyes here- woke up here.
whorn out.
when we saw him in the parking lot he had bottles of champagne,
but the girls weren't into it, they
wanted to make jewelry and spin art.
sand art.
how many bowl pieces do we go through?
its not a miracle.
everybody came out of it alive.
you cause quite a scare, lets talk
face to
face.

NEW POEMS FALL 2010

2010-10-15T15:09:00.000-07:00

brain bleed

k domus
bobbing and weaving
the slap boxer
im tired of these things, but
I’ll go and do it the next day-
This one chick man, she was the first bitch I ever saw get high-
Mental wounds
Out of control, even for you-
Or me?
Minds working crazy at a fast pace,
Sweating a lot,
Brain bleed-
Leech, doesn’t know when it’s time to leave.

The 15th chapter

i burned til i was out-
not like i havent before-
its like i know about the sunset
and the dirty socks
and the vendors
and the girls with hoops in their noses
its like i know
one day
it will be like i never did-

all the knowledge in the world
about never knowing,
a profession made of never asking,

kiss me. Run, lick a frog

her bottom lip is mush from my molars.
i sprint up the stairs in the summer solar.
we lick frogs,
fucked up,
it's funny for hours.
you pop quiz me
in the library naked, then we
ding dong ditch the deaf girls house,
lick a toad, make love on the couch.
now she’s red-
now she’s purple-
and im flashing like snow strobe’

Great, Big, Mondo City

There is no cure for the craters
on the moons face, just
like there is no cure for my tombstone
brain.

Vacuum eyes take the sidewalk in-
Draining judgment, exhausted by gaudy punk
girls.

Seeing them is like a thrash pop movement displayed
in a museum- Me watching with my skyscraper
dick.

Big canvas, followed to a tourist trap door-
There is no cure for smog or the road made of
garbage, just like there is no antidote for the dog
walker.

On this sidewalk I see asses fat like the big
slice. Dollar slice is cheaper though-
Uncommonly, uncalmingly, like terrorist missiles,
More issues, to deal
with.

Lets hold hands in the cheap pub with the
Expensive jackets we bought, under the heated lights of the big
City.

Massage Chair

Longing, always
Longing- Someone squeeze me.
Bug out-
Freak out-
I need a super model to molest me, or
at least a little amateur doll to
punch me all over my back,
crush me everywhere,
crunch my nimble bone gears,
& drop cemetery knuckles
on my shoulders!

Motion touching, untying knots-
Muscles shriek & arms curl,
I feel the weight of a heavy girl
stand on my spine, jump & land holes in my torso,
I need a couple hits
of weed morso-
Blaze my eyes closed-
Open me up like a flower-

Now I can take a deep breath & deal with
all of this clutter.

JIZZY BUN

I started telling secrets to my pet like pom-pom,
she moves her mouth muscles around like elastic as she talks,
she grows a big jaw when I tell her what I hide from the world,
Like
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

I call her Jizzy Bun-
her loud friends do to.
Wah Oh Wah-
Sounds like a musical.
She likes pulling my arms out of their sockets-

Sounds- like an animal.

35 dollars for 2 weeks

the
job
pays
shit.

35 bucks left
on a cracked debit
card.

A dollar day- I say.

Fast food cheeseburger- nutri’grain bar- pieces of fruit-
The partying is done for, & the flask runs empty-
2 more weeks.

Imagine for a second that- I am made of money-
Sneeze fifty cents into my hands,
buy some chips,

another gumball prize.

The Breeze

Cheetah bra with her
knees up-
Sporting dripping leather shoes.
Human heart in a jar,
thrown into the ocean
after expired sessions.

Rips in the knees, now she feels the breeze.

College Girls

Desks connected to chairs make me stretch-
Over & Over.
My mind made of plastic like action figures-
College girls sweat iced coffee-
They have FAT asses, small faces, thin rimmed glasses &
leather jackets.
These chicks have restraining orders against me.

Mosh my way through lesson plans-
Leave the lesson tattooing an anarchy symbol on my forehead, pushing
scholars down escalators-
Break between classes-
Burn red candles in public bathrooms-
Let a rat free in the café, taking my lunch to go- Knowing
college girls don’t eat lunch at the café-
They consume iceberg lettuce, wearing tube socks in the park
across the avenue.

Who is be challenged here?
Wasn’t me.

Ring Around

Mortify-
Horrify-
BOMB the wi*fi air circuit!

Crickets playing punk soul
violins in the straw grass,
flabbergasting the ugly past.

Listening-
Drool around the lip line-
Ring around my joystick- Joyous leg locking lockjaw-
Cat paw tracks
leading to the dead castle.
Draw Bridge doors opening and shutting really fast like a fold up lady fan-
Can’t get/keep the box closed.
Stalling for time in my sleep with planets revolving around
me & you & everyone else in the
monster-size-wigwam.
Amongst spilt soda & kicked over beer, the corner store merchant still doesn’t remember me.
Damaging my hazy malt time travel clammer.
Coffin naptime blanket beach towel, shovel and pale to build the sand palace-
Magic carpet eye sockets chatting with old folks all day-
Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone-Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone-Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone- Body drone- Head drone.

Paddle

Couldn’t paddle up the river- Don’t tell anybody.
Holes in my tee shirt, up and down on both sides, moderation in the stretch jeans, small skull silk screened on the fabric, metal foot rests, moon bounce chest piece, she’s got tits, What difference does this sexual bulldozer make?
Slim fit discussion, repetitious formation of bone structure thanks to milk, Goopy McDonalds muzzle, premarital sex shack, shaky cheek bones, hippie weed brain, fuck protesting, give me a 20 dollar bill handshake, a dead skin meal wearing sweat cologne.
I shit credit into flushing bowls with no paddle.
Plural leaps of fate to take, waste balloon, half hour blow-jobs, motorized neck pain-
Who’s worthy?
You, you, and you.

Dumb down my head.
My bug bites are bright red.
I hate shoes that look too small.
I could get sick here, in a brown paper bag.
My schedules blank, I have no cash to burn in glass bongs.
Condoms are free- My girlfriend isn’t-
I rape my health all over-
Put my senses in a coma, bursting with grease and smoke.

Scholar, just getting by, Leeching on pavement, pillows, fake meat, and blonde nurses.
Does it cost anything to use that diving board?
May I dive?

Dangle

A stiff fedora is taken up by
the whirlwind breath.
Agonizing tears drag me home,
help me
chill out.

Worst haircut I’ve ever seen-
Not how I planned this.

What
I
needed
was
a
stuffed lobster and those
slutty fucked up
chicks from Georgia.

I hate performers who sing
over prerecorded vocals.
I like it to be deeper than that-
& then a cobweb dangles.

At Some Point

Tongue down the welfare girls throat,
tastes like money.

Dead in the reclining chair- Head stopped bopping.
Splintering heavy metal playing out on the deck,
breaking the windows, glass shattered in the front yard.

Chewing skin off my fingers; all around the nails, looking
like a train creep with a bazillion homeless dollars.

Girl across from me
wears no make-up
has big hair
all cut up weird.

The Stubborn Spiral

I make no bank
Roach life in the fast lane
Not blacked out- so everything’s fine or
fucked up.
Spiral wave I’m riding.

Whirlpool of unfamiliar faces-
Turn my I-pod off. Turn my
life vibe off. Turn off the blood pipes.
The roof party headache-
No one is safe from rage feelings in a plummet setting.

Water Lily

Silly feeling fleeting beating off-
Hair greasy teased beam POP*
Castles- Clouds-
Daily Roast
Immunity Boost
Whatever You Choose

gave up somewhere

hairs raising,
skin bubbling,
the girl named Angel singing.

money burning,
smoke circling,
the check has gone through.

head turning,
hand returning,
the license has expired.

music- violin- music- classical
formality- music- the color of envy in
envelopes.

Well- could have been. But- broke now.

Slam dancing on the mattress strings

Miles a minute-
My generation in a rush/
Pushing people over turnstiles/ Down stairs/
Under taxis and big trucks/
Mind blowing drool art oozes/ Unfathomed thought snoozes/
Uninterested/ Unlistened to.
Uncommon is the one with the pulled up boot straps/
You can only become God once or a few times/
At best/

UBER DICH (about you)

I can’t walk on my own. I see a big
pink eraser melting in my burning
college. Dopey, smacked to shit.
FUCK THE RULE BOOK. I can’t
help but grovel at the feet of
overachievers. The way they dress
turns my eyes into strobe lights.
HEY. Give me a back scratch with
a pitchfork. Put on your Canal
Street handcuff jewelry. Speak
your native language. Tell the extra
terrestrials you were first on foot,
before cavemen and dinosaurs and
that you’re a billion years old and
carried youthful beauty with you.
I work on different days. We work
in different ways. You do what you
may. It’s hard for me to say.

2010 poems

2010-07-02T09:02:00.000-07:00

Bundle me

In the trails-
Behind my grandmothers West Virginian home,
made of wood-
I traipse about among the ticks,
& look out over a vast acre of tall green grass-
Pressed my notepad against a hollow tree which housed large black ants
& other insects with antenna-
Had to make a note about poison leaves & breeze-
Through out the trail there were big fields with grass only-
These fields reminded me of fucking my girl at purchase in the outskirts along the
campus, on top of a towel, with falls leftover foliage-
Sexual tongue shaker-
Love faker-
Undertaker-
I started to walk back toward the house-
Breaking old twigs in shaded movement-
I threw my cell-phone down a hill-
laughed-
Stared at the patches of dirt & the spiders with burgundy legs &
started feeling like the leaves with the holes chewed through by the butterflies with
now dried cocoons-

J______, please bundle me-
Just bundle me like firewood.

When You Get a Knock On The Door

“When Jesus knocks on your door”, she said.

Jesus is not at my door-
Well I actually don’t know. I’m on vacation at the moment-
I don’t really have a “HOME” with a steady door to knock on-
There’s my apartment in Manhattan- that I’ll be leaving when the lease is up, my moms beautiful house in the Port Jefferson Village, my dads place in Florida where I lived for most of my childhood…

Jesus and I have never met-
What residence would he be reaching me at?
He doesn’t have my cell phone number- or does he?
That- has changed a few times…

The freaks say people are jealous of Jesus. They say they can’t hear him when he speaks-
He is Jesus, no? He should have a 7g network or something like that.

If my cold body is consumed and travels helplessly down the river or
my inner systems swell and buckle with cancer, I still won’t be home and I still won’t know if Jesus was at my door or not.

Ladybug

How many spots did the ladybug have?

A lot, but it was dried and dead.

Age Limits

-4 months apart
a year older than you
19? No 21?
It’s all because of those cut off feet-

+ Are you going to the wedding?

-Ugh, I can’t stand them.

+ Who?

- Micky and Donna.

+ You don’t like Donna cause of her body. You’re very shallow.

- Shut up I’m resting. Move all this clutter off of the counter will you?

+ I feel kind of guilty.

- That’s because you are.

New Poems Fall 2009

2009-12-03T10:43:00.000-08:00

Ointment

Ointment is intimate.
You or
somebody else rubs it
into the spots that raise
the dead.
I rub it on my throat to poison
a cough. Never works
right away.
It is sloppy wet on my neck-
Helping me breathe-
like life support.
I can feel it in my nose.
Everything else-
feels like television commercials.

EFS

This girl
Sits next to me in media class
Has this tattoo behind her right ear
Says EFS
It’s faded
It goes down the back of her head like this:
E
F
S
Everyone Fucking Sucks
Every Fading Second
Ecstatic Flustered Stunned
English French Spanish
Exorcism From Spirit
Easy Fuckable Sexy
Early Five PM Sunset
Ears Fear Saying
Eric Fucked Sarah
Emily Fingered Scott
Everything For Sale

I’ll never know.

Birds, Bees, Sparrows, Spiders

Those scared birds need to stop squawking. They are all so prude.
I ask about a sparrows favorite musical group.
Heavy Metal. Cornell’s voice. Rock n’ Roll.
I said she was a sparrow before, but she wants to adopt a seal, like a black family
adopting a Mexican girl. I am a spider. I don’t have antenna, to pick up her vibes, only poison to slow her down. A bird is a meaty catch for a spider. I spin a web in front of her, my mouth wide open, to look sexy. I spin silk. It twirls like prism batons.
She’s got healthy feathers and flutters the right one lightly, drinking.
My web is complete and I am high and drunk. The sparrow is not high, she is not waiting for me. Your web is very pretty, but I don’t understand it, she says. That’s really cute
you like seals, I say.

DEAD DEAD DEATH

2009-12-03T10:42:00.000-08:00

(Dedicated to Steven and Seth)

The elevator dropped Greg lower and lower. Under the floors, occupied with the busy living, breathing souls. Down he went, tasting warm chocolate as he licked it off of his fingers, avoiding his white coat, feeling summery, having slept most of the day. He exited through a set of shiny metal doors and missed a garbage can throwing the wrapper. His hair was long but only in the back and it brushed the top of his shoulders like twenty inches of toothbrush bristle. Letting a fart creep into his pants, he pushed through some push-doors and saw Lenny reading an issue of a hunting magazine called “Ultra Lamping” with big bright orange lettering beaming on top of a camouflage background smothering the cover. Greg took over for Lenny and Lenny went home carrying a thermos and a pack of menthol cigarettes in a mint green box. Lenny left Greg four bodies.
Fred Fotelli, Maureen Goldberg, Brent Stayden, and Kelly Longtresh were all lying out on tables in front of Greg, covered by white sheets. He washed the chocolate from his hands in a deep sink, sanitized them, and looked over Fred Fotelli’s paperwork. Stabbed in the shoulder. Bar fight. Hit a main artery. Bled to death. He pulled the sheet from Maureen Goldberg’s head and tapped her on the nose. It was cold, Greg laughed and shook his finger at her. Brent Stayden had broken his neck in a football accident, his head was angled sideways, his eyes were also closed. Greg peeked at the body under the last sheet, which revealed a beauty much like the ones he had seen in his early college years. It reminded him of apple pie and ice cream, or the two mixed and jiggled around in a pair of cupped hands. She had a small ‘button’ nose. An all around tiny face with red-blonde hair and neatly snipped bangs. Greg pulled the sheet down further, pinched her right nipple and said, “Niiice”. These four bodies had healthy spirits all hovering against the ceiling above them. They were still and went unnoticed by Greg and all other living beings. Living souls remained inside the body and could not perceive ones that had passed on.
While Greg worked on Fred Fotelli’s body he noticed a tickle in his throat, like a small fly was caught inside, just kind of chilling and buzzing. The spirit hovering above Kelly put the fly there, using its third eye, something living souls have but can’t use. The small fly materialized on the backside of Greg’s Adams apple and flapped. He built up spit in his mouth, hiding it underneath his tongue and swallowed every time he felt it. There were three tubes that were to go inside Fred’s body, two of which were feeding his body different chemicals, one green and one blue, the other acting like a vacuum removing bodily waste. Each body was to eventually receive the three tubes but Fred was first and each body lasted a little over an hour with the tube process. Greg took the down time to get acquainted with the beauty under the last sheet.
He held her head up, “Oh Kelly,” he said, “where were you when I was eighteen?” Kelly laid limp against his hairy arm and didn’t say a word. Her spirit stretched along the ceiling and twitched. Greg swallowed more built up spit and stuck his middle finger in and out of his mouth. The white sheet was on the floor. Trying desperately to reach an itch deep inside of Kelly, Greg moved his middle finger much like one moves a q-tip around inside of an ear. Greg kissed Kelly, her lips were blue, his body was hot, radiating heat. Kelly made Greg feel like he had thrown back several shots of gin and had wheels on the bottoms of his shoes. The floor beneath the two lovers was all ramps, steep and narrow ramps.
The sheet went back over Kelly’s head and Greg wiggled Fred Fotelli’s tubes. He picked up a number two pencil from a desk to check off things on Fred’s chart. When the pencil met his grip Kelly’s spirit snapped it and left several splinters in his middle finger. He screamed and dropped wooden debris on the floor. “Fuck-Fuck-Fuck”, He said. The splinters were lodged tight, sleeping underneath the skin. Using a pair of proper tweezers, Greg removed twenty-five long splinters from his finger. They were long and thin like straightened staples. He bled over the deep sink and secured the wound with gauze and medical tape from a first aid kit, in the top drawer of the desk. This passed some time and Maureen’s tubes were to be connected. Greg vigorously readied some more green and blue chemicals with his eyebrows scrunched.
Maureen received the green and blue treatment and Greg took the sheet off of Kelly again. This time he flipped her over, breasts on the metal, making her arms stretch outward and toward the floor. He tucked them back and ran his tongue along the right section of her buttocks. It was smooth and cold; Greg decided to nibble on it a bit. While nibbling, he massaged her unresponsive spine as if to remove a major knot. Her spirit twitched once more. He dreamt, alone in the morgue, of what she might have looked like in a holiday sweater and a pair of tight pants. It would have been nice if he were outside, he thought, some good loving, outside. He pulled her hair back and draped it over her shoulder to make her appear less thrown about. Then a noise sounded. Kkerrgg’ It was Kristof shuffling about with his mop, in the hallway. Greg decided to get another candy bar.
He and Kristof exchanged conversation about the cold weather, snowed in cars, and how it would get colder. Kristof suggested Greg get chips instead of a candy bar. He got a Snickers and went back into the room to greet Brent Stayden. The chocolate made the fly in Greg’s throat hyper, he made a bowl in his hands over the deep sink and drank water. Kelly’s spirit squinted its third eye and sent a dark wave through Greg’s forehead. Greg couldn’t taste the chocolate; the sweetness was paper, hot computer paper.
Dropping the rest of the candy bar in a wastebasket, he undid his belt. Behind the door was a hook, where Greg hung his white coat. With only a light blue button up shirt on, Greg laid on top of Kelly’s backside. She was very still. The spirit felt his weight. He closed his eyes. Lying on top of Kelly was soft and dreamy.
They fumbled about on the metal table no longer than ten minutes. Greg was in love. Kelly received it. When she was penetrated her healthy spirit became a poltergeist. It slammed into the far corner of the room and curled against the ceiling waiting for Greg to finish. He buttoned his pants and slid back into his white coat; winded and heated he pushed the sleeves up. Kisses were given to Kelly’s forehead and she was rolled over into her original position. He moved her eyelid open and looked into her eye, “It’s a shame your heart can’t beat”, he said in whispered tone. Leaving her without the sheet he spit out more of the paper chocolate taste.
As he wheeled Brent Stayden around the room, Kelly’s poltergeist watched him maneuver the metal table about the morgues floor. It lowered itself and passed through the air behind him. Greg was sweating through his clothing hard, his throat and tongue had become immensely dry. He stopped, coughed, and gagged. The poltergeist grabbed Greg around the stomach and slammed the end of his right hip into the sharp corner of a metal table. He spun around and howled in great pain.
“My God! Kistof!” he shouted for the man and his mop, “My side, agggg”, He gagged and held the hip. The poltergeist shrieked but Greg could not hear it, he pulled himself up only to find it very difficult to walk. His right leg felt a foot longer than his left and he banged into all metal things, tables, pans, and knives. This disproportion with Greg’s legs was an illusion cast by the poltergeist, which stalked Greg about slamming his hips into any jagged edge it could. He felt as if his body were a magnet attracting to the metal. This calamity urged him to shut his eyes tight as they tried to bulge from his skull.
Greg collapsed to the floor, crawled and dragged himself along a smooth marble plain, wailing and trailing speckled blood behind him. He made it into a closet and laid on the floor weeping with blood piddling above his pockets from his hips. They were both broken and he passed out from the shock. The poltergeist rose and floated back to the ceiling, hovering against it directly above Kelly, staring down at her. It would stay there until she was buried and then curl about the cemetery with other spirits in rousing flight.
***

The following morning Kristof followed the trail of blood to the closet and found Greg unconcious. The police were phoned, and Greg was hospitalized, the doctors removed Greg’s tongue and noted he had been paralyzed from the waste down. Communicating on paper he described not having control over his own body and that something else had injured him. He made no mention of Kelly or Fred or Maureen or Brent.
Lying alone in his hospital bed once all nurses and policemen were gone, Greg cried heavily until the medicine he had been given caused him to drift into dreamscapes. It was nightmares there, all nightmares.

RODENT

2009-10-14T13:03:00.000-07:00

The phone rang; David knew it was Lily about to raise hell about something.
“Hello”
“Hey Sweetheart, what are you doing?”
“Just getting home from work, tired, you?”
“Oh my God, I have so many bugs here, while me and Ashley were watching our shows, there was a beetle in the living room and I swear, there’s got to be a spider den in my ceiling, I kill multiple spiders every day, some of them are huge! Oh, and there was an earwig on my pillow and it was really gross,”
This usually went on for a while, and David was well adapted to Lily’s half
Phobias of bugs and all things “gross”. He thought it was petty, a girl in her twenties grossed out by baby spiders and beetles. What was next, coodies? David sat down and slouched in his computer chair, which had broken where the backside and seat cushion were connected, making the chair slant sideways. He leaned over toward the computer screen with a creeeeeek, listening to Lily go on about the shows he had not watched and the bugs he had not flushed for her.
“What if a poisonous one bites me while I’m sleeping?! I’ll never wake up! Then you’ll be sorry,”
David typed a keyword into his browser and waited to push enter. The time was 1:45am; he had not been home long. He had bugs of his own to flush. Tonight he closed at the Solar store downtown and was quite exhausted. Solar was a trendy retail store located in Soho. They carried the “Hottest” trends in fashion. He spent the majority of his time there folding piles of misplaced clothing. The store would usually be trashed at the end of the day; apocalypse style, and David worked late “maintaining” the stores “standards”, sometimes not getting home until three in the morning. He was basically a janitor that didn’t have to deal with toilets and handled money.
David turned away from the computer screen and, without letting Lily know, put the phone on speaker and began to change.
“You don’t think that’s disgusting? Spiders laying eggs in my hair! Are you even there?”
David’s shirt was half over his head and he responded in a muffled “FFFMMM Yea, that’d be FFFMM terrible”
“I’m on speakerphone aren’t I…”
David had been caught.
“I’m sorry, I just kind of walked in the door.”
“It’s okay, you call me when you can, okay.” Lily responded as if she had been rejected from going to a school dance for some faulty irrelevant reason.
“I’ll call you before I go to sleep, alright babe?”
“o.k.”
David dropped the phone where he stood and went into the kitchen. He grabbed a 2. Liter bottle of ginger ale out of the fridge and chugged several huge gulps. The soda was flavorful, and brisk, it was a refreshing burn for David’s insides and throat.
“AHHHHHHH…” He triumphantly sighed.
Standing in the kitchen he smelled maple syrup but wasn’t big into pancakes or waffles or anything of that sort, so the scent confused him. He picked up a few empty dishes from the sink and sniffed. On the floor he noticed the dead cockroach peeking out from behind the wastebasket. His work schedule was hectic and he had left it there for a day or so. He knew it was dead because it hadn’t moved at all when he had first discovered it, but he had not smashed it nor had he doused it in Raid. It was just there, peeking out, dead. If only the bugs in Lily’s apartment dropped dead like that, then he wouldn’t have to spend phone calls hearing about the wrath and carnage.
But what could have killed it? He thought. Didn’t cockroaches survive extreme radiation or function completely fine with their heads chopped off?
He didn’t like that there had been a dead cockroach parked on his floor, so he ripped a paper towel from above the sink and picked up the roach like a shit pellet. He then went into the bathroom and flushed it.
***
After a long day, folding piles of abandoned t-shirts and blue jeans, David stood waiting at the 2nd avenue F train stop headed uptown. It was deserted except for a foreign couple on the opposite platform. David thought they were arguing, but they kept managing to hug each other in between outbursts of random yelling. Standing around all day made David’s feet throb. He stomped hard on the ground to dumb the pain, and then paced around kicking large royal blue beams with the tips of his shoes. He gazed down at the muck layered above the tracks.
A rat scurried by, and then another. David wasn’t grossed out by rats like Lily was with bugs. He thought rodents were cute, although he wouldn’t touch or even get to close to a subway rat, but not many people would. He noticed more rats, three more had darted across.
Watch some Cloverfield shit happen- He thought.
Suddenly his attitude towards rats changed from a shoulder shrug to a slightly confused, bedazzled, intimate wonder. Hobbling slowly through the muck knocking its head into a decomposing McDonald’s cup was a rat, but to David’s absolute surprise it had two proportioned white wings coming out of its shoulder blades. He felt a tickle rise on the back of his neck and he developed a cry ball in his throat. It appeared to be the Pegasus of all vermin. This rat moved slower than the rats that had ran by before, like it was injured and struggling. Its right wing also appeared to be damaged. David’s eyes widened, he quick looked across the platform at the foreign couple now locking lips. They did not know he was there, or see the rat.
There is no fucking way? - He thought.
David rubbed his eyes hard and followed the rat slowly along the bumpy yellow strip designed to keep passengers back from on coming trains. He followed it until the platform ran into a wall bordering the tunnel as it descended into the darkness. It had gone un-noticed in the artificial light, but the rat had a glow to its fur. A faded pink shimmer, like a cave dweller. There were other colors among the pink aura as well, blues, and greens. David became determined to not let the rat just scurry off. He thought of many things like money and science, but also how badly he wanted to see it up close to study its awesome appearance.
A mutant, or an undiscovered species! - He thought.
He sat on the edge of the platform along the bumpy strip and looked both ways several times never quite taking his eyes off of the glowing sewer phenomenon. He leaped down onto the sludgy tracks and stared at the third rail. While David had been pondering the risks of being down on the tracks the rat made it a fair distance into the tunnel, but he could still make out the pink shimmer. He began to follow it slowly through the dark using his cell phone as extra light. It was cold. David only had a tee shirt and a grey windbreaker to warm himself. The ground was murky and there were too many puddles to avoid. Wet shoes didn’t bother David in this situation. He was jumpy, EEEEEAAARRRRRRAAACCKK, he heard in the faint distance, a train perhaps. This made David speed up and silently remove his windbreaker, which sent an instant chill underneath his shirt and up his arms. He shook for a second and approached the rat, which had stopped a short distance in front of him. Wow- He thought, as the rat took notice of him. He crouched down next to it and whispered, here cutie, come here, are you hurt poor thing- The rat then wobbled over to David and he scooped it up into his windbreaker. Its head was just poking out of the swishy fabric. GUNGA-GUNGA-GUNGA-GUNGA, sounded from another direction, as the dark became a swallowing menace of sound and stink.
David pressed the rat tight to his chest to keep warm and began heading back toward the light of the station. The rat smelled like piss, or was it the subway in general? He figured it was both. The dark let out another sound now, only, it spoke- Hoo-Hah! Flying straight into the moonlight! You’d have to eat a million of those things! David stopped, dead in his tracks, and turned around. He saw nothing; dim blue lights just under the ceiling were the only physical things he could make out. CLANK’ SHSH-SHSH, You asshole! - David knew the voices weren’t officials or police, the vocabulary he could make out wasn’t normal or professional sounding, but more groggy. He crept with the rat close to him and one hand touching the wall behind him for balance and grip.
He came to what seemed to be a clearing, a place where trains changed course, which was much wider than the tunnel. There were four different corridors and the mumbled voices were becoming louder. The lights here were brighter as well and he could see a fire lit in a trash can a ways down. There were three men, each sitting on milk crates around it, bullshitting about something he couldn’t make out entirely.
Shit tastes nasty, but it’s well worth it- One man said.
David leaned against the wall of the tunnel and watched the men at a safe distance. His heart was a mess of thunder and concrete, he felt it beat hard. The rat gave David’s chest a tiny nudge. He put his free hand over his mouth so he wouldn’t get caught breathing. He was mildly shivering, but told himself he needed to see what the men were doing so deep in the tunnel. He wondered if there weren’t more rats or glowing creatures.
The men had light pink objects in their hands and they appeared to be sawing and prying at them. Then David saw one of the men drop a baby wing on the black floor, they were sawing the heads off of glowing rats. One man wore a tweed hat and a heavy coat, with muddy boots. He held a decapitated rat body in his hand and said- Bottoms up!
David watched the man squeeze the rodent’s body and guzzle its thick blood. He had stopped shivering and was now sweating through his shirt, eyes wide. The man wiped a crimson streak across his face and smiled. David then dropped his arm from his mouth and raised his head as the ragged man began to gradually hover and then float above the fire. The other two men had also stopped and watched their friend in awe. David felt sick and the rat began to move in his jacket. He got up slowly and felt his leg muscles tighten. The man yelled- A God, HAHAHA I am a God!
David left the man suspended in mid air and rushed until he could see the light of the subway station and within a few minutes he and the rat were on the cold pavement of 2nd avenue.
***
It was approximately 5:30 am when David entered his apartment with the rat still wrapped up in his jacket. He held it cradled in one arm while he pulled a large clear storage bin out of the far corner of the room. He placed the rat inside with some newspaper. The morning sun had not risen fully and he turned all of his lights on. He carried the bin into the bathroom and placed it in inside of the bathtub. The rat seemed to be feeling better but its right wing looked frail and limp. He filled up a small dish with water and put it in the bin. As the rat drank he watched it in an enchanted gaze.
That man was levitating in the tunnel; his head almost hit the ceiling. How much are you worth you cute little weasel? You’ve got such frisky whiskers-
So many thoughts smashed into David’s logic. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to bring the rat to a veterinarian, or try selling it to someone, he didn’t know who. He held his forehead and sat on the toilet in deep meditation. He had work at 7:00am, an opening shift in less than an hour now but had decided he was never going to go back to that place after what he had witnessed. He knew telling Lily wouldn’t go over well; the mention of a rat willingly being in his apartment would be enough for her to hang up.
David realized he didn’t want to work or talk on the phone. He had just witnessed real magic with his own eyes. No card tricks, no models being sawed in half. David wanted to fly.
He watched the rat with a glazed expression. It sat curled in the corner of the plastic tub radiating its rosy flare. David filled a paper cup with water and threw it down his throat, feeling the cold takeover his insides. He paced back and forth through the doorway of the bathroom, lightly tapping his fist on the door. He noticed the intense orange of the sun on the floor, which made him turn and watch it from the window. In those moments of dizzying morning David picked the rat up in his hand like a coke can and brought it into the kitchen. There were some glasses, layered in a beige sort of film, on the counter and he pushed those to the side with the backside of his free hand. He pulled out a wooden cutting board and positioned it on the counter top. The rat moved its head around sniffing the blank air. David held it steady against the cutting board and picked up a bread knife. He closed his eyes only for a second, then watched as he sawed into the rat’s neck. It struggled violently, wiggling, kicking and flapping its one good wing. It frightened David and he lost grip of the handle for a second. The rat was twitching, mostly dead, and David regained his composure and sawed the head off completely. Blood spurted out like a dollar store water gun, and began dripping onto floor as it formed a puddle on the counter. David quick held it up right, much like a soda, and quickly skipped across the apartment toward the fire escape.
David pulled the screen up and felt the morning air hug his body. The rats’ blood had gone cold on his knuckles as he looked out at the rising sun. He felt triumphant, like he had gotten away with murder. He looked at the ground below, which was a mix of concrete and un-kept shrubbery. He looked into the windows of the neighboring buildings. No one seemed to be up, most of the shades were down. He held the rat in front of his face now. I’m gonna fucking fly! - He thought, and squeezed the rats’ body into his mouth. The blood was lukewarm and dreadfully salty. It made David fall to his knees and gag, shutting his eyes tight. Uuuuuuuuuuuaaaa, FUCK! - He exclaimed to the dead outdoors. His eyes opened wide and he began to lift from the ground. The sky above was banded with golden rays and heavy blue. He soared up high over a thousand feet, and looked at the city, leaving the body of the rat to sun bathe on the metal. The city grew brighter by the minute as David floated, spinning and screaming. He found himself over water and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he watched small waves move about in rows on the surface. He had become short of breath, like he had been running really fast. He slowed down and abruptly dropped twenty feet, and paused-
FFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKK WHA’WHAAT’-
100 feet-
He was plummeting faster by the minute-
As he neared the endless sea beneath David blacked out.
Lily was leaving a message on his answering machine while straightening her hair. The three men in the tunnel were asleep beside their milk crates, grunting, dreaming about having wings of their own.

End.

I always post when I'm ill.

2009-03-06T07:58:00.000-08:00

Domains of Sadness

She works
in a Wal-Mart-
Straight out
of a law firm-
“Some life” she thinks.
This is her domain of sadness-
A place where air is tear gas,
A place where stomachs never settle,
A place where clothing sags from your
Arms and legs and waist.

She used to wear suits
to expensive dinners-
Now she’s as good as dead,
in her stale bakery,
if the donuts don’t come out right.

Transformed from something alive-
To nothing but a miserable motherhood-
That smells like pounds of icing-

Old ages love life,
as cold as a winter’s hand job.
Its like,
NO FUN
NO FUN
NO FUN-

This domain of sadness, truly crippling,
makes for a
mass of wrinkles,
and a hoarse voice.

And there’s my best friend-
Anger.
He always shows up to the domain of sadness,
orders a few drinks, smokes a few cheap cigarettes.
All he can afford.
He brings screaming matches, crying eyes,
unbelievable lunacy.
He comes from his own domains,
which are underground
in the domains of sadness.
Its loneliness, uncertainty of income,
Ignorance (who is from the domain of bliss),
and shit like
Cancer.

Mother fucking anger-
Mother fucking sadness-
Mother fucking pain-
All crowded around the streets
in the daylight
keying each others cars,
slashing each others tires-
slobbering in the nightlight,
stubbing the toes of their bare feet
on the unpaved-rocky roads
of these treacherous towns
belonging to the beautiful people,
who have given up
everything.

Self Pity

Poor Jimmy,
Always writing about sick love-
When will he write something new?
Its like he swallows his own
poetic saliva-
and pukes it into his
computer.
He makes himself weak in the knees,
he takes his own breath away,
he drinks love potion
and stares in the mirror-
He is his own muse.

Poor James,
What is it he’s looking for?
To be immortal-
Nah, death is too sexy.
To be alone-
Nah, female morning breath smells
too good.
To do the right thing-
Fuck it.

Poor Jim Jim,
He’ll never be a song writer-
He practices everyday and can’t even read music-
He runs down the block with his heart in his hands-
He carries on-
“I can not strum my guitar to the way it beats!”
He grows his hair long-
only to tear it out.

Poor Jimbo,
He can’t break the bad habit-
can’t slow the bad diet-
just can’t keep money in his pocket.
Couldn’t type you a song if you sang it to him,
couldn’t love you the same if you taught it to him.

Poor guy,
Deaf to kindness-
Blind to real beauty-
Not so well read-
Up the creek
with rocks
for brains.

The Sad Songwriter

Oh he’s got the energy on the stage,
The crowd really loves him.
He smokes his eyes red and plays that guitar-
What does he sing about?
Nothing, he’s bashful when it comes to lyrics.
He also hates his voice-
He can’t hit the right note.
All he’s got is ideas-
Million dollar hits-
Like Lennon?
No way-
Lennon could sing remember?
And his lyrics were gold.
This sad,
Sad songwriter-
He’s got nothing to sing about but being spoiled
And stoned,
His last song went something like this:
“Mama I need some money,
Mama my stomach it hurts,
Mama I’m out of party drugs,
Mama lala lala
Mama lala lala”
Wow, that’s really awful-
You’ll like it,
Takes a few listens.

Where can we see him play?
He doesn’t play out much-
Oh I get it, he’s strictly a studio musician huh?
Not exactly-
I’d describe him as a trash performer-
He only plays in his room-
He treats his songs like junk-
If he did paintings,
those canvases would warp and bend,
he would never put them in a gallery.
This songwriter sucks, I think he needs a new hobby-
I’ll play you some of his songs someday-
Trust me,
they are catchy.

Liquor

Makes me bang my fists
On hard wood floors,
Shit out words I truly feel about
Yyyy-you.

Nervous stutter?

That’s what you do to me,
Like bloated fucking mutters
Swollen cheeks
From crying to you in my sleep
My teeth slicing the inside of my mouth
In layers,
Puking the way you wear those jeans
SNUG
On those artistic hips
Into my brand new toilet.

1:22am

2009-01-04T22:32:00.000-08:00

Memories Alive & Dead

Oh blank walls-
You see it all.
You see me in all my grief-
In all my happiness-
In all my dread-

O Lovely,
You don’t know what these
Old walls see.
You’ll never hear the songs
They hear-

Oh blank walls-
You’ve always told me-
To love and love and love-

O vivacious girl,
These walls know
That as far back
as they can remember-
you’ve been worth more
to me-
Than life, death, and a full stomach.

Old walls.
Blank walls.
Covered in memories alive and dead.

long island new years 2009

2009-01-04T13:26:00.000-08:00

Furniture

There’s this girl
I don’t really know.
But I want
Really bad.
And as I was
Helping my mother
Pick out a couch
In the furniture super store,
I imagined
what it would be like
to fuck that girl
on every couch
in the store.
I was fucking her on
Love seats,
Kissing her hips
On leather sofas,
Pressing against her tits
In over a hundred living rooms.

I saw her come out of
50 different bedrooms,
and strip for me-
while I relaxed on
a blue couch,
a red one,
and a recliner
made with tweed.
She crawled slowly toward me
Over oval glass coffee tables,
and rectangular ones too.
We even ended up on the floor.
My mother-
Hated every shade and texture she saw
We left without
Any couches.

DTF

You bet
I am.

She says,
“What do you do if a bitch sends you a text that says R U DTF?”
I tell her with my eyes.
They fill her in-
“I wreck hearts and fuck brains out.”
She left shortly after that-
I thought it was her ice breaker-

I can wait-
I’ve got peace and quiet.
but
I need to feel her like pain.
I need to feel her like breath.
I need to feel her like vice grip.
2:30am
No calls & more knots-
In my back.

How many hours do you spend a week
waiting for good things
to fall
into your lap,
or ring loud
on the telephone?

enough.

new poems- end of 08

2008-12-28T23:10:00.000-08:00

Home Again

Lifes all about
dying
like car batteries.
Lifes all about
cumming-
Love Making-
Open Mouth Kissing.
Lifes all about
taking shit
and/or
giving life.

Lucky to feel my guts
Knotted and stretched,
Lucky to have breath to loose.
O so lucky
to not give a fuck.
Deep breaths help me fall
Deep in love
With anger.
Deep as tombs may go,
Deep as you want them to.
Winter midnight
screams high pitched wind.

Not getting laid-drive-thru happiness-flavored ale-
my moms sweet side of the family,
makes a hell of a home.
If my car would start,
it would be good
to get
away.

Spinning

My surge protector
Hums
Still you can only buy
One of mine
And 2
Of his
Illness
My lowest cost of ownership
Streets are flooded
Thousands have left town
The newscaster is frightened
Low of 52
Not that cold
Fucked for life.

SO MANY THINGS

So angry, sex makes my stomach ache,
Flavorless skin,
The most suspicious lover in the world:
Wants to be pinned to the wall.
Wants to take it all to the next level.
Thinks she’s worth more than gold,
Or peace on earth for that matter.

Shivering in my sweats,
Spitting on my own floor,
Removing layers of face,
Seeing whatever’s under the skin,
On the mind.
It’s all truth in there.

This makes the lies more real,
They gush from the ground like worms, after rain,
Everybody is a modern bullshit artist,
Some starving,
Some fat as pigs,
Some write hits,
Some kill themselves.
Quitters.
Idiots.
Madmen.
Dolls.

Why give good karma bad head?
I’ll tell you why.

Love is a pudgy bitch,
She leaves no tip,
Chomping,
Crumbs falling from her chin
Like bombs of lust,
Leveling cities,
So many civilians.

Bones of rubble-
Cuddle
Cuddle.

2 poems from "Bloody Nose" (my next collection) which is close to being done

2008-10-17T13:16:00.000-07:00

Eating my Words

While trying to conjure up
my soul,
I chomp on Fries
Meat
and bread.
I've had many writing blocks,
enough to build a toy mountain.
I put all the blocks together,
It takes 500 years,
of sweat,
and blood,
and death.
Words come out
like sludgy, red, ketchup
from the packet,
soaking
on a cardboard tray.
My words feel small,
smaller than grains of salt
and pepper.

I eat my words and they digest slow as a slug grazing on a damp porch.

Polo,
If you could only keep a fucking secret
we could break our wrists
on wooden head boards.
if you were more animal than human
we could fuck like hammers.
If you had the slightest idea
the cat would claw its way out of the bag.
Since there's so much more you want to know
i'll keep it until you're good
and dead.
Love,
Marco

Some Poems That Grew Out Of My Forehead

2008-08-24T08:57:00.000-07:00

Things I didn’t mention

Total summer,
Skimpy flirting,
Burned trees,
Nature walks,
And
Your lips
Brushing my neck
Like teeth.

I relax like
Long waves
Of breath.

I sleep like
Short stories
About death.

Or
Long
Ones.

Long time no see.
Still love me?

I’m not even turned on
By my turn-ons
Anymore.
I’m like stitches
Inside of the mouth,
Infected
BloodSHOT
Poltergeist.

20$
tattoo.

75$
parking ticket.

Parts of you in me

Peeling memories of you
From my heels
In slabs of
Dead skin.

Chewing chunks
Of your hair
In my sleep.

Bleeding you
From the corners
Of my
Short, short
Nails.

Bad Idea

Sickly stomach limping
Celebrity
Gets all the girls,
Then
Hurls.
Off the balcony,
In front of the truck.

I let a smoker drive my car.
I am definitely not myself.
I am sad,
Beer virus,
Hangover holidaze,
So drunk
You take a shit on the
Chandelier.

Pull out your big trunk and wave it
At the lady elephants.

poem puke + a short story

2008-08-15T18:31:00.000-07:00

Silly Biker, Pets are for Kids
By James Watson

Me and Lucas were wandering around in the humid summer weather. We were doing our number one favorite outside activity, which happened to be stopping at the end of every driveway in the neighborhood, and checking in their storm gutters for tadpoles. Tadpoles used to entertain us for days. We would catch them in plastic cups and try raising them until they were full-grown adult frogs. Little did we know that it took as long as 2 months for the tiny amphibian to even sprout legs, and that was far too long for any 9 year old to wait. So what usually happened is they would stay in the same cups we caught them in, and would be left in the dark garage with nowhere to swim. By the next day we would be out on the streets deep in the storm gutters with our eyes wide open hoping to find a tiny tadpole.
Today was especially hot. Lucas and I discussed how we needed to get out of the sun and into town, we were thinking about going to the bakery inside of Publix and getting a free cookie. That was obviously a great idea; all my body needed was a good sugar rush and a trip to the water fountain. We walked the long walk through the neighborhood and ended up behind ‘ROOSTERS!’ Bar and Grill. A pretty good place that had a kid’s night in which a clown named ‘Applejack’ would do magic tricks and make balloons in the shape of safari animals like giraffes, lions, and monkeys. I liked that place a lot; it was located next to the Publix, a Little Ceaser, and a pet shop. Whenever I was in town I had to stop in the pet shop, seeing as that was where my mom and I got Piezo and Moochie, my two cats. I always stopped in there to see if they had brothers and sisters.
Luke and me got drinks from the water fountain and free cookies then; of course, we went to the pet shop. This pet shop was family owned and pretty small. The only people I ever saw in there were an older girl maybe 13 years old and a grandma. This particular time the girl was in the front, behind the counter, reading a book and the grandma was nowhere to be found. I always made my way around to the cats first, then the birds, and the spiders, scorpions, and snakes, last. I turned the corner and saw the snake tanks brightly lit up with heat lamps laying on top of them. There was a biker dude standing in front them wearing a big black leather jacket and tight black jeans. His hair was pretty long, about down to his shoulders, and was ultra thin and greasy. He was staring at this one snake like he had never seen one before.
I ran over to the tanks and started checking out the tarantula, I always looked at him first, he was definitely the biggest spider I could get ultra close to, and that alone made him my favorite. I really liked spooky creatures. Lucas came up behind me shortly after and marveled at the spider as well. I caught the biker dude in the corner of my eye putting his hand in the snake tank he was staring at.
Since I had never seen anyone touch the animals besides the girl or the grandma I blurted out, “You work here?” to the greasy man.
“NO.”, he said and picked up the snake.
The snake was coiled in a ball and looked like it was asleep; he lifted it out of the tank and placed it in his side pocket. He then turned around and strolled down the dog leash aisle. I didn’t think much of it, I figured he was buying the snake, he was a biker. I looked at the scorpion next then heard the door to the store slam. The door always made a loud slam at that store, I looked up through and saw the biker walking to the parking lot, but it didn’t look like he had bought the snake. I thought that was weird because whenever I wanted to touch the animals I wasn’t aloud and that dude can just put the animals in his pockets and walk around for a while. I asked Luke if he thought the guy took the snake or not, he didn’t know. I told him I was gonna ask the girl who he was and tell her about the snake anyway.
When I told the girl she made me promise I wasn’t lying because the biker guy was still in the parking lot just hanging around his motorcycle. He had lit a cigarette and was circling his bike smoking it. I told her to check out the tank, it was empty and there was supposed to be a Baby Ball Python that was in it. I made note of the snakes name on the way to the register. She then phoned the police, and thanked us. Lucas and I then left the pet shop and headed back through the town, which was getting a bit cooler now that the sun was going down.
The next day in the newspaper there was an article “Two Brave Students Stop Snake Bandit”. My father brought it to my attention seeing as right when I got home I told him all about it. It was a small little article and it didn’t give out names, which was good because I was afraid he might one day find me and murder me while I am playing with the tadpoles on the side of the road. These ideas came to mind simply because my mother loved watching unsolved mysteries of course.

Pink Swan

She knows how to roll a blunt,
Street smart.
Her shits gonna get thrown in the hallway.
Leon,
Doesn’t take shit.
Oh well.

Sensitive Beach Sand Skin

You sensitive girl
You freeze quicker than you burn
You want to make love,
To touch everything,
The organs
The heart
Lungs
smooth skin.

Sheets greet
Your bare spine
And leave finger prints there…

It really does a number
On you.

Your hands
turn into thin seaweed.
Your toes
Become sand.
And your body washes away
Like stains
And
Shells.

THE JOKER

Where is the orange lighter?
Where is Jack Nicohlson?

No more THC for me.
My hearts twitching.
My skins itching.
Creepy crawling.
Rotating weightlessly…

Blah blah blah

Garcia Vega

2008-08-08T11:09:00.000-07:00

I am harmless
like
baby powder.
fast food
makes my heart burn
like
a
Garcia Vega.
Tired-
my head hangs like a heavy ball
on a thin
string.

In the bathroom

2008-08-08T09:17:00.000-07:00

Selfish

When they said
"It's not all about you."

They better have been lying.

ADDICTED TO HATE (in 3 sections)

2008-08-08T09:08:00.000-07:00

Addicted to Hate

I figured it out,
Call me all knowing,

“If you could just see the positive side of thi-“

Positive side?
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…

I am addicted to hate,
It is that simple.

The traffic jam, the hangover, the family, the job, money, sex, ex’s, stomach pain, mosquito bite, below zero, over 90, college, sicknesses, industry…

My body bathes in HATE.

I’m no racist,
I’ll pat myself on the shoulder.

*
When my mother cries
The hate becomes
Visible
You can see it in
My hair,
Knuckles,
Eyes,
Mouth,
Teeth,
Each fucking molar.

She is beautiful
And she says
I use her
For a room to sleep in
And cheap thrills
Like movies
And pot.

To be honest
I know no other
To use for
Creature comforts
It only seems right.
*
It may be women
In general
Who get to thinking
I use them.
Or is it
Just…

BRAINS

If I said money was the root,
Cut out my tongue.
I must be a drunk
Shouting from the top of my eyelids.

I figured it out
It’s brains.

Brains made the money,
The money made the problems,
The problems are like cancer
They sleep and riddle
Everything
With death
And
Hate.

Brains

Talk about good and evil.
*
My mother
Is a superhero
I
Am a villain.
She wears sweat on her brow
And uses
Politeness
Potting soil
And
Perfection.
I use
Drugs,
Preservatives,
And…
ANGER

Hate is a good word
To describe how I feel about
Anger.

I drink anger through straws
And chew it
Like gum.

then spit

And anger is stuck on the bottom of my shoe.
Right under my nose.
*
In my mothers e-mail
She writes on all the things
She is unable to say.
And they hurt.
They hurt like a Hate crime.
And where they should make me feel sad.
I feel anger,
Because I Hate
Sadness.

I Hate it all
Just as much as
I Love…

Myself

I love myself
I am fucking handsome
Cooler than cool
And a genius to boot.

I am also full of shit
HAHAHAHAHAHA…

who isn’t

I don’t
Hate
Myself.

What good would that do
Except maybe
Make things easier to change
About
Myself
For everyone else.

Fangs & Graves

2008-07-28T07:54:00.000-07:00

FANGS AND GRAVES

Crashing

Manda grabbed for my SEGA gamegear, I shoved her mousey digits away and continued smashing Dr. Robotnic’s hover craft. “Quit it! Brat.” I said, she whined. My father was flying his plane and telling us some childhood story.
“Then, Rosco grabbed the mit off my hand and buried it in the yard!” that’s about all I heard. We are on our way to Russia to have Christmas with grandma.
My mother was playing co-pilot, but she really had no idea what anything inside of the plane did. My father owned Cool-Air, an air conditioning company back on Long Island. His business did well, and he traveled a lot, it wasn’t often we all took trips together in his plane.
Dr. Robotnic was exploding; I was on my way to the next stage.
Suddenly my hands were thrown from the game and thrashed around violently. Loud piercing shrieks darted through my ears, I tried looking up, but the plane was skyrocketing toward the ground. All the weight inside was being thrown in opposite directions. A collage of my parents, my sister, and myself screaming and swirling sky stammered through me.

Sunset

When I woke up, I coughed very hard, and rubbed my eyes. I was still strapped into my seat. I jiggled my body around and got loose. The nose of the plane was pointed downward. My pack lay on the back of my fathers seat. I got free and slipped down next to father. His face was completely smashed in by a branch of a tree. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t think. A breeze blew through the wreckage and I began to shiver. My mother was gone. Then I heard Manda start coughing. She was strapped in her baby seat, it had saved her. I saw her pack lying on the back of my mothers seat. We retrieved them and snuck out my mother’s side window into the snowy forest.
We stared down a snowy hill leaving the mangled aircraft behind us. I had no idea where to turn or look so I decided to look for the biggest tree I could find and would figure out how to get out of the freeze. Manda and I were gripping each other’s hands, tightly. “Jakey, it’s to cold.” She whined. I said nothing.
I hurried to construct an igloo, the sun was escaping. I learned in science class that igloos keep Eskimos pretty warm and that’s how they live in such cold places. Manda was crying, she wanted mom and dad. I told her they were coming, and that we just had to do this by ourselves for a while. She kept saying how cold she was.

“Look,” I bent down and put my hands on her shoulders, “I know it’s cold but we have nowhere to go right now, if we build this ice house we will be okay and people will find us soon.”
She was scared, so was I, as if lions and tigers and bears, OH MY, were lurking around each snow sheeted tree. I wasn’t concerned with any of the above, but I wouldn’t be surprised if wolves were somewhere in these woods. Our plane couldn’t of picked a harsher place to crash. With our parents dead, I had to work fast.

If God does exist and he’s almighty, and brought this upon me and my kindergarten sister, then he is a Fuck. We were supposed to be in Novgorod, visiting grandma playing with her dogs, drinking hot coco, telling stories, and having Christmas dinner.

I bunched up another hand full of snow and pack it in with the others. I finished our snow house and told Manda I would go in first to make sure it was sturdy and wouldn’t cave in on us.

“Come on in, its way nicer then outside!” I yelled.
Manda scurried in, her bright pink and green ski jacket illuminated the walls of the igloo like a watermelon being hit by the sun. She huddled close to me shivering.

“Still cold.” She said buried under my arm.
I didn’t blame her, I had found my pack in the debris, but not my jacket, all I had was a thin burgundy sweatshirt, khaki pants, and sneakers. None of which was cutting it.

There was only one blanket and it belonged to Manda. It was her baby blanket she had been clinging to since she was 2 years old. It was a royal blue color with pink flowers on it. We were lucky enough to find our packs in the debris of the plane. I figured tonight we’d sleep because the night was now heavy over us and being rescued was not going to happen.

Manda, bundled in her jacket with her blanket over her, was sound asleep. I was getting colder. This sweatshirt wasn’t cutting it; I felt was if my veins would frost over. I looked over at Manda and started thinking. She is sound asleep, I could take that blanket, I built the igloo, and I deserve it. If Manda ever found out I took that blanket she’d scream. She would scream until the wolves came and swallowed us whole.
I took it anyway. I couldn’t help my self.
The blanket provided little extra warmth, but enough that I could close my eyes and fall asleep.

Sunrise

A shiver startled me, and I awoke in a cold dome, half layered in snow, and a stiff thin cloth draped over me. I wrapped my hands around my arms and began to rub quickly. Manda was still asleep. I had no idea what time it was, but I could see it was daylight.

“Manda, we should get moving now.” I said in shivered, quivering speech.

She said nothing.
I moved closer to her body and pulled her pink hood back from her face, she was white washed, completely pale, lifeless. I brushed her ice crusted golden curls from her small cheeks.

Nothing.

I began to scream, “Manda, QUIT FOOLING AROUND!”

She kept fooling around.

I thought CPR, like on T.V. that has to work.

I pounded on her tiny chest, and poured my lungs out into hers. She didn’t need my lungs, she was frozen. She needed my blood that for some reason still flowed through my selfish veins. If she had her blanket, would it have saved her?

Why wasn’t I frozen to death?

I held her half-sized hand in mine and cried, wiping the tears away so they would not freeze on my face. The frigid space had become a deathbed. I wailed and sobbed with snot coating my lips and swinging from my chin.

She was gone now. I franticly crawled out of the ice casket and took a few steps back. I gazed at the igloo in disbelief with the blanket over my shoulders, bluish-pink bursts of color flashing and flapping in the brisk wind. The snow was ecstatic with bright white.

A twig snapped behind me.

I turned and was now looking straight down the snout of a hungry wolf.

End

Random Poems 07-08-09?

2008-07-28T07:46:00.000-07:00

Fed up (&down)

I watch my friend all wrapped in baby twine, spoon-feed his lover.
Goo-goo-ga-ga.
Smash the cartilage with a bright blue-rattle.
Crawl, crawl, crawl on all
4’s.

Holy (I want to staple your mouth shut!) Fuck!
Why do I put up with half-drunk nights anymore?
Drink a few, burn a few, smell like a beach fire, sit up and stomach false promises from girls with computer screen faces.
Keyboards for teeth.
Telephone wire ponytails.
Text message a gawking crow.
Tired, Tired eyes.

www.

The Arrogant Plumber

People are too dumb,
To fix things themselves.

And WHOM do they call?
The Restroom Respirator,
The Oracle of the Pipes,
The Sink Surgeon,
The Porcelain Playboy…

CAN IT!
YOU WHIMPERING PUPPIES!
I CAN CALM YOUR MESSY TOILET TANTRUMS!

Without me,
you’d all be shitting the bed.

RUN TOGETHER

HELLO, I am a drunken-high clustered swollen
INNER MONOLOUGE, pushing at the shell of a brain.
LET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!
The subconscious spits angrily from the depths of my black hole feelings chamber.

My insides are soaked in beer-
The best way to shed my tears for the new year.
EACH BOTTLE- beat to shit.

Head spinnin’ spinnin’ spinnin’
I don’t care about the height, weight, or angle-
Just sit and run together with the color,
My dreams,
My health,
My sex drive,
My allergies.

Being Loud At Night

I have the right-
To be loud at night.

I can sing like song birds sing
Or
Cry like house dogs bark

Hunchback Bushes

Bushes being strangled, Neatly-
In a row, By the ZOMBIES of falls,
DEAD YELLOW LEAVES.
…And trees danced with the wicked-
bending over the walkway like the hunchbacks of fairy tales would be…
When I observed the pine it was not shagged with ice but-
Raped by wet, cold rain,
Making it looked surprised and SAD.

The air made me feel tired-
As if the fog was going to stay a long while.

APPLE BLOSSOM HANDS

GODDAMN THESE APPLE BLOSSOM HANDS!
So clean, they don’t smell like burrito.
They are the same hands that when attached to yours,
Appear so perfect-
Theu make V shaped flocks of migrating birds look,
Sloppy.

I like your blueberry muffin hands A LOT.
I remember them touching my entire body.

THANKSGIVING

I am sitting on my soft bed.
It is the definition of comfort.
My open window spits swirling jazz horns into my room.
Family is downstairs:
My mother rushing around,
Marty watching a football game, in the living room, next to the fireplace,
And 2 of my grandmothers, talking about how students get abducted in other countries.

I smell turkey and burnt wood.
I am upstairs, taking rezzon hits out of my bowl, with a BBQ lighter.
Pete left a beer in my car last night, and I am drinking that as well.
It is a Budweiser.
The window reveals a foggy backyard.

I close the window, chew some gum, and go downstairs.

BELCH

A sonic wave of gas moves me into a Belch.
Mrs. Shotglass Beerbottle Headache taps me on the shoulder:

“I’ll see you in the morning” She says.
I brush her hand off.
Caught in a spiral
of ex-lovers eyes
making their discreet
glances at my costume.
I can taste the unspoken thirst.

Truth is no one speaks anymore.
Unless a secret leaks, your “Friends”
Are either a faint stare or a quick smile.

Truth is all you both want to see is each others clothing balled up on the floor.

In a world assorted human beings, I am a Hungry, Sluggish, Pervert

I can hear the girl that sits across the room,
Munching on assorted nuts.
A big CRUNCH fills the room every 25 seconds when she bites down on the next handful.
It does NOT put me in the mood for assorted nuts.
But
Her haircut, nosering, Orange button down cardigan and converse sneakers
Put me in the mood for something else.

The chick next to me in Ocean class,
Is writing down a list of assorted things.
Chores, Homework, Job, Friends, Blah.
I don’t think about the things I have to get done when I read her list.
But
Her white framed glasses, Black pulled back ponytail, and ripped jeans
Make me think of something else.

Long Live Lassitude

Love spending my heyday, with my legs stretched long under the covers,
Thinking.
Tossing boredom at the walls and watching it bounce, out loud.
My throat feels burnt in the oven.
I’ve had a couple of late nights in a row this week.
Buildings make the late nights a dark closet.
The black smoke and concrete giants block,
the moons rays.
Beds are, so soft they bleed energy from life.
Bits of shuteye follow me.
Hoping my dreams will lead long lives,
I welcome boredom.

Poems- January-July 08

2008-07-28T07:35:00.000-07:00

You Glow

Longing for
you touching
the knots in my back,
swallowing my aches,

Sucking on my fingers.

Hating that
you glow
like a pink vale
waving over a street lamp,
or
a firefly at night,
Lost,
at the beach.

Drinking, Dropping, Dreaming

Chug some love potion and get into the game.
Bud Lime and the same old shit.
Summer is wasted. So am I.
Burnt, like baking a microwave dinner.
Late night, stumbling, sprinkling my distorted body onto the bed like red pepper to the cheese slice.

But I woke up the same as ever.

Staring at you,
Caught,
In my dream-catcher.
Tossing your arms and legs around,
unable to escape.
I pick you up by your digits
and shake you free.

Whoa
Is
Me.

ZOO

There was a big tiger.
And
A shit load of human garbage.

Bed Sex

Drinks piled on my eyelids like heavy texts.
Shit
Faced.
Falling asleep in my own hands.
Fucking my sheets and not even realizing it,
Until,
The boxers are crusted with
What looks to be
Crazy glue
But
Really they’re children I will never have,
Smashed into the hair above my dick,
And my legs that do all the walking.

Nightlife?

It’s night,
I’m getting all hot and bothered
Over some strong rosy cheeks,
And short shorts.

Wasting away on some Smithtown street.
She’s dipping her pinky finger in a bag of Molly,
2 times over.
She sucks the powder off,
Like she’s got a wicked paper cut there.
She eyes me while she does it.

In about a half-hour
She’ll be Oh So Horny,
And I will be asleep,
In a Big Red Bed
Because I’ve got to polish up the old warehouse
First thing in the morning.

X’s

One of my ex’s is always drunk when I run into her,
Another one of my ex’s has a stubborn New York City cop for a father,
Another one of my ex’s is fucking my complete opposite.
Another one of my ex’s is a lesbian who lives in the magic kingdom,

Another one of my ex’s is so beautiful that a stomach virus could only force her to shit jasmine pedals uncontrollably.

I think about these ex’s, these scratches in my throat,
And touch myself,
Eyes closed
Squeezing out the part of me that loves them,
Then staring at the stain on the sheet,
Which is the part of me
That hates them.

Life Ulcer

Breath remains lost
Rubbing face on face
Stomach on stomach
Guts on guts
Dead ends & ruts
Morals and sluts

It burns when you don’t care.
It burns when you do.

This month I’ve had
2
panic attacks.
where
Everything is
Wrong
And I can’t help
It.

Holes blown through my sails
By mental cannons.

Being a slob has a down side
After all.

Brochures of Islands

The homeless
With their crowns
Are so far away.

The fast food drive-thru is so much closer.
I’ve come to hate this island.
No photograph of a beach compares to this.

A brochure with a beautiful girl
Stretched under
A hot pink umbrella
Big hat for the sun
And a palm tree.
Is not what this island has in mind.

Instead,
There is a
Brand New KOHL’S,
Or a bank,
Or a Wendy’s.

Long Islands brochure could have a fat girl
licking an ice cream cone
with it dripping all over her gut and
she could be smiling in front a Home Depot.
Or a Best Buy.

-There’s more nature here then in that smoggy city,
NAH.
More or less human nature
Flooding out of the gates.

Graffiti

Inhaled a strawberry dutch
Then the basement
Swallowed my body
Its saliva seeped into my clothes
Making them reek of cigarette smoke.

So I made my way toward the beach.
The streetlamps glowed orange
And turned the trees into suspended explosions.
Street-smart fireworks.

I pulled out a tool
To jot my alias on a stop sign
In paint.
But instead
Watched the waves
Beat time out of the sand.

Family Hour (Moms side)

My mother asks why I don’t call grandma.
It’s simple really,
She doesn’t want to hear about how high I got,
Or that new album,
Or how I’ve become lactose intolerant,
Or how I cant fuck anyone.

My mother
Pulls weeds
In the front yard.
She sweats disappointment from her pores
Because I want nothing to do with her sweat or her weeds.

You don’t want to live in a nice house!?

Its your nice and my nice sitting on a see-saw,
My nice is way up in the air and can’t come down,
Why?
Because your nice is to full of bullshit. And fat.

My mother wants me to be
William Well-being,
Always doing the right thing,
Taking responsibilities sky high,
Handy with a screwdriver,
No points on the license,
A steady girlfriend, (this house isn’t a love shack)
Straight A-hole.

Well I’m
James Jealousy Jr,
Desperate,
Angry,
And rotting.

I love my family,
They are in my heart.
I think it’s the struggle to be tickled pink
That makes me cringe towards my mother,
Who should be herself
And be happy
I’m doing the same.

Me, Banshee

Exhale into
a toilet paper roll
with two
fabric softener sheets
stuffed inside.

The smoke
oozes out
it creeps
toward me
like a Banshee
down a long
spiral
staircase
that has
rotten wood
and is
dark
Black.

I cough
very afraid
of this ghost
But
strangely
he resembles
Me.

Give me Grease

My good friend
Is a serving of
Rockin’ French Fries
Golden
Drenched
In cheddar
Mozzarella
Bacon
And I add some ketchup.

I spend about $5
Every few hours
On some greasy
As fuck
Food.

Also, I smoke
Processed
Flavored
Paper.
2 at a time.

I cuddle with a deli sandwhich
And a square of Carrot Cake
Topped with creamy frosting.

And that Diner
Is so cute,
She blushes deep red
like shiny glass ketchup bottles.

Gotta get her number…

Don’t you like fruits?
Fuck You.
Give me grease.

Life Exhaustion

I swim in a sea of burning ink.
It feels like stretching muscles.
Just gliding,
Diving,
Into things.
To be alive and well is like
The strongest scales of an alligator.
You can not break them with a jackhammer.
This is life exhaustion.

Right here

This is where you turn and
Fold into your greatest fears.

I battled my vomit and delirious daze,
Spit slipping from my lips in lines of relaxing glaze.
Although the knot remains (It always does)
I’m hatching not dying.
Youth is on my side.

Dreams About Teeth

2008-07-28T07:32:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I have these dreams where my teeth start feeling loose. I go about my dream for a while and keep fiddling with the teeth. I tongue each tooth individually; every single one is looser than the one before it. I wiggle with this one tooth for a while. Just slapping it with my tongue. Then, I raise up my arm and grab a hold of that tooth with my index and thumb. I shake it once, twice, and on the third- ‘thrip!’ the tooth slides out.
That’s when I’m like, “W-what the fuck?” and my body is taken over by the feeling of a loose tooth. I brush my tongue along the back of my bottom row, and the teeth jiggle, they riggle around like worms in dark-rich soil. I touch my mouth and knock all of the teeth out. My gums are exposed, and chomping on teeth like tic-tacs. I start crying, the ground starts flying and…