Friday, April 14, 2017

Nightmare Honey

You’ve been drinking
McCormick black pepper
at midnight again haven’t you?

There is no left
or wrong –
a bunny by the vandals.

Hands in your lungs:
most beautiful tart
killed her.

The silence juxtaposed
cicada swamp growling
November 66, 1998.

And want says to reach out
but my ear has a pulse
and drank. Too many

left turns towards
murky autumns are springing
over white crested cliffs.

Some are her and some are summer;
you don't win or win her
when winter is winning her over.

Maybe spring me summer
or fall into spring.
Win some of her winters

or win summer winters;
some are stars summer stars.
The sum of her stars stirring starlight.

Look back and lose another.


Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Run Long on Broken Lungs

Gone are the days of eastern oysters
                   silver-netted
and falling to pieces when I walk
behind Madison Square Garden for the “Best Slice
of New York Pizza!”
          And on 8th Avenue, boasting a pagan-ritual sized
sign that reads “Voted One of the 10 Best Slices in the City!”
                   they weren’t actually wrong.
I thought Joe’s in Greenwich was alright
I believe Sal & Carmine’s off Broadway gets the job done
but NY Pizza Suprema just has the ratio near-perfect
          beneath this soft kneeling moon
wading into marinara red –
this pillow-scented road
full-of-reclining-ash vs. void-of-sliding-palms:
It’s good that it’s sad
                   this early in the evening
when the sun is still out on its swing set
          and I miss you more with every flicker of neon on 30th st. 
out and to the west.






Sunday, January 29, 2017

Captain Morrow’s Descent into Wire

Branch bisecting death
or the tree that feel asleep

as far as you can’t see
as far as the horse can carry you.

You wanted to wield a scythe so you did
as sepia clouds set the backdrop for asphalt night.

Sing for dying and sleep tomorrow
to collapsed fences in darker dirt

by the snake in your eyes
or the crucifix above your bed;

I’m sorry July was wrong,
and January became unbearable.

I asked Odin for another chance
while Frigg was weaving dreams in the sky

and he kept telling to me to ask him later
and to fake a smile until it stuck.

I fake a smile and when it sticks
I’m gonna climb over the fenced-in fence

maybe ask Odin again for that scary chance
and try to stop waking up with nauseous dread.

The me that was poisoned by the me that wasn’t –
the me that wasn’t learning to fly

vs. the me that wasn’t: learning to fly;
money on the latter. You will always matter.

Monday, October 24, 2016

Everyone's Lord Byron for Halloween

Spring Water is like
the Number 1 App on the App Store –
it’s your only nourishment
and you need 60 ounces a day.

Your eyes are like
a record player –
spinning dizzying concentric
circles of color: I can’t stop staring.

My heart is the CPU
of my other heart
and it’s bogged down by one
unnecessary program that I can’t uninstall.

Coffee is like coffee.

Relationships are likes iPhones –
          awesome for a month
          inseparable and automatic for a year
          cracked and obsolete by year two.



The Blameless Vestal's Lot (Eternal Sunshine ekphrastic)

On a cold night in Montauk
the house is crumbling into
the sand where tall grass
sleeps every summer.

Oceanic waves flood into
the foyer
chilling your ankles
filling your shoes with wet sand.

It’s almost like there’s
a spotlight on your face
when you call out to her
at the top of the stairs.

Do you feel in love
or codependent
when you fall into winter?

When the last memory you have
starts to disintegrate
and die around you?

You said “so go,”
with such disdain, you know?

Stuck between I love you 
and meet me in Montauk.


Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Brightness Brightens

What a world in which we live
where your skin inspires paintings
that inspire my ekphrastics

like loose bearings on a dust jacket
but like no dust
on your jacketed embrace.

What a world we live in –
I saw you 5 years ago
and wanted to know you more than dreams

but I never spoke to you then
in my scotchy speech because I never spoke
without scotchy speech.

What a world we live
breathing in fall like orgasms
when the sun still makes you cold

while red sheets swallow
and swim you closer to me
but I need more days.

What a world
where I can get a yellow onion
or a carrot for only 69 cents.

Thursday, September 29, 2016

Chasing Liquid

Suppose you were a little cat
residing in a person’s flat
not yielding to the yellow jackets
floating in the bowl of effervescent
grapefruit water.

The jackets don’t flinch
          when you pierce through their veil
with your barbed tongue
          and let the bubbles cascade down
          your throat.


Suppose your masters were dining out
          at a closed down Italian restaurant;
you knew about the fire there in ‘85
          that killed them
and six others.

The bread on the table softening over years,
          yellow jackets making homes
in her bare knees;
they have all the utensils now
           with which to eat their silver soup.