Post the Twenty Ninth


Like everything I touch.
Or even think about touching,
these days.
I trust too much
and say too little.
End up counting casualties
of my personality
laid out on the
floor before me.
No body bags available,
just mirrors
reflecting every angle
of every corpse
until my peripherals
are filled to bursting
with the outcome of these
disastrous days.

Post the Twenty Eighth


Being a Local in New York City is
a relatively unheard of concept
that nearly every resident strives for.

To be recognized among millions,
and remembered for longevity in a neighborhood
is something that is difficult to achieve.

Especially people like me, who,
in their first four years of living here
moved 14 times in total, through every borough.

But I achieved it in one part of Brooklyn
and I’m so thankful for the family that that brings
to be a Local means you belong there.


Post the Twenty Sixth


I make the monkeys clap
until all that remains is the echo
of intention. Swollen cymbal fingers
broken at the knuckles.

Little marsupials try to touch
me. I am the music from their masters
box. They think they hear me even when
the cranking stops.

Over-sized castanets fall with
laughter as the monkey jumps, thinking
the throat of their patron is mine.
Another job lost
because the Illusion can’t be killed.

Post the Twenty Fourth

Sorry it’s been a while. Internet issues among other things. Here’s an oldie in the meantime, when I used to play around hard with rhyme and wordplay.

i erupt and fluctuate
my love
my doves flew late
into a storm
the forlorn birds roam
through unknown territory
feeling unworthy of the
topsy turvy road before me
turning left looking right
no rest in sight for me tonight
i venture through the morning dew
the stars retire
to sire more fuel
for my century long fire
i rise higher than liars
i swear and i bear their child
i am the life weilder
the royal seal there on the wheel
spinning since the dawn
through the right and wrong
through solomon and babylon
so just ba-ba-along
and i promise to disguise the heat
i reap and creep through cracks.
love attacks when you ask it not to
it rots through your muscle to mold
turns warmth to cold\
so fold your hand and feel the sand
in your fingers
the lingering feeling
from your personal floor
to your personal ceiling
your person is reeling
from concealing the comments
in your bones
the stones thrown at the mask
cast on the last day
the veil hailing power
hailing the sour end
i try to fend off
to not get caught by
wire taps in your hearts map.
if you’re gonna listen
then at least grin and remember
the splendor of our summer
lumbering feelings
we never meant to keep.

Post the Twenty Third

When I graduated college
I jumped up and down
and wrote a poem.
The first line was something
along the lines of:
Happier expletives
have never left my mouth

And now I’m trying
to do it all again
and already over the bureaucracy
before I’ve even applied.

No one wants to
answer your questions
but they have no problem
adding new ones
to your list.

You’d think the continued
education of our citizens
would matter more to the people
who’s jobs it is to help them.