Friday, July 31, 2015

Starbucks on the right

cardboard coated windows
brown heart of darkness
searching eyes
insidious intent
great destroyer
branded in san serif
font, blind,


leaving the house -- cat poem

my cat's eyes plead
don't go--
but I must,

even if he'll never know why.

Silent in the glow of a yellow roadside

a street and its cars;

I am alone

a sidewalk splits the road
     a wooden porch
          fenced off
               splits concrete

sun breaks the horizon
     yields to night
          oh the day is lost

I am silent
     I will not speak
          not ever
               not now

Green street signs face me
     respond in weary silence
          no directions
               they will not speak
                    not ever
                         almost never

Thursday, July 30, 2015


It was the last
on earth
and the a/c was

there were
sex shops on every
selling any kind
of fruit you could

the children had
strawberry blood in
their hair
on their hands,

radios in the
houses that lined
the last street
cycled through
the top 100

each decade started
1900 2000 30-

it was impossible
to forget what
you were doing
when it happened,

it was impossible
to continue to
do it,

the sun was
shaped like a
mushroom cloud
like a bomb
from heaven,

like an egg
the moon broke
yellow milky yolk
fried on dark teflon
canvas overhead,

everyone was there
to watch and
when it was over
they smiled toothless grins
and left with empty
sockets where the
eyes had been,

this was the last
on earth
written with
its last

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

bad deal

you really like fish
     and I can't even remember what year it is

most of the time
you like fish
     I can never settle on the year

or;     I mean

I can never get that last number right
     and you like all non-white meat fish


     lobster is seafood not fish
red when boiled

dyes my hand     slick and red

I wipe them on my shirt

the dark figure in the dank archway     by the dock

turn out yer pockets     wallet

stink of fish     brown water     machine
     gunpowder     oil

the slow moving clouds as the sun sets

a drifting thought

Thursday, July 23, 2015

old forgotten dream 4

suicide I've committed suicide under control of some spirit.
I am no longer under control. I've passed on.
scene shift to
weird ocean impressionist landscape with water rising very high see people,
head above waves the crests, they are thrown out and land on the shore, 
seems like a wave is going to hit me, then nothing, the water recedes and we retreat, 
under the water had been these elaborate sand structures, 
mike tells me people had built them 
but maybe I don't know they were under the ocean, 
scene shift to
I meet some demon spirit thing (I feel he is likely malicious
but we have an understanding from other selves long ago and we go our separate ways.)
it's a type of restaurant/bakery cake place 
I am running around--secret agent style 
some times without gun just hand in gun pose some times with gun hands at my sides. 
scene shift to
dark wooded area firefight against furry alien creatures 
who are really humans in elaborate costume pretending to be furry alien creatures
eventually they realize they are human removing their masks
and now aren't going along with my sound effect gun blasts 
I swing the butt of my toy rifle violently in an attempt to bludgeon them. 

old forgotten dream 3

Here we are in some facility underground
maybe we broke into it
i dunno
do you know?
there is another group of people, hidden...
yeah it's like an airplane cabin
dungeon kinda thing that we can be sure 
we don't have many supplies left
and should get into the safer rooms that are being guarded by that other group. 
But they won't let us. 
We are wrestling with them. 
Another group comes in masked
I have a bad feeling about them, you?
they seem malicious...dangerous, I fear they might be after us. 
we must try to get into the safe rooms and close the door. 
outside is cold nothingness and at an end.

old forgotten dream 2

I realize the meaning of existence, life, death i see it. 
I begin to have trouble breathing. 
A pillow appears above me, like a static image. blinks in and out. 
I know having uncovered reality I am to die.

old forgotten dream

couldn't reach pedal 
kept getting stuck 
in close quarters, 
but no walls, no objects
backing up close to people
that weren't standing there, 
saw this picture of missing girl 
her friend and 
saw her in reality 
pass by on bike 
(later I knew that bike was a man) 

felicia was like you shouldn't have seen her
that wasn't right,
this seemed to be the reason i couldn't find the pedal.

it went like this

the past is gone the mice are dancing--

I read this in a book
in a dream, from when?

I can't remember...

Monday, July 20, 2015

In night we are much like in day

my gray cat
is a gray poet;

in sleep he rages,
awake he stalks
shadows, bites at
imaginary objects--

there is nothing but me
in my dreams; my
waking reality; my
drug laced fantasy;

in night we are much like in day,
the street lights for the sun
line the way; home--

with orange slitted eye,
he watches outside, watches
in; ears twitch, tail snapping,
pupils dilate, muscles taut;
to pounce.

Sunday, July 19, 2015

fat fish fry

fat rat fish fry illuminati
watch this vine
[copy paste]
this link is broken
fresh oil fries best
without the burnt
of secret society
fear, as in old food
left to rot,

there're bacterium
in my brain,
I am partial to cats,

there are at least 15 places
to get baked ziti in orlando
(even tho the city is imaginary
a cursory incorrectly
directed internet search;

I searched my own name.

seems they know I'm Italian
on to the silent e,

this poem is a google search result,
spiders crawl inside

sizing my bandwidth up

don't worry I've just about lost myself
you're not alone

follow the prompts the directional boxes
take a bow

stuff your face
it's basically nothing
and nothing can be done

there's always time for another lie

I'll set the pace.

Saturday, July 18, 2015

Cat Nap

this glass a demon in my bowels
ringing out what's left of my watery soul
eternal dehydration;

last night I carried nibs through
apartment elevators,
like dorm at Rutgers,
cold old unadorned,
headed to concierge,
     "my door won't open,"
thick brown water, still,
impenetrable to eyes,
sat at waist level,
there was no one at
front desk, I noticed too late
nibs was no longer under my arm,
bobbing in the water beside me
head down legs down,
coated in the brown unguent
I pawed at him
memory becomes thin
he was then in my arms
wet chewing gray
     "door might be open when we get back,"
I mused as floor rose to ceiling
rose to roof rose to room,
waters carrying us up.

Potomac River and Harpers Ferry 263' to 315'

ascend the spiral stair

     chain-link line fence

families stroll maryland to west VA

      hiking polls held horizontal to ground

          I have walked 12 miles since morning

white blazers pass me ask
     how far the next shelter south

I point to Garvey some-when in my past

          this a day and several miles behind

taste of ice cream milkshake before me

     Gabow put the idea there on my tongue

in my tired hiker's mind

          sky is mid-afternoon

town is red white blue madness

     I am dried of rain soaked with sweat

eyes to the sun

          walking now on sidewalked streets

walking south

walking home


Friday, July 17, 2015

In This Time

in all this time
     I've not written one divine line,
     I've sown not one bountiful field,

I will leave for my child
     a vast unreadable work,
     a collection of journals for the fire,

I am slowly starving to death
     most of what I eat is digitally prescribed

in all this time
     I've built up the cancer particles that will kill me
     I've worked in boxes called offices on rows called floors

I will leave for my child
     Crippling debt and a decayed philosophy
     old bones of the oldest man alive

I am slowly starved to death
     by the long lines of the loudest bank

In all this time
     our trees have grown and been cut down
     I have grown and been cut down

I will leave our children
     the future of the human race
     to do with as they please

I am slowly starving to death
     of my own and rightful accord

I am slowly becoming death
     which I will embody for all but an instant

I am become death
     of the poem and the world

I am death
     everlasting in nothingness

I death
     am a phantom in a dream that never was

     is meaningless in the void

A short non-linear American poem (So I will)

Ginsberg set them up,

Bukowski knocked them down wouldn't let them get up,

Kerouac was too weird, too off time to make any visible impact,
     "I write poetry not prose",

Corso was a romantic was too italian,

Ferlinghetti published books had a cabin in the woods,

Whitman lived too long ago to be easily recalled,

the modernists were all suicidal like Crane,

William Carlos Williams got caught stealing plums,

Pound pledged his heart to fascist dictatorships,

Snyder cared too much for turtle island,

Elise Cowen they wouldn't publish your thoughts
     and nobody asked if they were scared,

Gdowik bit into pineapples, cracked his tooth
     on ungodly spires,

Welch drew rings of bone around the earth,

Hughes started a renaissance and is remembered
     for one line in a play he didn't write,

Whalen wrote invisible words across the sky
     became invisible himself,

Tavella walked the concrete medians of Broad street
     imagined unread words,

Rexroth was old and new and couldn't decide which way to go,

McClure jizzed all over everybody came off too cool,

Mcknight fought the structure, lines and rhyme and voice,

Plath said fuck you,

Taratut sung a song of a song not yet heard,

Hemingway never gave shit enough to try,

I intend to follow my words to the grave.

C&O Canal Towpath 290'

like opaque green sledge
pools of my worst dreams
canal is motionless
stagnant lime green
john deer tractor green
thick nuclear waste gunk
of the world,

on opposite trailside,
the mighty old Potomac
crisp and blue-brown,
flowing from upper valley
toward Chesapeake shore,

raining too hard to see,
I remove my glasses,
shirt soaked, pants, bandanna,
head, arms, feet dry under
wool socks, hiking boots,

I hope my poncho rigged
as rucksack cover holds,
not much in there that will
suffer if wet anyway, still,

mosquitoes out,
mark my right arm,
return mark return
again, fuck the C&O
my swelling arm,
my tired fucking legs,
these fucking bugs
won't let me go

AT Poems XII

Thursday, July 16, 2015

Keep Tryst Rd, 320'

cloud cover

sky ominous

quaking thunder
rolls in distance

.4 mile race down
switch backs 700 ft.

we climbed this
section two nights ago

it seems darker now
rain begins to fall

boots hit concrete

seems my feet
so used to rocks

I remember now
how the road feels

how heavy everything is
how new

AT Poems XI

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Crampton to Weverton 1000' to 780'

from the gap
thru Gathland
rain slowing
to stop     misting
in still gray morning,

sun is warming
beyond tree canopy
yet to dry my clothes,

cross Townsend road
up the hill
follow those
white blazes,

muck and mud
of stewed trail
by Garvey Shelter
     --I've enough water,
making good time--
moving on,

hiking sticks clang
on rocks
support aching knees

I missed Weverton Cliffs
     --must have
been watching the
wrong way, must
not have been set--

determined to walk straight
breath steady
stomach empty

if all goes, I'll
start up the car
     --in my memory
parked by old
abandoned school
Washington St
hit the road by three

AT Poems X

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Crampton Gap Shelter IV 1000'

rucksack wrapped in
navy blue poncho
bought outside Seattle
traveled 4,000-odd miles
ripped and stretched
and tied
rain coming down
cold cold morning rain,

in mists of mountain air
we said good bye and turned away,

north          south

you sank back into forest
around trail turn

rain picked up
and clouds

You'll be in Pennsylvania

"I'll see you in a thousand miles"

AT Poems IX

Monday, July 13, 2015

Crampton Gap Shelter III 1000'

three snoring bodies     sleep
     rain forest     old forest
     early morning
          ghosts of America's oldest land

these sinking beautiful mountains
     these gray old men

     I will walk 12 miles south     drive 60      east
     the Potomac     home

     with your body against     mine
my aches will
my blisters will


Friday, July 10, 2015

Crampton Gap Shelter II 1000'

by firelight
          drinking whiskey
pass around the bottle
          pass around the joint
easy conversation
          music in the night

liquid burns
smoke burns
daylight burns
muscles burn

          sassafras and birch tea
forest is deep dark
snap of distant fire works
          towns below

it's fourth of july
          high in the appalachians


Thursday, July 9, 2015

Crampton Gap Shelter I 1000'

logs painted white
porch with benches
          a hiker sleeps inside
          feet dangling out

there's a wood bridge to the outhouse
a fire pit (no wood)

          no green acorns falling
          tap tick tap tsk

this is where
          --packs off
          shoes off
--we sleep tonight

an osprey screeches through tall trees

AT Poems VII

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Gathland State park 950'

Five poems

Rear guard
battle for south

headed for shelter.

running water,
open field, Gathland
Estate...Alfred Townsend

[was a journalist during the civil war]

had the war on his front porch.

Gabow posed with ceramic soldiers,
          they'd all marched through the
          Shenendoah in June,

but this was 150 years apart,
and for different

Library no longer standing.

          a barn made of stone,
the trail zig zag through property
          mist, coming rain
moisture on bag, sticks, trees, miles

filing water bottles,
     filing them up.
bitten by a mosquito,
     bite swelling up.

In a flash
a memorial
message from the gods,
in a flash

AT Poems VI

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

Brownsville Gap 1140'

here he tugs at sassafras root
          pieces of birch wood too,
later in camp we'll brew it into tea,

Ahead he walks with steady gait over rugged terrain.

the rocks at his feet are one with easy breathe,
          chirp of birds, whistled back in return,
          hand-picking raspberry, blackberry, huckleberry,
          a renewed spirit of forest,

a shaman of trails borne ever north.

here he has found something new,
          become something new
          inside and out.

AT Poems V

Monday, July 6, 2015

The Ed Garvey Shelter II 1100'

flipping journal pages:
the first 100 days
first 1000 mile days
first Georgia to Maryland days;

seated on picnic bench outside
log cabin 2 floored-3 walled shelter
hikers come and go,
breakfast cooking.

there's this feeling of destination
     of movement in the piles of wood,
     relaxed bodies, slumping packs,
     hiker poles stuck in soft earth;

there's 1,000 more miles to Ka-TAH-din,
there's a 100 miles wilderness in the way,
there's rain,
there's heat,
there's cold.
     maybe snow,
     bruised feet
     bug bites

but there's 1,000 miles to go
there's still 1,000 miles to go

AT Poems IV

The Ed Garvey Shelter 1100'

.4 miles to mountain spring
down switchbacks
lined with wild raspberry bushes
muddy trails,
slick rocks,
raised tree roots;

sun glints and lights
through canopy,
spring runs,
cool, cold, deep,

quenches thirst
of those
unknown thousands,


tank up.

AT Poems III

Weverton Cliffs 780'

stealth camp on
Weverton Cliffs,
1 am,
tents up; rain tarp;
no time for bear bag;
sleep with pack;
morning coming on,
train sounds in
the night;
Gabow snores;
a metallic snapping sound
four times each closer;
creeping fire,
out tent flaps
I expect any moment,
bear snout, bigfoot;
and phantom thing
of paranoia,
until adrenaline
from hike wearing,
I sleep.

AT Poems II

Harpers Ferry 315'

for Mike Gabow

night in the town
John Brown built
with his blood,
on his blood,

prophesy of a land
cleansed by blood,
still in waiting;
baptized in many

 St. Peter's church leans
over cliffside, faced north,
hand carved steps lead
out of town;
across O old potomac,
where blood orange
moon rises over distant

a night hike under
Mennen's Borated Talcum
Toilet Powder sign; faded;
carved around 1903,

in the dark there are no white markers,
think back and retrace your steps;
or continue on empty roads, railroad tracks,
the C & O canal towpath,

up heavy grades,
switch backs in the dark,
head lamps beaming,
no short cuts,
wet mud, glowing eyes,
flutter of insect wings
to the underpass US-340;
four miles to Weverton Cliffs.

AT Poems I