I’m very close


Big defeats
And
small victories

You have hope
you lose hope
and then you die

Walking backwards
towards the future

always looking at the past 
Trying to cling onto a shred 
of a good memory

A bad date
two bags of cocaine
a lake of whiskey

She invited you in her home 
at dawn time telling you 
she sees you as a friend
for the time being

Do you have a boyfriend 
you ask

Yes she says
but it’s complicated 

My life is complicated 
enough you say
coming down from cocaine

A darkness and a loneliness
only you seem to notice

Call me if it becomes simple 
you say
I have enough friends you say
Though you are essentially friendless

I can’t be your friend you say

All the night she rambled 
about meditation and energies
And horoscopes 

And each time 
you antagonized it

You are a pessimist
she said

I’m a realist you said
and kept quiet 
Even though you wanted
to continue and say
you’re so naive and moronic
you talk about my horoscope
and all I do is stare at your lips
trying to be understanding 
but imagining the taste of your saliva

She walks you to the door
morning now, you start to walk alone 
towards your house

On the way 
you whip yourself
mentally

You didn’t say the right words
didn’t nod when you should
Didn’t manipulate when you could 

Wanted to show your true self
a silent Hail Mary attempt
to connect

You punch a wall
and put your hand 
in your jacket pocket
knowing at once your hand
is broken

Ignoring it, walking
dark eyed and depressed
as the pain increases

finally you take your
hand out of your pocket
to examine the damage 

A crooked finger
a bone trying to stick out
of the skin

I can’t drive to the hospital
you think 
so you ride a bicycle
to the ER

spend a good four hours
waiting for a doctor to
see you

Knowing you won’t be able
to work now for at least two
weeks

knowing you won’t return
her phone calls if she calls you

At sea in life 
dumbfounded 
not even pretending anymore
to understand women
or humanity

Walking out of the ER 
with a hand strapping 
hating every reflection of you 

every whisper of a thought 
every cloud and every ray of sunlight 

knowing full well now
that only you can save yourself 

but you being the only one
who won’t.

Chaos


Don’t tell me what happened
White and black
They look opposite
Better forget it

Don’t tell me how it happened
Mountains and seas
They look the same
Better leave them

Don’t tell me why it happened
Nights and days
They look simultaneous
Better sleep through

Don’t tell me where it happened
Here and horizon
They look connected
Better stand alone

Don’t tell me when it happened
Red and blue
They look divorced
Better smash the court

We See You, Whited Sepulcher

On Sunday he sings:
“There’s a Wideness in God’s Mercy.”
But Monday will bring
A brand-new controversy
And another fall from grace.
(Though he will claim it wasn't about race.)
By the time Wednesday comes around,
He has already cursed at a beggar downtown
And given money to the John Birch Society.
(So much for his Sunday piety!)
On Thursday, he’s all distrust and fear
Proving his heart unbreakable.
By Friday it’s very clear:
His religion is just recreational.

“I Just Want To Be Hugged so I Can Fall Asleep Feeling Warm”

I’m crying and I feel a tear fall down my cheek and roll under my chin but it does not stop I feel this lone tear drip slowly, reverently down my throat and I hold my breath so as not to disturb it as it begins its descent between my breasts I want nothing more than to quell my urge to push the fabric of my shirt against my skin to make it stop but I can’t and it tickles but it hurts and I am so lost in trying not to stop it that I don’t notice when I can no longer feel it at all

“See Through, Tasteless and Wet”

I am as agreeable as water
pouring into a cup
and willing to let someone else decide
if it's half full or empty,
but the problem is that that means I'm see through,
tasteless, and wet in the most obvious sense,
while yearning to be more like whisky,
burning throats who think they know
more than the spit in their mouths
and are afraid of being blackout drunk
because they might get mean,
get closer to their truer selves,
only for me to accept my clarity
clouds who I want to be, and even worse,
I'm unable to tell if the drain
loves me or wishes I never existed.

Every day you pretend you’re not going to die


you make plans
for the week, 
next year, 
for retirement 
you’re going to take that trip 
to Maui
Italy
NYC
you’re going to drive
with the top down
in January
going to tell that girl 
I love you
quit this nowhere job
confess your sins 
stop being who you are, 
rock and roll 
over a new leaf . 
you plan and imagine, 
that your bones won’t turn to ash 
your muscles atrophy, 
never believing you won’t hear 
the rush of rivers 
or the sigh of a lover
you wish to swim the ocean 
shore to shore, hear 
the tides shift into voices;
to wake dreamless 
and wet, your grief measured 
in the crest of waves.



Conversation with Death 


All these years you’ve never recognized me
until now. Remember the car crash, not the first 
one but the one that left you unconscious, bleeding 
from a head wound; the rumors of being locked up.
We’re alike, you know. There are many versions of me; 
you didn’t see me watching when you played chicken 
with cars, intent, crouched and bouncing from leg to leg 
like a soccer goalie during a penalty shot. 
You thought I was too busy with the business of war,
pestilence, and plague when you drove blackout drunk 
across three state lines, benzedrine-fueled and lustful
for the redhead who took you apart. 
We grew up together; the mother-father-drunken brawls; 
the mental cave-ins that sucked the air out of the room; 
looking down the barrel of a loaded gun, the bitter tang
of metal on your tongue you can never forget.
I travel light. No need to schlep around guilt, grief, fear, 
false love or cling to evaporating time. I don’t have to read 
your mail to know you’ll try to lose me, fade to invisibility 
in a crowd, but you’re not going anywhere without me. 



Only the redacted version of this poem will be published


I miss your breasts, your nipples,
dream of your skin against mine,
 
your smooth pussy, the way you are
sopping wet just before I enter you.
 
I miss your touch, your hand stroking 
my hair as we fuck, fingers wrapped
 
around my cock guiding me into you. 
Every time is the first time, never able
 
to get close enough; breath catching
together, hands entwined with every

thrust, rocking and rolling into a new
universe that expands with each exhale.

-The Outlaw- 

See the big tall man with raggedy knee torn jeans and
holes in his shoes, searching 
for a place to sleep? See him,
know that he is a criminal of the highest degree,
nefarious villain and lawbreaker. His crime is
not the knife he keeps
(for peeling fruit mostly, or self-defense in worst case scenarios) 
nor is this a crime of disturbance, 
he is not experiencing a high, a delusion, or an episode. 
No, instead our outlaw, vagabond and tramp has
committed the most serious offense of carrying with him,
a pillow. 
Certain state governments call this man 
‘lawbreaker’ or perhaps, more fantastically,
a scourge on society, for the dastardly 
deed of wanting peaceful sleep. 
Well not on America’s watch, partner. 
It’s perfectly fine for you to lack four walls and a roof, 
but if you think for a second you’ll
peacefully lay your head down in public
then I guess we’re squarin’ off,
a high noon saloon showdown, 
the leather boot of justice poised, drawn at the ready 
to positively stamp down this voracious evil. 
‘Pillows and blankets are for homeowners,’
American Justice says snobbishly. 
‘Or renters,’ chimes in Capitalism. 
‘Never mind school shooters!’
cry police and judges, ‘There are PEOPLE 
SLEEPING
OUTSIDE!’ 
And just for once, I would like to hear
the same exact sentence with a different tone. 
People are sleeping outside, wept the congressmen. 
People are sleeping outside, said an embarrassed and befuddled mayor. 
People are sleeping outside, said the legal eagles, refusing to prosecute anyone
except those who perpetuated the current unsustainable system. 
Instead the people repeating this phrase the most
are caretakers and community leaders, 
the so called ‘woke’ and aware and the houseless themselves. 
There are people. People. And they are sleeping outside. 
But the coppers, silver hairs, 
and A+ platinum gold standard Nimby’s 
say it with a chuckle and a
typically quippy line about trying harder or boot straps. 
They shake their heads and their one collective brain cell
and they almost smile. 
See the big tall man with the raggedy knee torn jeans and 
holes in his shoes searching for a place to sleep?
See him and know you are one calamity away from being criminalized
for wanting sleep. 
Peace. 
For carrying a pillow. 

The flesh made word:
The only press fit to publish in
prints love poems on
used toilet paper
filthy socks
the back of drowsy eyelids.

And hey look
you're reading this.

ON PAGE TWENTY SEVEN, ROBERT DOWNEY JR

In the doctor’s waiting room,
I thumb through a magazine
that I would never spend
a cent of my own to purchase.

It’s all romantic antics,
or fashion frolics
of Hollywood actors,
the royal family, pop stars, 
sports figures with legal issues
and z-list celebrities
from reality TV.

There are headlines
to draw in the undiscerning.
And articles
that are just an excuse
for more pictures..
And something called an unveiling
of “The Sexiest Man Alive.”

I can’t wait to be rescued
by those magic words
from the nurse -
“The proctologist
will see you now.”

P.S. –
I admit I’m not up
on the laws of libel.
I wonder if “People” can
sue a poem.

At The Social Security Meditation Center 

bingo parlor waiting room game 
on the 6th floor of the 1st National Bank Building 
in downtown St. Paul on April 30th, 2024

everyone was waiting for their number to come up

there was no escaping the lengthy meditation

the underlying human hum

the om mani padme hum 

the low grade headache

the anxious social droning
the helplessly hoping 
devotees 
sitting for hours 
pondering unacceptable koans 
that brought them here 
from different circumstances
to practice citizenship

they were meditating 
in wheelchairs
on crutches
with one leg
with no legs
in sweatshirts
in tennis shoes
in ballcaps and burkas

they were praying for mercy
they were privately weeping
they were silently screaming
they were clutching shreds of dignity

some smelled like work
some smelled like weed
some smelled tired of living

bored senseless 
on metal benches 
standing, pacing 
climbing the walls
staring at phones
sitting crosslegged on concrete 
zazenning without pillows
chewing gum
and waiting for deliverance
from a good social servant
who could help them suffer 
less

all colors, creeds, and specimens
of zoned out citizens
confronting bureaucratic forces
and clerical reckonings
while security guard bodhisattva 
gatekeeper with a gun
monitored intractable sufferings
of 
the disaffected
the disabled
the sick, the poor, the elderly
the downtrodden
the broken 
the agitated insane man talking to spirits
the frustrated mother at the end of her wits

the woman who waited all day yesterday 
and was told to come back today 
so she could meditate 4 more hours 

the unseen lost soul down a hallway
who went berserk yelling profanities 
at someone in a bulletproof glass cubicle

and everyone else whose patience was taxed
until a number freed us
to proceed with our appointments

we sons, daughters, and orphans 
of these United States

meditating on social insecurity 

while waiting in American purgatory 
for the system to love us.