South Queens, 5am
I sat with Satan
as he stroked his beard
I was on a four-day binge
foamed at the mouth 
for any substance that I could snort
smoke 
inject 
terrified the sun would come up
before I had the chance to get more high
then I already was 
and ditch him 
Satan that is
like Satan couldn’t tell 
I was one cigarette short of cancer
and one bourbon shy of prostitution
 
Satan had a missing tooth
I stared right into that wormhole of reckless abandonment 
while he pulled the queen of spades
from his deck of cards  
and placed her on the nicked and shredded bar 
the queen
was withered and broken
with torn corners 
her spades faded to a gray blur

Satan had a long 
curled and yellowed pinky nail 
he dipped it into his pouch of yeyo 
I gasped like a child in Candyland 
as he scooped out a heap  
of the sparkly white powder 
which was right up my sleazy alley
 
Satan pulled another card 
the joker 
he laughed so guttural my glass shattered  
I searched his face for a sign 
that I was still up for grabs - still in the running
 
Before he skipped out on me 
Satan segued down the bar
pulling and handing cards left and right 
hungry for that diamond in a foul as fuck rough

I held on for dear life
as if I waited for my name to be called 
in some epic beauty pageant 
but Satan slithered away
and the sun oozed in 
as I crawled out and skulked 
back to my hovel

MAKE ROOM, PLEASE

Though everything is constantly disrupted
and I look inward like a fool
at the brooding sadness
which has taken on a form…

…of what?
I couldn’t say.

But I do labor to keep it concealed
until I determine whether
it’s safe to set it free or not.

The face of this malicious planet
with its definite and final heartbreaks,
about which there will be no discussions
despite what we were taught,
still does not cage us in.

Do you understand?

We are all free to go

without assistance.

If you feel the heavy desire to depart,
then go.
But please, don’t throw chairs
all over the fuckin' house.

*

Not everyone would agree that October
is the best month to proceed
what with the frigid weather leopard-crawling
up the valley hill,
like we don’t know it’s coming
And the leaves crashing into each other,
October’s crumpled cast-offs,
with their awkward descent.

The seasons will be born over and over
with me
and without me

Loss eventually fades to nothing.
It’s so devious.

It means
absolutely nothing,
I know.
But sometimes, if I remain perfectly still
I can hear the silent voices of the departed.

They’re always here.
They’re just shifting around
making room for
the next group’s arrival.

           Insanity

They all end up in the bar eventually,
on foot, in wheelchairs, livery cabs,
stretch limos, riding mowers, wearing
torn-at-the-knees tuxedos, ties askew,
wine stained and bloodied or in track
suits after running a marathon chased
by demons, plain clothes cops, packs
of feral dogs only they can see, in bib
overalls so caked in manure they can
barely breathe or in hospital gowns
double knotted at the back, their life
savings in fanny packs around their
waists, blood type and date of admission
typewritten in plastic wrist bands they
hadn’t bothered to remove or in clown
suits, rugby shirts, laid-out-for- viewing
formal duds, punked out and glittered,
their eyes so glazed they can no longer
see, all of them laughing at jokes without
punch lines only they can hear, talking
to friends so far gone they are no longer
memories, ghost lights flickering from
their finger-tips where they touch glass.

Though The Earth Be Moved


We are surrounded by
deaths and departures this year.
We’ve gathered this season to
wonder at children’s hard tales,
at stories ten years told.

I am your son and I loved you.
I’ve seen you act as a player, as a man
who punishes with actions or with hands;
seen scuff knuckles of years at family work.
At your side, I heard the blood weariness
of weeks in hospital beds.

Full of questions myself,
I will not father children.
I won’t share that grief, those grievances
with ones unique and unprotected.
I loved you as a son, a suspicious man.
With your dying, your soft and final sigh
you’ve robbed me of your answers.

Aging

 
With a thin ray of sunlight
On the book covered by dust
A shaking hand opens it
Flipping pages pointlessly

A word suddenly jumps out
Hitting the heart like thunder
And bringing back memories
Of a toy long forgotten

Pretty soon the
Old man will
Forget this moment

 

More Names

Names are what we go by. 
Breath means we are still alive. 
Hearts are what we break and love. 
Lost are the words dementia takes. 
Know this is just an experiment.

River is the water in my dreams. 
Hydrogen is the lightest element. 
It is something I read. Hope 
clings for a miracle. 
Remember, names are what we go by. 
Are you going to change your name?

Grass is for the cows. 
Leaves are the clothes of trees. Who 
gathers all falling meteors. Water 
transforms into a raging sea or a 
wellspring that goes by fountainhead.

Electricity is the passion between us. I 
own a first name and middle name. Our 
lives could use more names. 
Forgotten is a name I went by. We hate 
ourselves when we are taken for granted.

Yard is a measure of distance. 
Save money to spend it later. 
Molecules are groups of two or more atoms. 
Crack is a name used for many things. 
Beds are where we sleep and die.

 

eight cups a day

 
I’m reading this magazine article,
on the end-table in the doctor’s waiting room
that compares universal consciousness,
to drops of water that come together
to create a lake.
Once in the examination room
the doc explains that,

all 6.7 billion assholes should drink
eight cups a day,
to maintain true health.

I assume the most efficient way to
accomplish this, would be one every
two hours that I’m awake.
Set the cell phone alarm,
make it spring or bottled, not tap.
Or wait, better to ladle it,
from that lake of drops.

Let those cups come together
and forge a new me,
with a social conscience,
maybe even a desire to vote.
As the therapy grows
and becomes the rage,
we will all come to realize

that we’re more than dehydrated egos,
devouring and pushing things
inside these ugly bags of skin,
that we all drink from the same waters,
need to see Dr. Harding
and would benefit greatly from reading
the same magazines.

 

Compost Heaps:

Mixed up with the earth, we
mix with the earth.

32 years a poet,
may my blathering skull compost
as words do in
dictionaries and usage books—

slowly while
fecundating.

I know why kids like playing in dirt—

the greatest joy
is returning home grimy. 

-for Bryan Garner

Love the Quick Profit
“Want more of everything ready-made” – Wendell Berry

Get hired, get fired, do everything but quit;
discern your profession and love the quick profit.

I’m no prophet, it’s just what they say;
delay your ambitions and love the quick profit.

What’s your hours? Did you hit the mark?
Don’t be a sinner, love the quick profit.

Do it, don’t stop it, clock it, don’t cock it;
Oh, are you tired? Here’s the quick profit.

Money makes you sick? No, money makes you
rich, don’t be a bitch, love the quick profit.

Money makes you click. No money makes you
hick. Don’t be a dick, love the quick profit.

You’ve got the 401k, so all will be O.K.;
you’ll retire one day, so love the quick profit.

Eat your collar and put your yoke;
here’s your eggs, baby. Love the quick profit.

Get hired, get fired, do everything but choke;
your breath is so important, so love the quick profit.

into oblivion

 
write out the pain

press down hard
enough they will
at first believe it
is a suicide note

alas, just a plea
for love

for our better angels
to find the time to
give a shit again

not some childlike 
belief of peace and
tranquility

we are better than
ourselves

whatever fucking
we you happen to
be thinking of

raise your glass
and dance naked
in the rain

there is nothing
on the other side

all those bright
lights are a cold
destiny into
oblivion

the urgency of
now has never
been greater
--------------------------------------------------------
rhetorical in nature

 
it feels like torture at times

finding the right words
to explain or describe
blah blah blah

i remember when the
words would flow like
wine

a soft liquor on the
shoulder of a beautiful
woman clearly lost in
all those clouds

now, she's just a crazy
bitch with a knife telling
me to dance for her
enjoyment

a cousin once asked
me why i chose to
be a poet

i told her every blank
page is another chance
to cheat death

is that why no one
makes any money
until after they die?