Monday, November 12, 2012

November to Remember

A striving orphan
rails against skeletal hands
November means death.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

The Torch

Boiled down to my lust,
I wonder if you ever
really saw my soul.


I aim to be true
don't underestimate me
or fade like the rest.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

The Art of Crafting

Average frustrated boy
take the knife to yourself
whittle a new man.

Thursday, October 25, 2012


I can't stand to see you
enjoy being happy, 
gulping down those 
warm ephemeral forkfuls,
something rotten inside pulls

reminded of constant loss
phantom limb syndrome finds
me missing my heart and I'm
missing the mark hard 
playing a chartreuse cavalier
elbow deep in want,
skin bleeding sighs,
so often forgetting the grass 
is always greener 
in other people's lives

Under this weight, 
I am a tree gnarled and bent,
avoided of late and best seen
only in small increments.

The Reluctant Acrobat

Light a fire and stay
can't be a burning hurdler
through treacherous hoops.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

The Doctor

Menacing phone booth
unrepentant kidnapper
combats loneliness.


Tiny chinese hands
fast like ants over a log
branch of skill soothes all.


Why am I stuck here?
Her sorcery compels still,
even locked online.

just like all lies though
her pretty shell hides the rot
of the scared and scarred

Thursday, October 11, 2012


It strikes, the fleeting
weirdness of unconsciousness,
gone like Etch-A-Sketch.


Snake under a rock
fluid child of October
seek at your own risk.

Sunday, October 7, 2012


A minor trophy
in a collection of flesh,
eyes glow green at them

why do we love that
which we detest, a foul quest
to praise negligence.

Saturday, October 6, 2012


I've been a blown fuse,
can I fix the circuitry
lest the currents shock me?

I am restless now,
overloaded adaptor
a taut jolted captive.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

The Hunt

“Poe dismissed the notion of artistic intuition and argued that writing is methodical and analytical, not spontaneous. He writes that no other author has yet admitted this because most writers would “positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes… at the fully matured fancies discarded in despair… at the cautious selections and rejections."

Waiting for words to wander
out of the ether like a long-lost
I pore over hastily tapped out
scribbles on yellow stickies,
mini billboards comprise 
the prototype horde I cultivate,
hoping to bait the poem slithering
in the undergrowth of my brainpan
to my waiting hands,

tense snares

ready to break the

necks of darting rabbit stanzas

I am inclined to believe Poe,

we all just want to impress

when we pick up the pen,

writing is a constant audition

where we are shuddering actor and

lunatic director both,

but what of the pieces that

appear light as smoke like this one

not cooked in the crucible of crafting,

but of catching it and forcing it down

into the pot for all to see it sear,

boiling bones and all.  

Friday, July 27, 2012

See Vermin Run

The wonder of us,
walking water balloons
tottering around
about our wind-up troubles
coveted baubles,
unrequited loves,
tasks undone,
we jitter to an well-beaten
drum of the incomplete

Too busy to start anything,
too unmotivated to finish,
caught between the hardest rock
and an even harder place
instead of tending to
the slimy machinery within
delicate as clockwork

The reaper pounces after when
a spring or gear snaps,
there are no do-overs
death never gives the runback.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012


Ever notice abortion advertisements
never feature men?

I suppose that's obvious,
I browse this particular ad
having a strong feeling
it was written by a man
brainwashed by Planned Parenthood,
trying to make good by painting girls
like forlorn murderers
foregoing motherhood
facing down the obliteration
of the best years of her life.


Fresh from biking
through Bushwick at a scenic clip,
I come into her apartment,
our expectant grins find their trajectories,
as I noticed she is cleanly dressed
I presume for the
current paramour du jour
sitting on the brown couch

Nerves crouch in my chest
as unrequited feelings
those treacherous, bickering demons
begin to chatter
"you don't matter"
howling with laughter
in the higher lofts of my mind
biting a sneer back,
I prop up my steel blue steed
playing nice like the third wheel
is supposed to,
smile through the graphic background
movie hoping some shit
doesn't poke through
my false unflappable grin

I am deafened by the din
of a chance missed
evaporated like mist
on a hot bathroom mirror,
the famous 'they' often say
when one door closes,
another opens
although they never say
what happens to those
who keep trying to twist
the knob locked forever
desires tethered to the other side

I try to make with the wit
as I feel their eyes search mine
like they can see the battlefield
inside the brine of my mind
a dying thing congealing inside,
excusing myself with my bike
I cast one sidelonging glance
at her smiling, a subtle knife in my side
as I prep for the long homeward ride.

Mediocre Man

(Inspired by Bukowski's Tales of Ordinary Madness and tales of my own sadness came this.  I'm thinking about doing these streams of consciousness writing again as a way to stretch my limits.  Also, it helps me be less of a miserable bastard.)

"It'll be okay."

I miss hearing that and actually believing it.  Especially when you said it. Back when you were alive.  Back when the weight to the tether to this mortal coil wasn't a straightjacket.  Back when youth ticked away, wasted on the young and dumb.  Back when I was happy.  That was a long time ago.  I know because I can't even remember it.  Sure, there are happy times and memories.  But those are fleeting, ephemeral as desire, ephemeral as dust, ephemeral as our lives.  Little gossamer threads that hope to withstand the wind.  

Who knows where you are now. In another place, time, Hell, Heaven, the rewarding eternal blank void of puragtorial penitentiaries, the dream of a poison dart frog.  All I know is that I would love to hear you say you were proud of me, your loser son on his loser missions for loser ingrates.  It grates.  This weight of living like a tinfoil hat to keep all the mind control out, self-doubt deep in a barrel, Russian Roulette is immenent.  

I will be dead soon.  Not that it will be by my own hand, although I suppose our deaths usually come at our own hand. What can be done?  Will I ever stop beating the twisted equine cadaver. What are the value of the dreams of a monkey?  Can I be Robert Townsend for a day? Because I could use a meteor in a coffee can doing everything I sure can instead of the deadpan look of pushing a dirty mop across the floor.  It is a false promise.  There are so many of those in life.  So many.

I dunno why I'm writing this.   Perhaps to regain some confidence cashed in as soon as I put on my first Urkel glasses.  The inner sea is crashing.  Maybe that's why I'm crying so much tonight because I hadn't seriously since your body stared at me, an openmouthed husk, a shredded cucoon cutout like a cheap Halloween costume in that Bronx hospice bed.

Of course this roiling wave of emotion started because of those women and my conspiracies and my crazy, the ammonium nitrate to this scenario.  It can only stand to reason I would look to your chalk outline.  Just like old times relegated to Polaroid albums.   You, the best woman I ever knew, because I never had to jump through hoops of fire for respect and loyalty.  I wish I could see you again, to hear it will be okay even if it won't or can't be.  Just a hug even.  I ask for this even though it will never come in this lockstep trudge.  It's fine, I'll settle and be settled for, persistence is supposed to pay and all I can do is slowly row this oar.. 

Monday, July 16, 2012

The Crumbling Temple

You were once a sweet servant
catering to any whim I created
in the folly of forgotten moments
you failed to remember your place
you failed to remember mine
calling me outside of my name
in order to crown yourself some unnamed deity

Yet without my adoration
without my venerating touch
you are but a statue carved out of lifeless marble
not such a wonder to behold any longer,
best left to be forgotten in the 
dust of your adoration
made stale by the falseness
of your airy benedictions
that now fall on deaf ears
and dead temples,
devoid of welcome or want
for your wanton wishes
that brought about
luminous shudders
scarlet contracts binding us
until you retraced the steps of Judas
and devoutly desecrated eternity.

Monday, July 9, 2012

A Knight Errant

A loyal sweet pet,
made to be loved and trusted
with a selfish bent

Should be honored,
shining pride makes one the best,
sadly I feel less.

Monday, June 25, 2012

The Walk

The 20 minute 
funeral march for the
rest of my day begins anew
across the East Side
of Manhattan’s thighs
this trip a dirge of sighs
to the comic mine,
the last curls of smoke
from the dying blunt
make for a fitting send-off
with a brief pound
to my friend,
I am at the door.

As my stomach goes Gordian
I rattle reluctantly down
brown iron stairs ringing
with the frustration of
the workward trudge,
heavy and hurried,
I feel the need for quickness,
the kind you need for ripping Band-Aids off
the scabs on your knees,
for ripping eight hours off the forearm
of my life to spill comic scripture
to confused wives
who vie and buy the love of their sons
who summarily settle for matching Spidey
t-shirts for their little squirts
squirming in the aisles
fit to burst like
pink seedpods of greed.

I shake off that scene
relishing the ebbing buzz
of smoked greens and striding
on street thirteen,
the Verizon building
is seen, long and leaning
shadow stretched across Second Ave
a footpath for determined joggers,
brows furrowed these waifs
already dance on the wind
gusting around Verizon,
a phone company canvas
for taggers and their pals
much to the chagrin of Eye and Ear’s
retinal surgeons and masters
of the ear canal
who grimace disapprovingly
from their BMWs
as I casually stroll through a
slew of middle schoolers
careening in a chorus line
up 2nd Avenue.

15 minutes of freedom
dwindling with every
block, the usual cavalcade
of stores unfold before me,
open doorways tell the tales
raw foot banquets,
African statue sales,
the soundtrack of the city
makes a musical backdrop
from the metallic clang of construction
to multitudes of dogs being walked,
behind pastel windows
masseuses knead problems
sitting clenched between
stiff shoulder blades
hair shops bustle,
beauticians busy crafting kinky bobs
maintaining slick black
manes, gleaming with
a sheen one can only describe
as salonyx, elation laughing
around their customers’ cheeks,
they smile satisfied of
their self-servitude
my envy is reflected
in glass frowns as
I resign myself to faster footfalls
god forbid I’m late
and someone can’t find
a back issue,
I muse taking in the
view of NYU
students scurrying,
their freshly bought
school regalia wriggling
across bustling backs and asses,
sophomoric snootiness
wafting off their bodies
like waves of humidity,
bending the air about them.

Five minutes left,
the seconds ticked away
leads me to be
ticked off,
my ire rises crossing
Fourth Avenue,
my stomach a steaming
stew of knots,
two minutes later
the building looms,
beach brown and tall
the windows curtained
and undisturbed to
hide those who can afford
such privacy.

At its base the
store stands,
as I stare back icily
at Forbidden Planet
the nerd facility
gazing upon Broadway
with storefront windows
bearing witness to its
glittering hypnosis,
superhero statues
and Doctor Who
become windowpane sentries
to slow the scuttling millions
to stare hapless at vinyl happiness

I pass,
envious of their place
for I’ve come to the Forbidden gate
which greets me with that
telltale scrape and click
I wince,
A silent Godspeed on my lips.

The first thing I always hear
is the frustration of merchandise,
plastic blister packs crack angrily
against covetous thumbs,
pages rustle with a reader’s desire
to see the comic’s big reveal,
the tape attached to bagged shirts
whines with its plastic peel,
cash drawers slide out and then
are shunted back in,

Planet’s bags snapped and unfurling under
the registers’ repeatedly ringing peal,
stealing my way around
the front of the store
I envy their zeal because
they don’t feel anything at all
much less the stabbing crawl
of nerves jumping down
anxious limbs braced by the blurred
edges of my vision
swimming with mobs of toy grabbers,
co-workers met with cursory nods
and quick briefings about the mood
of the store at the moment
sometimes any prior knowledge
could be potent weaponry
to avoid the wroth any manager’s reckoning.

Internal clock beckoning
I pardon myself through the enthralled
by the Star Wars cases
with backlit Tusken Raider and
obsidian Vader faces, at some points
behind other incoming employees turned
shuffling detainees mouthing pleas
for a calm shift’s ease
fingering their keys
for the back room
to stow their personal things
a squad of understudies for a grand comic play
waiting in the wings
our nerves frayed ready to jump into the fray.

Shrugging off my belongings
in the back room as slowly as possible,
the dwindling seconds of my freedom
being sloughed off my shoulders
along with my sweater,
a frown sets in
my near-gone high
a dissolving tether
to any contact to the outside world,
washing my face and hands in the bathroom
I watch the remnants of the day
swirl into the grimy drain,
face now scrunched in mirror,
etched in fixed disdain.
I stroll out of the back

With a rising step to my left
I creak up the narrow stairway
awash with Street Fighters flexing
to enter the Manga section
taking a second to salute the current
colleague at the register and sign in with
a thumb press across the fingerprint reader,
a hard plastic monitor taped by the T.V. counter
positioned in the left most corner
by the discount non-anime DVDs
Dean Cain cum Clark Kent and T.J Hooker
overlook my logging in from their wire shelf
perches awaiting purchase grinning as
they watch me,
rubbing the side of my nose
and affixing my thumbprint onto
the dull red laser eye fixed in a narrow slit,
beeping as it saves my presence in the store
marked like just another action figure
for sale eight hours a shot
wind me up and I’ll help all
the folks shop or be on the spot
for Family Guy t-shirt swaps.

Below the clock
on the reader displays
4 P.M.
a digital firing pistol
my fingers flex restlessly
stomach shaking to the pit
starting toward the stairs I feel
the insertion of the bridle and the bit.

Shorting Out

I swear by this summer night,
no relays of trust,

Frayed support cable
no longer longs to figure
out why he bothers.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

The Sadist

Hot enmity for the luck of strangers
taunts me with laughter,
my throat full with frustration 
a stone egg hard to swallow
chased by embarrassed sorrow
slung steadily down 
a twitching esophagus 

the old dagger plunges
into the usual place in my gut
hoping to cut out my consternation
growing like cancer in
this calloused sheath 

I am a walking sickbed
bred to be
a so-called sweet servant 
turned indentured twilight merchant
searching for meaning
in what can often be the most thankless job

"I wish I had Jesse's girl" paradox 
sitting like pop rocks
pockmarking the back of my throat,
speech coated with faux support
while I boil inside a saccharine purgatory,
protagonist in the same old story,
it makes me wince,
digging into chartreuse wounds 
of a battered frog prince.

Friday, March 23, 2012


When I'm unconscious
I'm happy, real world problems
float away from me.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

High School Chronicles: Switchblade Kiss

I used to love them,

the kisses of delusion,

the kisses of passion,

the caress of skin on silk,

knife against soul,

until the pain flooded in,

stabbing my mind until my mouth bled

with your lies from your fangs,

my eyes dark with the demon

you wanted in pleasure,

but now I'm here to cause you pain.

High School Chronicles: Speed

The scrape of skate and street,

better that scrape of skin on cement,

blood pumps more reliably

than any kiss has ever provided,

because the kiss of the wind never leaves,

never lets go,

never lies

Sweat swims down the face in heated pleasure,

and the wheels keep spinning........

Thursday, March 15, 2012

High School Chronicles: Absolute Beauty

So I guess a slight disclaimer is in order. I used to write poems at a site called (go there! you'll find some quality work in the featured poems section and submit some of your own if you feel so inclined). In searching out my own name on Google, I came upon a bunch of old poems from said site. Although these are embarrassing as hell, compared to some of the other work I've put up they are fairly tame. So without further ado:

Absolute Beauty

Her movements define grace.

Her features define beauty.

Her voice purrs with passionate song,

yet, I could never please her flawless existence.

And I now burn with icy pain;

Worse than the loss of white innocence,

to watch her admire one who does not deserve

the affection of heaven made flesh and sweet blood.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012


I eagerly hope
for contact without effort,
until then, I hide.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

The Gypsy's Night (2)

II. She, a vision.

Strolling up to her doorway
after a brief jaunt at a deli,
BLT crammed steadily into
my starving body crying slightly
from having Corona
shoved into it with
eager fists
ignoring the annoyed
grumble my stomach
gave, I made my way
inside her domain,
a first floor flat-like
place, framed around
her brightening face,

I again apologized for being late,
pulse beating heavy
at an alarming rate,
taking a breath I arrest
my resolve and hold
it close as I pull her
closer for a hug
she smiles
black top snug over
her braless torso
erasing the twinge
of sorrow and swallowed
apologies swimming around
in my gullet,
pushing me to gut it out
without worry,
confidence and Corona
in my veins now
mingling in a slurry
as we sit on her couch and talk.

Monday, March 5, 2012

The Sea (2)

Looking for my inner self
I knowingly submerged in
a sea of dirges,
I am Ahab searching,
a desperate mariner
muddled by madness,
this opaque ocean haunted
by ghosts of the past
who won't give me a pass.

I sank myself because
I feared loving myself,
so I drowned it in
heavy wet inadequacies
that seize my sight
and stir the fright
to take all the air
out of my sails,
for the sake of sanity
I must prevail.

The Gypsy's Night

I. The Rendezvous

It was an electric Friday,

crackling with party-hopping

restlessness across Bushwick,

throngs of people looking for

adventure amid the street lit apricot

streets as I attempted a feat

that had seen defeat on my last few tries,

to see a seemingly sweet girl

with hazel and green

eyes sigh pleasurably with me

sliding deep in between

her thighs,

I didn’t want to jump the gun,

fear of being under the thumb of

premature expectations,

the reverie of pregaming

with friends eased the pressure

as I watched myself mowed down

in a game of pool at a bar

like corn before the relentless thresher

I try to keep it cool on the

glacier-slow train ride to Bensonhurst

despite throbbing ventricles

beating out a force centrifugal

spinning in my gut,

I still feel a glut of nerves

clutched together shakily

as I step out of the station

hoping my lateness hasn’t

caused too much damage

on the designs of the night.