Acid House

These December cramps
are flattening my tires,
and I'm hitching on woes.

I'm not sacking sadness;
truly, I'm actually just
the potato farmer that
I claim to be these days.

Screen door filtering
the words I really want.

Food is something
overthought for many,
overwrought for others;
for some, it's just fuel.

Dyspeptic days, auto-
piloting sovereignty into
mild oblivion with caution.

Adult Cause

On the run
in a yellow cab
with half the roses
I promised her,
I will become
something like I said
I would be.

Advent, Certainly

An army of street birds
Rose up and shat
on a Patriot

There are enough meds
to get anyone through
Don't you think

Mike gets food
Mike gets
Mike gets sex

All days come
to an end

or but

are light
on pro teens

well now

Man to man
we cancel
our woes


I ate the shit
I slow-cooked
on my computer,
and lived to write
more considerably.

No single word matters
more than any other.

No single person matters
more than the next one.

I ate the shit
I slow-cooked
on my computer,
and lived to read
more considerably.

All The Petty Hoses

The cold presses against
body parts buttressed
like slabs of margarine,
in from the outer edges,
fenced against better
judgment: gone without
the slightest blow; just…

And now, I watch a man
lying about on camera
about men lying on beds,
doing tremendous things,
and he’s got a job: to go…

American Blues

A friend told me
I can't get no satisfaction.

She meant me—
she prefers the Beatles,
anyways; and anyways,
who is ever actually satisfied?

I want a world
where feelings
can be rationalized
in our daily lives,
but accepted as feelings
in the marathon of life.

Most of us run on empty,
while some us casually walk
with bloated guts protruding
like the money falling out
of nearby pockets, and it's like:
What gives? Not the obesely
wealthy, hogging piles of cash
like a warden's slop dish.

And I seek emeralds
and rub amulets,
hoping for an ambulette
to save me in my now
disabled state of affairs—
yes, I have learned
the world is still a vampire.

Rage on, my mutuals,
and weed out the rats;
nowhere is safe—
not the right, not the left,
not the centered corn ears.

An Education

Make a left turn
into cough syrup
and find your way
back into the spiral.

An oversized t-shirt
and some gel pens
got me writing stories
on other folks' tables.

I ate a dozen ibuprofen
yesterday just because,
and I chewed them down
to particles like feelings.

Technology is a farce—
we live in the Middle Ages
relative to the past and future;
trap a body to keep for now.

An Empirical Education

It takes a moment to listen;
it takes a lifetime to learn—
we are all complicit; we are
all fixing to get what we earn.

Ian MacKaye was guilty
of being white, but he
was a minor threat,
after all. No wonder
straight edges curve
as they grow. After
a laborious week,
one often needs
to end on a high
notation, nodding
off the onslaught;
under fire, always,
and over it all again.

How weeks become
months, and months
become years. And
the sluggish rain
settles into a solemn
fog, with our pain
collectively seeking
any surface to rest—
bones collect down
in basements, guts
turn over in kitchens,
and brains lie dormant
wherever they please.

But we cannot
go horizontal.

We must stand
up for all now.

We not me;
us not you.

Ash The Dust

When tea water
smells like a wet cat,
and the car engine
is lubed and limp,
your credit line
is probably towed.

Zombies carousing
like old time louses;
revived sluts slurring
on trains hopped West.

Freak society on film
in a Neo-Soviet nation.

(Beyond) Solano

How deep does this valley dip?

Razing gazes;
necking, buried.

Striped some pavement
with bugged-out piss,
I'm antsy like a prince;
now bound to the mound,
taking out technology
like a martial law artist.

Dicing, shinned;
grazing raises.

What is it like to have a pension?

Blue on Blue

Agave is a nice surprise
when it hits the salted grit
the tongue has become
accustomed to tasting.

(…tense, scene…)

Words slip through teeth
in teems like cum on sheets,
and the rooms are plentiful
at the inns producing dreams.

Borne Again

Zipping coasts,
jettisoned garments—
a body to wear lightly,
a mind to find later.

Oil dousing weeds
like sweat in the club;
wagging tails, one done,
and now, in the darkness
of rose-infused, salted slats,
I'm two-stepping in Juarez.

Cargo Ridden

A dragon, misted;
me, roasting targets
in the bulbous parts;
an extra large cold soda
stained this medium
white t-shirt—exposed.

What do you want
from nature-morphing?

Our brains, paved
like lustful runways:

Jet-steam the stress,
moan in that moist dress;
you, and mine—a webbed field.

Ceilings: All Surfaces

Crusty couples
Building dry walls
At littered venues

Trans World DJ
Serving night wares
And stale tortillas

We're all dreaming
As stir-fried ponies
Bucking wild like hentai

We're all brimmed buckets
Filled with well-to-do sips
Broken down by soured lips

Celebratory Skewer

My head is a piñata;
my body is a doormat.

I feel nothing but pain
when I look at others
while coasting along
dimly lit pavement.

This nostalgic music
only worsens it all.

Stand a few feet behind me
as I dump contractor bags
filled with my life's work
into places I've never known.

I am barely the man I know
I can be, but I'm still a man.

I've learned how to squander;
I've developed new modes
of losing touch with reality,
because there is no such thing.

We're all worse off, because
we no longer know any better.

Chamber Muzak

Palm a print
Till the mold
Is malleable

Drink a fist
Like the first
Fold is fallible

A knee can be
A knuckle in the
Boned wintertime

An ankle bitten
An elbow born
A come-on torn

Chinatown Is Still Chinatown

Braid what you can
of my strategic skull
into a codeine dream.

Ride, furiously, with me,
naturally—but, for real,
what can we localize as
being real? Anything, TBD.

I see a waterless river
beneath an acid lab sky;
I hear fruitless excuses
from delusional months.

But I hang like a bat out West;
it's chill—I only miss New York
when the leaves are supposed
to scratch the skin of the streets.

Here, the skin of the trees
can barely be peeled up off
without you or it feeling like
garbage—when is payday?

I always feel like a dirtbag
after long periods of sitting;
I just want to soak in Dial soap,
and apologize to everyone.

I am sorry for everything,
and on everyone else's behalf;
fuck—I don't even know half
of the half of it, you know?

This hole I've dug beneath
these imaginary Brooklyn leaves
is the reason people do drugs.

Circus Crumbs

I eat fried eggs
on Fridays cause
I'm some kind of
doo-wop allegory.

and what's the story
again? morning glory
is having black ties
around you, namely.

titles are important,
and so you see, you
got to give and you
got to get. always...

strutting to allusions
of greyscale vibes;
slutting is an illusion
to use like a knife.

can you tell now this
is some wilted swan?
no slung slang sung
again in foiled coils.

no vintage threads
connecting psychic
warnings to boot
the bold back home.

swamped swagger
got me itchy for good,
and goodness is here,
somewhere near the door.

where do I live now?
no, I'm asking you;
I am a crow, barred
from my own lines.

I'll take any platform
I want, as if I've got
whatever clue, less
90 days from when.

Club Med

Challah roll out
the red rose wine!

A thing is only the thing
you make it, you know?

My boy with the pasta
is wicked smart, and he
knows when to lose it—
I mean his temper; I mean
his grip on whatever, with
the exception of ladies.

A thing is only a thing if
you make it a thing, right?

"Burgundy and butter is kind of
better for this situation," he says.

Control: Options, Commands

Paper shards,
in the lodge.

Shedding sweat,
like a wet dog
in heat (1995).

Some bitches
are endearing;
some are just tears
dragging us all down.

I refuse to cut my own toes
before stepping on others.

Cooked Out

I cannot be convinced
things are chillish
when my dick
is in someone
else’s hand
and their idea
of a sunny day
is burning my balls
with the bills they owe.

Course Note, Coarse Throat, Hey

In the comfort
of your own body,
I crashed many waves.

Goodbyes are great
ways to break arms,
especially for the lonely.

So long to that Brooklyn,
so long to 9-5 marathons;
I'm downing time like now.


Drinking Manhattans on the beach,
settling new ports to share cargo,
I am free of all past embargoes.

Old ladies can be cynical cowgirls,
fighting stereotypes by themselves;
I'm pointing my finger at the moon.

Men of all ages can be cyclical dolts,
mindlessly darting into bronzed walls—
wooden peckers entangled in time.

(really, I want nothing but more)

Criminal Corpus

I left my cuffs
From where I came

I left my shield
With my medicine

My eyes are no more
Than cortisone craters

My thighs are thinned
From years of digging

And I think I'll dump needles
In the desert to save my life

Unless the sandy bits blow me
Over and I lose my stance in time

Cyan, Typical

Life on the plain
has lost its gravy.

Who isn't itching
from the pockets
that climb sides
of all coatings?

Good old wool
got me ill again.

I'm chucking chunks
from hucksters' junk;
I'm chipping teeth
from slippery thieves.

No meat on the bones;
just cheese stuck in grit.


This asylum is for the word sills
Rest up in repeated retrograde
And shake the laden sheets still

No poetic license unturned
Perturbed again until overturned
Hot sauce out on the counter

Refrigerate after opening
Marinate after the closing
We’re mostly ground coffee

Dead End

A preacher's son
is now sewn up shut,
and the nuts
of a hesher
are hung on a pole
meant for burning flags.

The desert is an open-air arena.

Let the just cause of smog
fan like the hands of those
watching, silently, more
or less; well, you know,
it's kind of like they have to...

We're not getting any younger;
none of us are getting anything.

James Brown said it's a man's world,
but James Brown died a decade ago.

And anyways, it's a rich man's world.

Is anyone else tired of living?

Death Carved Wood

Coffee burned
over since morning.

Cigarettes stacked
like limp-rested soldiers.

Fig cookie crumbs
spread out on the sofa.

Wet concrete touching
paws and soles just the same.

A happy valley goes dark
and social security is no more.


Smite the smitten,
and fill all voids
with ant crumble.

Get cavalier with it,
tell jokes over e-mail,
and nervously laugh
in the real world (for now).

My dog is maybe as neurotic
as me on all my worst days,
but he pisses where he pleases.

Distance In Tow

Crouching wigger,
hidden imbiber:

slurping Sierra Nevada
from a pail with cracks

under my slotted feet
where any flesh bakes.

I’d pray if I weren’t mortal,
but there are no clouds here

anyways; and anyways,
doom is on the horizon.

Documents in Mourning

Petroleum jelly
jammed up in
the gutter again.

No sense
like nonsense;
business is
just business.

Palm leaves
like a terrorist.

Finger stems
like a politician.

Dying letters, period.

Dogged Teeth Out

every idea won in words
thinking plain to see
sawed off needles
stacked askew
no questions

slash the street
stomp dead mice
throw crabapples
mark your own territory
this is here becoming now

Don’t let pride get in the way of reason.

You can burn
scrambled eggs
while lying down

but don’t let pride
get in the way of reason.

You can spoil
the milk of a man
if you cheat enough

but don’t let pride
get in the way of reason.

You can steal
all of your own
meat and potatoes

but don’t let pride
get in the way of reason.

Downtown Deep End

A sunken fissure
in the foiled fable
of a linked-in sewer.

A kink in the night,
toiled over like news;
all paper gets soiled.

There is no hope
left in the held up
insurance of days.

There is no good
going when good
has been long gone.

Dying to Live

To live in America
and die in Los Angeles.

The spotlit arc
of an oral man.

Prostate calls
on the freeway;
double Bluetooth
like a Westside boss.

Fresh juice blended up
in the Northeast Kingdom,
smoothed out, like a tied-
up and twisted Senator.

Sliding eggs, rounded,
around in the Valleys.

Don't tell me how to
write my poems.

Economy of One

Sometimes overpaying for something
is necessary, like unexpectedly going
to church with a family member who
invites you. But ultimately, being the
Band-Aid that gets ripped off never
feels good. And neither does church
or temple or mosque; and well, really,
to pray and to prey aren’t so different.
But that’s not a new statement. I only
take credit for the mistakes I charge
to myself. I do learn my lessons, and I
do shred my statements whenever I don’t
process my half-baked words for brunch.

Edit History

Subtle errors
in filmic subtitles—
a force to wreck
one's conscience;
reality is relative,
and that's the truth.

I regret every word
I spoke on the coast—
they're just words,
said the community;
I say words are all
we have to remember.

Emergency Room

Hold a flawed face off
with a melting avatar,
a boy with wolves for ancestors;
loosen up for minutes or hours—
even arithmetic is difficult
when muscles go spastic.

Please run those sensual clams
on the tracks of my elderly body.

I can absorb the heat better
than my younger self.

I can juggle the struggles
of my present company.

I will carry my own weight
and handle your pressure
into the future, I figure;
and maybe physics
will resurrect this sinking
freight gone full-on freak.

Emptied Dialogue

Accidental entrance,
deleted commentary,
give it some space—
press on, full montage;
repeat the tense scene.

Brother's keeper,
general sweeper:
don't say you don't get
massaged messages
clear enough to read.

A day is a life for some.

Enmeshed for Now

I am an icy
and it feels
like winter.

Can we make ourselves
gourmet deli sandwiches
and have silent porn sex,
like on a beach or something?

I'm totally
getting high
in Chicago,
in my mind.

Exit Signs

Scene: All Right

I charmed a decent group
of white-faced women
drinking cheap red wine
and they told me I'm okay
because they might be, too.

Seen: What's Left

An elderly Irish man
with a broken right arm
and some legal advice
told me at an Italian bar
I'm okay for a Millennial.

Faithless People

The blinking blue security light
stops blinking in the lone Cadillac
of the sketch pad of a parking lot.

The night girls are all at war again,
the rough riders are getting buck;
these are the motions, as per usual.

I don't believe poetry is the problem,
but I also don't think a poem will ever
solve one either—either way, I know...

a typo can start some shit, and no shit
can ever be recycled; all garbage
gets disposed, all dogs are heavenly.

Faltered Discovery

Back to the walk
where my walls
got whittled.

Front if you can
but sides out
as an aside.

Open bookend
policy affairs
to full erasure.

Flossed (Too Gone)

Raw oral scrub—
teeth treated
like twill; gums
grilled like elote.

Forgot my boots
back east again;
soles can grind,
hips can buckle.

The borders
are all in heat;
crossing lines,
patrolling deep.

Loose cowboys
caught in the fray,
lost in an old land
still without a name.

A bitch spayed
to calculate;
a dog with ticks
flees from hell.


Spit toothpaste
at a mirror's reflection
as the street outside
smells like summer meat.

It's September now,
and the gas is leaking;
life and hot pots, simmering
like pipes or people drinking
in forked bars and fucked fields.

Oppression knows no direction
but towards; deflect and reject
intolerance. Let one man kneel;
let the other sing. Arms tied in knots;
intestines, too. There are greater things
to consider than white men's feelings.

Humility is often impossible, even for the humble;
a bruised ego still heels, but what happens to the broken?

Fraught, Naught

No breaks
In the ocean
At night

No brakes
On the corners
In sight

Lost grapes
On night posts
In spite

Free Rage

Too many apologists out here,
drinking tropical beverages
and abbreviating everything,
while goodwill is cheaply
melting in parking lots like
margarine. It ain’t Minnesota
everywhere, motherfuckers.
If I hear one more person
wearing expensive frames
say, “I don’t see color,”
I’m going to have their ass
dragged to a Walmart by their
Goddamn shoelaces. How about
these blind fools try to get their
eyes checked? I’d say it’s safe
to say they’ll be safe up in
Club Walton; surely, they
won’t see many colors there,
either. But for real, why is it
that people vent on forums
like it’s the Fourth of July
and their AC is busted, but
when there is a real stage,
they start to shake? No, no
no! No more shit-talking
if you ain’t willing to start
shit-walking. No, no, no!
No more people whistling in
cages. This country is a zoo,
and I’m tired of watching ass-up
egos be fed with gourmet shit,
while down-ass ID numbers
can barely take a piss without
Ray Bans locked on their logos.


Cut a canon
into a dust bowl;
ball out into
a night gallon.

Smoke ammonia
on diaper sand;
drink boils cause
morning feels like...

A loss without
leans popped.

Gothic Pet Trip

Put a dog collar
on your neck,
and some chinos
on your legs.

Walk yourself
to Burger King,
and go diva
at the drive-thru.

This is not art;
this is not life.

Some dreams
are eternal,
but mostly
stay internal.

I refuse to sleep
in Cat Heaven;
these days, I am
allergic to youth.


I was recently asked
if I was trying to write
using German grammar.

I don’t understand any
rules of any language
other than English, but I
can order a beer anywhere.

Having said that, I do believe
writing in one chosen language
by the rules of another tongue
is an exercise worth sweating.

When in Germany though, nobody
asks me if I am trying to write
using English grammar. It’s okay.

Gratuity non grata

This patronization
of the most trivial subjects
is like getting kidney stones
from top shelf box wine.

It syphons the fun
from all accounts.

And by all accounts,
we're collectively strapped
at the moment; so for
the moment, let's buckle up.

These high-speed rustic trains
are going mad like a gentle rocker.

Hey! We can wear cheap pleather
and drink foreign sparkling water;
we can contemplate all of our sins
and smoke cigars in dictator drag.

Wise words are advised for apologies;
only take action for what you can give.

Listen: We all have our TMZ moments;
but how many holes do you have to fill
before you're buried so deeply that
even the sped-up can't dig you out?

Gurney Promise

Sew me up
to "So what?"

This life
is a business,
and I'm not
a capitalist.

There is only
wild in the world.

Come and get
calm with me
somewhere else;
I'll give what I can.

Gypsy Go Gone

Ulcer on my forehead
Mental gap forbearance

Ponies on the loose
In this amnesiac barrio

Spotty asphalt schooners
Spritely flooded curbsides

Rubbish in the rudder
Gloating in the gutter

Don't eat worldly white lies
Don't drink the cement glue

Nothing is foreign in photos
Our lives are stolen for fun

Hardened Saunter

You mention the cracking
of my neck as I spin stories;
it sounds like rotten firewood
dying near a suburban stakeout.

One foot in some sidewalk trash;
the other in some moistened grass.

I deliver often and live to tell—
that is, I'm dying to share;
but I know audiences
are dually subjective.

Haunts, Man, Haunts

Crack some rearview eggs
at the lakefront apartment;
mediated money washing
like weeks old laundry,
and I’m high in the kitchen.

Again and again;
over and over.

Sometimes you can’t help
but be rude and mean it;
sometimes you can’t help
the people who hurt you,
and that’s a shitty feeling.

Night after night;
day is finally done.

Holiday Roads

Palms or pines,
lips get sealed.

So, hey…

go get fucked
with them snakes
in the montage pit;

sex sells everywhere,
but the dirt is in the details.

Suck up mud
with them loons
tweeting like twats;

age is just a number,
but all digits end up crushed.

Okay, you…

are high on a mountain,
or sprung on a beach.

Holy Nite





Hope for Change

I've used pool cues
as walking sticks
for as long as I can
look back now.

And now, I trot along
majestic valley ways
like a flagged fox,

I pull up to the bar
I used to soberly tag,
and I do chin-ups
for sweet cocktails.

There's no payday
for international hacks,
conspiring like pilots;
this is just another episode.

Hot Topic / Goth Tavern

A parked vagrant says to me,
"Hey, if only snakes had asses..."

This cemented stooge
walks into a bar and asks
for two shots and a favor...

Next thing I know, everyone
at the counter is being served
rim jobs they never asked for...

Some sentences can end
in prepositions and some...

Well, "life's not fair" is a cliche,
and this grass is far too tall—
the city is either blasé or...

You know, snakes get elliptical
and tend to eat their own asses;
thing is, asses become ashes...

I'd put out a trash fire, if it were
not so busy keeping people warm...

I Got Nine On It

Splitting peas
and burning hair
in a hot culture;
French kissing
regrets all night
like a sloppy
second baseman.

It can be so cold,
even in California.

Infinite Scrawl

I was a mortal,
and then
I dragged a word
across a page,
and I was lifted.

Ice cubes melt
in the shower bed,
and legs buttress
the rest of my body
as I await a floral death.

My bibliography
becomes me in the end.

Instant Hose

Brita filter
up on the
bitter filler;

it's a cold world
downtown wherever.

We can snap shots
of slippery barrels,

until wood
peaks through
the blinders.

No residue, no more.

Irreconcilable Difference

An apple
can only feel
its bruises.

An orange
can smell
its wounds.

This is it.

It, Though

yak yak yak
talking texting
puking nuking
on the 101
to the 808
scraped skits

in my mind
I'm in Vegas
in my body
I'm in Venice
in reality
I feel like shit
but that's so it

though come
to think of it
we're really
just half-links
to every person
who came before
or after it though

Itching to Scratch

Thank you
for your
bid nest.

I never
draw the
last straw.


I feel like a barred man
washing hair out
of my drained face.

There are snakes even
on the least paved trails.

There are bugs in every cup
left unwashed for the morning.

The archive cannot wait
to laugh like a dictator
in land lost to mouth swells.

Joint Shift

Games played at night
daze the feels in sight.

But okay…

You should sniff as many
infections into your sinuses
and jam as much jelly up
your asshole as you see fit.

And hey…

I’ll go on walking my regal dog
on tuxedo carpet all day long.

Keith Jason Version

Squinting through
It's inevitable that certain markers
Will cause bled-out shame.

Every time I catch
An error on a page I marked,
I feel implored to impale
The palms of my iodized hands.

Maybe it's Catholic,
Maybe I was born with it;
Maybe I'll stitch up my losses,
and live with the words of Keith.

L.A. Winter

It's a hockey night
in Pittsburgh,
and I'm blubbering
off the Pacific.

A wise man is cradling
an oversized bubbly prop.

Tall boys are fluidly littering
the sand with kidney stones.

Mystic advertisements
are transforming my eyes.

Everything is bigger in Paris;
these ideas can rest in walk-ups.

Exhausted trucks corralling
back down the throughway
past epic commercial realities;
commentary roasts at dusk.

Landing Stirrups

When you can't
distinguish between
Velcro and barbecue
and nothing sticks,
life is a six pack
and guts come clean.

Life On Demand

Deep in the game,
rent a car for a scene.

Rerouted sequence,
chased by the fame.


True love is dehydration—
packing heat in Chinatown,
I'm shot with no limits.


The urban radar smells
mad fishy for the meet.

To greet the grit
with teeth flossed.

How is the question
unmarked by letters;
a fixative regime
goes deaf in sight,
and blindly, we strut
in lots filled with fruit.

A drunken dino snores.

Long Weekend

Burning eyelashes
to better magnify
the classless data.

I drank the Kool-Aid.

I drank the mezcal, too.

Tag team back again,
tooting wet whistles
like Midwest truckers
at a hungover brunch.

Fuck your dreams,
if you know how.



pair of

after all


May Day, Delayed

Give me smoke
or give me pink
meat, carved
like a slipper.

A yellow card
for the half-life.

Friendly tabs
left wide open,
worse for the worn.

Swim like the sworn,
fly like the ornery,
walk the she shell
until the backside
cracks like failed math.

Odd how fins are dead ends.

Memoir Brief

absolute postures
of an ecstatic mind

electric sutures
cementing rhymes

ride the temperature
of ripe times gone awry

no drought in the panorama
vultures gripe of bellies belied

Metro Peace

I've waited thirty
years to feel grown
up in some sense;
hindsight is natural.

Looking forward
to the rich comfort
of adjusting to this
newfound presence.

I went to whatever
place this is called,
and all I got was this
moderately shit feeling.

Adult toddlers
telling me to chill
makes me want
to check their alarms.

Protect your neck,
mild stenosis attack;
method acting gone
wild in North Hollywood.

I'm not going home
to sleep on a sofa,
so someone better
apologize fairly soon.

Flimsy defense
supports aggressive
conversation; so tired
of the drunken buskers.

Paranoid about ease
of exit, self-conscious
about politics; no soapbox
can clean a crude stance.

Moths lighting up,
up at the gay party;
bodies gnawing
at my shield again.

Try explaining cis
as a concept in its
entirety to townie
friends over holidays.

Neighborhood Watch

so I was taking
a break from IKEA
and I decided to smoke
a cigarette in the AC
of my silver dollar

once I stepped upon
the bricked-out corner
I saw two heshers of color
getting buzzed and buzzing
theirs heads in my side

windows become mirrors
and mirrors become one
sided or how many sides
does it take to put together
anything from IKEA

(those heshers told me)

New Algorithm

Chows down
in mid-level dirt
sweating like flutes
in Augustine weather.

The city is a god;
numbers are windows,
pictures in pictures.

Bass and treble,
brethren in trouble.

One note, sustained.

No Luck, No Religion

I was a youth culture mogul,
according to a young person:
a magnate, a magnet? No. I
was just a person who didn’t
make him feel poorly about his
youth. Jesus. We had a black
president and society ghosted.
Now, people want to talk about
e-mails and power suits. What
if we didn’t have voices at all?
Blink if you can hear that typed.

Northern Exposure

I am a welcome mat;
step on my pleasure.

I sprang forward again
on the first of April,
but here I am—white
face on white stoop.

I'm chewing on Q-tips
and sniffing ethanol.

I'm French in Canada,
and I'm separating
from myself for good;
no more say in the fray.

Oral Shift

Slurred through paragraphs
spoken on beta drugs
while riding coach—Pan Am,
pre-morning, post-historic.

I am making every tool
go blunt with the sharp
attention I am shimming
towards others in my life.

Yet, somehow, despite my
self and my intentions, the plans
I try to lay down get bricked like
big men standing alone downtown.

Sloppy Joes plumbing the bowels
of could have been lives—still
in photos—captured, developed,
and abandoned in pharmacies.

You can have whatever you like,
but I'm going to go for the grits
in an oatmeal society—I choose
to scrape up against tongues.

Organic Chaos

Sometimes my spine
spirals down, low,
to my webbed toes,
cracking chipped nails
like a knotted hammer
on slow-release codeine.

Other times, my ribs
encaged by thin skin
poke my sore guts
like a manic squirrel
fussing with nuts;
so long, too much.

I can and will splice
my appended indexes,
if needed; but I need
something to hang
on to—don't we all,
though? Sub away.

Nose to the grind,
nose to the ground;
leaves abound,
round and round—
working out wounds,
speaking out loud.

Outsourced (Moving Parts)

A poached pod,
a pawned pooch,
pouring into palms.

Upon Ithaca,
the fall was real.

And this life will never be
that which you claimed
from the glove you spun.

Now beneath Om,
the stance is reeled.

Pagan Sex

inner elbow
suck like a
sing like a bee
this nite tonite
you are with me


What's a city without a state? A head without a brain. Got grazed by the game. Doggerel over again, but spellcheck the surface. Level out the groundwork. A frame without a curtain, bent back like a servant. You can't see if you don't care. End caption. Snap back. Undo. Delete.

Pious Display, Broadly Enfaced

A bent-out catholic zone
breeds primal energy
from pent-up youth,
posted-up between
apolitical coasters—
drunk, in the twilight.

Gum! Arabica!

A scratched sheet
of dried papyrus skin
drapes over wishbones,
grafted like a compilation
of jaundiced promises—
bruised, but not yet broken.

Pitted As

A deposed deposit,
swiftly encroaching
upon the fall guy—

September as a man,
with loose change
in his pockets
and a stiff drink
in his sweaty palm.

It never gets cold here;
in this city, the air
is conditioned to be.

Planet Fitness

Sent a skewed note
to perfection like
a smoked-out straw man
and felt guilty for an hour.

Embarrassed of my rich
words and fearful of cheap
deliveries. No time for living.

Rolled around for more
than thirty years at this point;
thirty plus cannot be trusted,
but this is a new millennium.

Gave in to my final desire recently;
bury me next to my grandmother,
for she judged everything but me.

Please Make Me Great Please

I admire everyone I know
to whom typos mean nothing.

The world is burning holes
into clouds and hearts alike,
and I spend hours agonizing
over commas and homonyms.

There is a special place
for people like myself,
and that place is called
NBC sitcoms from the 90s.

This place is a dead world,
and I'm tired of being a zombie;
the algorithms of today are too
harsh for a supporting character.

I intend to become a lead,
but leaders need to be chill;
at the very least, leaders need
a good shrink and some good pills.

You know, if I had a nickel
for every time I suppressed
my neuroses, Coinstar would
make me a very wealthy man.

Instead, I brought a sandwich
bag full of germ-soaked coins
to the Albertsons in Alhambra
and got enough cash for dinner.

I've got a woman I want to woo;
cheap Chinese will no longer do.
She is better than the movies
we watch together on weekends.

No American man could write
someone like her, but the French
couldn't do her justice, either—
she is too sturdy in her elegance.

I want to be a good husband,
and I'm not even married yet;
in some lands, maybe I am
damaged goods. Too bad.

This world is a sham, but it
is all we have to know for now;
the art world is a racket, and it
always outplays the players.

Sometimes, I want to scream
like Serena; sometimes, I want
surf and turf—surf for me,
turf for you. Back to reality.

I am on the hunt for sanity,
security, stability. I don't want
to leave America; I just want
my passwords to be protected.

I've been thinking...maybe failed
login attempts can bring us closer.


A way in the wrung
Out of this world

Away, away, away...

Into the cavern
Of a terraced city

In, too, also, in...

Back in black again
Like a juiced battery

As well as, well, could be...

Por Qué

A swollen tiara
near my tongue
to slowly grind
my tea-stained teeth
like a gentleman...

I'm thinking
about that coffee
in that mud jug
that she spilled
on my crotch...

This is no way
to enter embers,
fighting roosters
under the coconut-
milked cacao sky...

Present Moment

Where I come from,
you visit Maryland
if you are poor
and you visit Italy
if you are not.

I don't enjoy
breaking legs—
crabs or humans.

Poe and Scorsese
were both ugly people.

The past is a horrible thing,
and the future might be worse.

Private Web

Mimetic pleasures
cannot be contained
by punctuation alone.

I can't slow down;
I won't slow down;
but sometimes, I must.

I slipped on a comma today.

A stranger spat on me,
and I spat on the pavement.

It's a weary world to view,
that's for sure. So I'll just
watch my dog eat bugs,
at least for the time being.

Professional Tone

When the page
goes electronic,
you say whatever
you want to say.

When the chain
is somehow broken,
you turn it into a whip.

When the ego trips,
you just hang up.

I'm over all baby pics.

Puritan & Canned

An orphaned cat—
eating beef jerky,
like all the bloated
gremlin prairie dogs
that took turns feeding
her the sewage lies
she's come to purge
on to palmed streets,
from time to time—
but mostly at night.

Ram Off

A glass sink
drains you whole,
and down the hole,
an ass is sunk.

Some battles
are like leaves
stomped on
by drunken robins.

Some wars are waged
like picked pockets
of Marxists in Chinatown,
toasting to The Year of Zen.

Sleep with me because,
and that's all I'll say;
words are mightier
than the ink that stains.


A slice
of bread
to a level
of farce,
to the point
of dishonor.

I am not gluten-free,
but I am still free.

Reality Check

Rent a narc
as a play date
get higher
on hard times.


I've broken my back
at least three times.

I don't know how
I'm even standing.

Once, I peeled skin
off my skull like a pirate
after his first lost battle.

Once, I vomited pills
from the Catskills
all the way to Buffalo.

Once, I forgot that life
was not a romantic comedy
and got lost in my own sea.

I'm soaking in shallow waters
now, but I do not bathe in pity.

It's a pithy existence for all
who choose not to grasp facts.

Rental Car Rebellion

How much effort
is too much effort?

In a recent self-survey,
I sawed my own horizon.

How many times would you say
that you have been broken?

In an updated mind-numbing poll,
I learned that most people care less.

I'm pacing the kitchen ablaze,
but I will try to keep it together.

Board games are not puzzles, though;
and corporations will never be people.

New century, new bank, new identity:
get yourself some better memories.

Repeated Effect

Itching to scratch,
scratching to live.

A means to an end
can be a hard wound
to mend, don't you say?

No, excuse me; you say,
"Don't quote me on that."

Isn't that right?

Trouble on my mind,
and I ain't hard to find.

I'm just bathing in oatmeal,
listening to Bartok by candle—
the least smug thing I can do.

Itching to scratch,
scratching to live.

Reservoir Skids

I split my chin
on a juiced hillside
where I could hear
the automatic breeze
of a vehicular ocean.

There was rubble being
aroused by my old man feet;
I was a man in my previous life,
but when I was born again, fringed
in the South, Buddha whispered
I would be boyish in the next one.

Now, here I am, sipping on
spiked lemonade, smoking skinny
cigarettes, yawning at French jokes
with no subtitles available.

Can you see as far as I can see? Burn every institution.

Do you smell what I smell? I cannot be silent.

Punk’s not dead,
painting’s not dead;
real estate is rising,
and religion is napping.

Residual Type

Regrets linger
like they must.

If only I could
trust the future,
perhaps the court
season that rests
between aggro nots
and tipsy trepidation
would be something
for which to press on.

Can low-hanging broods
now be bared at dusk?

Ribbed Fever

Got a fried and flailing man
crying about how some titties
got him booby-trapped and
tripping up on some words that
never should have been slurred.

And I’m tired. Ain’t you out?

Gave up on privacy settings;
I go seeking for light now,
somewhere near Chinatown.

Come find me. Where you at?

Ah, shit; more dicks piled
like bags of Idaho potatoes
at a Portland strip club—
and it’s like, uh, how rosy
does the guilt get on holiday?

Room: Ontology

Spades on the dime
Dine on the fade

I'm a soft rock anthem
In a swerved conduit

Plug in the backup
Front the what now

Bench a shunned one
Too much life lumped

Unravel till the climax
Uh stymie the mind fee

I'm gone with the wilt
Shit still on the filmic tip

And I've got ends see
Seventeen joints clean

But I prefer a dirty surface
To come correct on sheen

Rustic Roots

Bitter berries
and stone soup;
blazing grains
and rolling rocks.

Who goes there
where you knock?

Who lives there
where you flock?

The good are nests
for the weak to lie
in and to fly out of;
now, on to our beers.

Salty Spell

Things don't burn
they used to burn.

That's not for the worse
not exactly to be exact.

I'll keep things kosher
you keep me around.

Scalding Wince

In jalopy jail again,
dodging dynasties
like the fifteenth hour.

You're so candid
when you're stricken.

I'm so fired up
in echo chambers.

Two hearts can swim
in upstream blues, but
this one begs for empathy.

Scat Man

Pour Coca-Cola
in sidewalk cracks
to fill the causal
matter eclipsed
by crowning shit.

Send everything:
doesn't matter.

Receive nothing:
matters less.

Flush system,
now and again.

Scratch the end game.

Self-Help Terrorism

Every January,
etiquette stretches
itself out like limbs
during calisthenics
routines; and all
throughout the rest
of the year's burns,
all we do is practice
old routines, learn
new ones, and one-
up the ones we
no longer want.

*check dates, check words, check books...

Self-Maimed Man

I shredded an icon
and went to the hole.

emblematic of the hung-
over stoicism only drunks
can gather in gagged yards.

Grey skies, green skin;
limbs akimbo, eyes dim.

This bazaar is bizarre—
trade winds blowing bits
of brilliance among ruins,
dusted until death is borne.

East, West—it's all the same;
past, future—give up the game.

Dodge shit by the gram;
an endurance piece looped
like a naval-gazing knot—
no longer a buffet Olympian.

If I don't drown in the Aegean,
I'll surely drown in the Pacific.

Sign of the Gotten

Outmoded desert youth cult,
looking for more converts.

One to eight hundred,
calling all to collect.

Save the designer bullshit;
not looking for any more.

So settle on some parking lot,
and meddle with local personality;
exchange brute idealism while
placing principles on layaway;
my every interval is so piquant,
acquired with flippant delight.

Seasoned individualism
can spice up communities.

And/or/but flames eventually fan
in forced conditions of grief.

Now I'm a courier in the breeze,
just frequenting more or less.

Ski Inn / Gas Out

A patient woman, here;
and blind dogs, whistling
for a masterful plan.

I will take
now what I
once gave—
for the viral
life: eternal.

My gut's gone
bugging out
like the last time
I thought I could
swallow shells.

Now, a dead fish—
boned on the beach—
compacted by soles,
sliding beneath salty fog.

There is a city burning;
the state is a cyclone.

Naturally, this is a disaster.

Slipping On Syrup

April fools wiping out
And out it comes for all

Québécois children
On tugboat casinos
Banging on paint cans
Filled with hummus

Lenny's gravely laughing

I'm just a barfly on break
Scratching pathologies
And burning plastic paper
Like royal lotto ticks

Phil's ashing in the corner

The weather is after me
Slashing iced kneecaps
And drying out anxieties
With no one tending goals

I'm going back to Ottawa
Where the adults go to bed

Some Kind of Organic

Craft-brewed ideas
are tricky to debate
when all the chips burn
after laying out too late.

God! I drank sinus juice
like a broken cherub,
and tripped over words
I gathered in the fog.

I've been a missionary,
trolling every trolley,
embossing dead skin
for the next life I find.

For now, it's just an oblong death
after a bento-boxed week spent
grounding work on which to gamble.


Dogs desperately wheezing
on spotlit sidewalk squares;
cats continue strutting along
past the Canine gargoyles;
the rest of us go wandering,
wistfully at any stricken hour.

Spring Cleaning

A broom
in a closet,

A match
at a cause,

A light
under a brush.

Straight White Male

A familiar woman,
no longer known.

She hates patriarchy,
but I'm not a father.

A foreign female friend
claims she's a lesbian.

I say she's just a cold woman
from an even colder place.

But from what I know,
I might not know much.

Strobe Life

Stunted shrills
above borders;
and down below
the bus engine,
you're as empty
as I've known you.

Woo woo goes
the artificial orifice,
howling at cinders,
blocking words
like chemicals
caught in drains.

Adhesive meltdown
in designer jeans,
sifting through
the daily tease,
this is nothing
but boldfaced type.

Stump Tank

A brawny brain trust
depended upon
in the midst
of monsoon season—

I believed in relief
at some point,
but I'm lost on direction.

Missed connections,
here and abroad;
the exception is lost
in the light, ensconced.

You sip on espresso,
I drown in my Americano;
we're all deserted in sludge.

Subterranean Links

Excessively famished
once again; such a pity
to take on oneself, oh!

Nuts or a plantain—
it's all the same;
a man, sick in the brain.

Stacking lines;
heads, overhauled.

I heard a rich story,
poured over freshly
grounded people:

To what,
to wit,
to who?

Scanned image,
soured grains,
seethed through—

nerves shaking now,
messages breaking down,
the treaty is whited out.


Tragically hip
standing in a circle,
smoking additive-free
and drinking Pinot,
talking about cleansing.

This is not my life.

A country full of arsonists
committed to self-mutilation,
cutting deep into moving sofas;
burned rubber, burned houses—
skeletons stretching outward,
beneath blanket statements.

This is not my life.

Pardoned patriarchs abound
in this laissez-faire latticework;
everyone is the sentimental slut
they promised themselves
they would never become,
and alleys are surprisingly warm.

This is not my life.

Supermoon Swooning

Moth balls tumbling
in your ex's bodega,
accumulating history,
now covered in cat hair.

This is the way of the world.

We circulate and denigrate—
crossing boundaries and fingers;
closing eyes, clenching fists,
preferring an embrace, but often
accepting the sigh of a cold beer.

Shalom! As-Salaam-Alaikum!

Alright, if Rihanna can find love
in a hopeless place, we all can
find peace in a helpless scenario;
swim away from pain, live debt-free.


I don't have much,
but I'll Sicilian slice
any shit out my life
if the crusty strangle's
got enough of a hold.

Choke, stroke;
finesse just
enough now.

Lean shady like,
until the lot turns
black; figurative
boss chalked out.

Technical Serving

On the terrace,
it smells like fresh kiwi
and other produce;
expensive perfume, too.

In the heights,
it smells like syrup
and adhesive rodents;
cheap illusions, also.

Kick away dust bowl anthems
(you know I never wanted them).

Teeth Like Breath

Pull a nail
out of the corner
and the wood cracks back.

Chew on termites
for now,
or later
you become one.

This phallic society
is all white supremacists,
this fortune cookie is a lie,
and words can only rot us all.

and words can only rot us all.

The Arc of a Man

This bar smells
like bleach, and
sounds like, well,
forget about it.

A night in the life
of my ex-girlfriends.

I can, we can, apologize
until last call, if you want.

I used to color opinions;
now, I just let them play
out naturally, as gritty
as the talk will walk.

The Tyranny of Age

Left a lifeline
with a concierge—
girls just wanna have fun;
women, too, and woman,
I say have it all.

What about me, you?


What about you, now?

Prosecco chugs
in a motel hot tub—
sparkling reasonably within
my geriatric vessel, I will
pawn you all my nights.

Times (Got Me) Squared

No health, no care.

My jaw is rusted shut;
my forehead is on fire.

A bottle within a barrel,
I cannot move any longer;
and I don't know if I'd be
worth your effort to try.

My knees are locked up;
my feet are just charcoal.

No woman, no cry.

Tomb; or stoned, alive.

This is not a fable;
this is right now.

Marked words
in Iron Age ink.

City hall summit,
cutting bills
like pastrami.

A stilted palm.

A wilting rose;
a belly full
of prickly thorns,
scorned again.

Sweatsuit prose
comes on to cons,
and a French man
pressed against
the cause of what.

Oh, fuck—I'm still
sweating broken lines,
misused questions,
and confused caps.

Mashed potato brains.

If we don't have roots,
we've still got dirty hands;
a filthy mouth is natural.

No more normalization;
steer clear of the rear.

Ass-to-elbow slip-ups
force the armor to crack.

Tone Down On The Phone In

Stylized autodidact
Primal and primary

Forgetting to eat
Forgiving spellcheck
Autocorrect lifestyle

Living with shame
Is no way to live

I don't color any views
I simply compose myself
Bloodletting out the lines


In the barn
Selfish jail
Filled up

With rotten
Body scents

By nights

In the day
Throw away
All the olives

Tyvek Sheets

choking on words
like I'm not a writer

I've been needing
to want to tell you

I'm sorry I cracked
all of your porcelain

in a year or less I might
as well be Made In China

NAFTA got me sweating
I'm still a natural disaster

alcohol soaking sores
from drunken winds

dispense the RAM
dispel the quells

freedom for all
free to be wrong

it'd be so nice to
accept myself

do you know
what I mean?


When something is untitled,
I always wonder why...

I especially wonder why
when there is another title
placed between parentheses
after the aforementioned non-title.

Sometimes this is nothing—
it's just a placeholder,
until something better
comes barreling down.

But then nothing does,
or it does; it just comes
plodding along slowly instead,
and the person simply forgets.

And so I ask, “If things can be left untitled,
why can't we all be left unnamed?”

Unto Night

Ants planing
in oscillation;
a dull tremor
caught on tape,
flown by fear.

A wet dream,

Solemn speech,
treading tirelessly.

Man handed over,
granted liability,
accept defeat now.

Drums beaten to deafness...


double wide
double brace
yourself in this
place yourself
in an oak barrel
laugh and load

stare in a mirror
like a rolled bill
still crispy on edge
around here a round
there and that night
we found sight right

Veteran Lounge

The new pope
said atheists
are welcome
in Heaven.

Do you believe
in anything I say?

Every few weeks,
I choke on stone fruit
and spit out what
has rotted away.

Must you drink blood
wine to celebrate?

I'm not the person
I was when I was
drowning in context;
now I'm old enough.

Will you read my memoir
so I don't have to publish it?

If I have another beer,
it must have no flavor;
I have tasted enough
to know I'm agnostic.


You can suck on grapes,
while I crack this glass
like the stained porcelain
that shattered last week.

Everything is made in China,
and maybe that’s just fine.

Please bury me with the ants
that currently nibble on my toes.

I am a coked out quarterback
with my line struck through;
give me a timeout for now,
and I’ll go into overtime later.

Withering Highs

Doing drugs
to feel left out
of your place
is the only way
to do drugs.

The art world
hasn't caught on
to this slippage.

These wallflowers
can hook horses
and pick noses
under headlights
dimmed for debt.

I'll drown right here
in a Red Bull pool
full of pocket change.


She has the patience
of an empirical empress,
and I refuse to take it
for granted. Granted,
I still would like to take it,
and if she'll allow, I shall
prove my worth in words.

This nation was founded
on reason, but built upon
lies. We walk on ground
treaded by callous serpents,
biting the flesh of stolen souls;
I promise to give my best truths.

Now, as we slowly climb foothills,
wade through exhausted waters,
and sleep on the cracked skin
of the Earth, I think of the luminists
and manifesting one's own destiny.

It's so striking how a season
can change everything, making
iron melt in one hand and oranges
ripen like they should in another.

There is no doubt in danger,
there is no danger in this deed;
we serve and protect each other.

No matter the distance, the stars
will strap us in to our states of being.

Here, I state that I want to be with her.

Word Flow

I am an ornithologist,
eating worms with
childish pleasure.

Standing idly by
a lonesome gas pump
in my beloved barrio,
I pithily scroll through
my digital pocket piece
of conscious metaphors.

You have trimmed down
all the terse talking points;
I have spit up everything
I once knew as poetic spew;
and now we can chirp together,
like the other birds I've observed.

Shocked on a high wire,
communication can be
fluid and lucid—electric.

World Music

The mouth of a man
who knows no limits
is surely the reason
for zippers and floods.

The words of a woman
who bears fruitful advice
can never be overlooked
as a source of nourishment.

Even when food is scarce,
look for other means to be
enriched; sip up, zip up, and
don't let your levees break.

Years Gone (For Good)

On a biblical wave,
I ride a shafted mind.

Maned germs become
antiseptics for past lives.

Head and shoulders above;
down the shit mode below.

There comes an aged time
when nights get younger.

But sometimes,
it's okay to feel old.