subway poem #5

that sweaty old pack of gum i never finished and left in my winter coat a few seasons back tastes fine but now my jacket smells like chemical mint and everyone’s staring trying to map out the valleys in my teeth the shady spots in my molars the silver left to mine and land to be conquered i never would’ve guessed i could say so little and be so clear my thoughts can be read through my eyes and visible gum line everyone’s staring with eyes that say so much less and dark lips that never come apart if i can’t see yr silver i can’t hear you show me your teeth show me your teeth show me yr teeth show me yr teeth a bare dull light on the inside while you chew on tear up and rip it off no juice or flavor left no joy at all suck out the taste until it’s just a little rubber ball and swallow and see how you like it

subway poem #4

he’s got a bad attitude and a bad song in his head some lead in his boots he’s sinking fast though decent in most respects he sits with a sinking feeling that something darker is drifting up one of those moments he wishes he was less self-aware so his impulses seemed more impulsive and less like fantasies come to fruition it’s presumptive to say he knows it all but it’d be fair to say he knows a fair bit a claim you could justify unlike the lies he tends to tell himself that keep him safe through the day and nights and the train and over the bed hovering like his own shadow on the wall

subway poem #3

two cups in the morning two cups at lunch two steps out the door and i’m two steps over a blank on the page two trips over the threshold two pushed between glass two flat toward the pockets two flecks of the knife two-dress on an edge of two grown in a third way around each corner past and over each brick and the heavy filament pull end under end it’s not hidden if you say it’s not hidden but two squeal over airwaves is no secret instead two crept  down the leg between the hairs and something to say about that bone-ledge but dripping inside with the blood for a few drops more we’d be a couple the stream said so “that’s an answer right there” across the bridge two towers glow

subway poem #2

red over shoulder whistle boom clap
gone for the winter never coming back when it’s summer somewhere else all of the time where else is there shake the dirt from the carpets and deep between the tiles shake the ash from the sleeves pull whistles crows trains tell them i’m never coming home i’m never over bone-free muscle tight enough that it holds its own fresh ligaments and tendons and a pale green front no marrow though narrow no reason to worry
machine gone read over the hill
arms pound the surface beneath which is the dwelling everybody wake up and everybody listen everybody wake up and everybody listen to me i had a story to tell and i had a story to tell & i had a story to tell could you hear don’t make this more difficult than it has to be & just listen to me

subway poem #1

that hat looks alright on you but it looked better on Joyce you don’t wear it with the same ease or gentle bend of the neck you look like an idiot in it it’s really too bad though i think i’d look great what a waste of a fine hat what a waste of a fine young man another one lost to the trials of imprecision debate moral quandary and the occasional unrelated mass suicide accompanied by a drum circle and a rush of cracked pepper in perfect alignment with a fluttering ghost of a thought resting between the canvas and the hairline and some neatly trimmed brows and dark dark eyes fogged over over over over over over over over over brimming with doomsaid joy and a hunter’s pace a crawling blue iris left fist over fist over fist over fist over over fist over fist over fist over over

beg pardon

parenthetical legs, on to
hypothetical living
obediently guzzling gasoline far beyond the point of gluttony
light it, furrow, all right
all hips and all strawberry filling
red past the point of no return
too far red to return (by foot)
                                          (on fire)
realistical / accidentical
growth, corrupt and understanding
                                    &
(beg pardon)

con-go

“i love blur!”
“i love blur!”
“i love blur!”
“yeah me, too, i love blur, too!”
“do you know what damon albarn is doing right now?”
“i mean, not exactly.”
“he’s in the congo” con-go, cong-o, k-ongo
“obviously”
“recording with actress.”
“an actress? which actress?”
“no, actress.”
“i don’t know,”
“i have a mate who knows him, damon albarn is in the congo right now, recording in the kon-go, africa.”
congo con-go aff-ree-kahh
“i seriously love blur.”
“me, too, i love blur!”

“Can I paint you as Jesus up on the cross?”

I’ve got an idea for a great new prank reality television series.

It’s called, “SCREECHESIZED”.

Seffranzsin “The Screech” Screaming-Berle is a world-class heavy metal guitar player for the world-class heavy metal group FLUMMOX (ed. note: alternate name idea: “FLUMMOXED”), but when he takes his guitar into the New York City subway or the historic corridors of Grand Central Terminal at rush hour and plays as poorly as he possibly can, as if he’s picking up the axe for the very first time in his entire life and also has a severe learning disorder, will people even recognize the greatness he is purposely obscuring? Therein lies the crux of “SCREECHESIZED” (ed. note: or “FLUMMOXED”). Sure, he looks and sounds like just another homeless person who found a barely-playable instrument in the trash and also hasn’t quite wrapped his head around the concept of panhandling, but it’s actually a famous musician! Will the simpleton masses of “The Biggest Apple” ever understand? “SCREECHESIZED” (ed. note: really, let’s not discount “FLUMMOXED” here) seeks to show the people of the busiest little city in the state of New York that, sometimes, you just need to slow it all down and listen to the unlistenable excuse for music being played in a public space by a professional performer in order teach you a valuable lesson about how you live your life.

Ban

Ban was the first of us to get a skateboard, and his favorite thing to do, before he learned how to really ride, was go as fast as possible in a straight line headed toward an elevated ledge and jump. The higher the wall was off the ground, the “better” jump it was. Ban was also the first of us to need a second, third, or fourth skateboard, the first to suffer a spurting headwound, the first to need major reconstructive knee and leg surgeries, the first to ignore a doctor’s orders to “not skate” for any period of time, the first to almost die, and the first to actually die, though much older than anyone expected.