Never bring the book from the writer of a town you're going to see

strike through that valley
like five flashes of lightning,
like one,
in a car you've never seen,
down from the bottom,
south through the top,
past those old smokey
mountains, hidden towns, &
golden diners, by the sun's
rise, those ancient rays,
hit the tail of georgia
the sulking, brooding south,
in the appalachian hills,
leave a man behind, to walk
2,300 miles home, we'll be in
Maine come september, we'll be
welcoming home.

Scrawled

and when I say

all these poems are
one stream of thought poem
and that that one poem is my earthly
existence boiled down to
meaningless words that
I haven't found the
combination/order for yet,
like my puzzle is missing
so many necessary pieces
and the edges aren't even
straight,

I am lying through my fingers
touched by my pen
on note books and computer
screens,

If I am to be believed,
you've fallen for this farce

and I keep writing and typing away

seeking my un-truth

Kid + Marya

chip chatter pulled to the end of line
too much of me to make much of
anything outta this whole gasping nothing

these kids above the bowl
stinking of wine, grease,
glint of blade and brilliance
carved jagged letter before that jump

all fingers on handles
whisper cautiously someones
at the baying door and we're the opposite sex

to drown to drown to drown
left a name left a spinning nowhere mystery

two bodies sleeping soulless
chatter on the walls drifting throughout time

I read it sometime in my future
before the walls decayed, before
their names, painted over.

why the Agents never called

because you had frightened them
with suicide letters, fingers on the button,
on the bomb, strange musing cat-like noises
in the alleyways of thought between the lines,
weighted down by hello how are you good, good,
pressure, those fairy tale facilities, buried like
corded veins in the soft prosaic grounds,
preconditioned bits of regurgitated information
twisting like useless narrative going back over,
afterwards, in-between, telling the same old
same old tv serial scene, not knowing how to
lie, how to hide your sadness, deafness,
frown, because you cried for what was lost
and gave innocently, naively of yourself.

Sub me in coach

hang up my life for a month sweet life,
sift through the search engine bleep-bleep,
indigo links (Ctrl + K) become sky blue
pom-pom seafoam memories,
ya been here and now's the time to move
on down that alphabet drawl,
this is what's good fer ya and know,
there no other better way, hey. to
remain anonymous to suffer-
suffer, hard work in the muck
in the coal mine word mind
world pining fuck none of this
going nowheres bullshit
my sudden resolve to end it
to scroll that last blue itchy mile,
ending where I began with a click
tack tab knock drab wait wait wait on it, kid.

My Distended Universe

From out-through-inward
glances I am walking picture
health, red eyes, not-yet-
so-sagging-skin, not-yet-so-
showing-my-age, a perfect
asked for shell encased
humanity-bubble, walking to
work, walking to the grave,
showing smiles when prompted,
answering back hellos, body
breaking down nobly, mind
stitched together with tv show
highlights, news snippets, party lines,
I have made an effort to appear
unremarkable, to remain unnecessary
a blink of a cog in the great machine
mind civilization, fitfully prepared
for what's expected of me.

Entitled

and one by one into the cabin space
landscape annihilator they go,
point to point connection, rotation,
here now go and here back and nothings
changed except for lag on the camera lens,
sleep time and that light, those cloudy horizons,
all that unwashed rabble, green squares, land,
below; airplanes are for people without wings.

Four Years in Philly Change a Man.

languid tendrils act as sallow rivers,
drifting by the word, on shore, to lands remade,

emaciated bodies of long dead fingers
point nail first toward leaning gothic towers,

the budding infernal skyscrapers of future torment,
innately understanding what sorrow is to come, what sadness,

remain vexed, unchanging, unaltered, familiar, leaves like
charred bones sift, dance, retreat against their faceless remorse,

and carry on to windy terraces across the concrete mess of ground
that once played green and long and smelled of spring, sweet,

trudging off south, I am a shrinking ghost, there in leather soled shoes,
bent to a final destination, a shimmering illusion, one I've left behind,

to wallow, to cry, to fade

March 12th

figures on your
birthday I'd forget my
wise ol' hat in a girl's
pad far from home,
lose my phone the
instant I put it down,
toast  an english muffin,
only to forget it until I'm
half way up the street
and running for the bus,
no chance of going back,
pay way too much for
another breakfast,
show up late for work,
(to work anyway, injustice!)
like really late, having to
sneak in so I'm not seen,
spilling coffee on myself
in the process,
sitting down at my desk,
on a beautiful spring day,
stuck inside, too many ideas
in my head to write out,
not being able to figure
when and where I should start.

Fire on the decks

slug a beer for the old man,
gawd damn, hit the rail of
the bar on thick skulls
and whatever else
isn't tied down, or limp, out on
that open, awful wine deep sea,
trolling, holler my friend, into
void of lifeless colors and cream
spattered skies, thick clouds, strings
vibrate vibrato pitch and swirling
currents undulating.
deserted islands lost to timid eyes,
breezes, tho not enough to raise the sail, ho!
But enough to chase and
drop the bottle, lo!
Enough for a toast, alas!
This and this, this this
is mad mad rambling
made to heel,
broken glass, liver, river,
kidneys, tightness, pity, whores,
Now!
Down below!

Friday Nights

starting off at dusk--
on car piled, metal snake
slinging cement gray road
plied by mass of commuter transit
nightmares, all hands headed to opposite
shores, quiet homes, small
pleasures, lonely hours,
ovens cold, fast food on table top,
missing children, barking dogs, hungry
cat, snow shifting madness, waiting tolls--
I get those sad groaning butterflies
of driving east, driving toward the old
shore, the thick waves of brown atlantic--
away from the great western stretch,
pioneers and new lands, fabled
journeys long etched into memory--
those sad eastern butterflies of
going home, of timelessness, and long
lost childhoods reaching out to me,
speaking in languages
I can no longer comprehend.

Rolling Bridge Road

timeless cross on that
last unknown road to nowhere
before split to bay bridge
and frozen wasteland
Chesapeake scenery,
where there's a boat cutting across,
slashes through beautiful
static sheet of ice
not unlike shattered glass
floating on caps of slush and white,
two hundred years ago
there were oyster breakers on
those waves, scuttling ashore,
broken hulls, gray aged hands
 on tired washed out decks,
carrying food
for the poor.