Waiting once again,
The burning oil hits the faded lamp.
Tempted by a glimpse of surprise,
An unwillingness to be O.K.,
The hunch-face stranger might appear like a drag sometimes,
Ragged, dirty, and rusted in all the most delicate places,
Hung up and dried out on life’s laundry line
At a young age, soured by the wisdom of 10,000 thieves
Squandering no chance at the minutiae of temporary satisfaction.
Plagued by the sheer brutality of his worldly vision,
The stranger is just a man
Like I am.
Though the buckles on his waistcoat may be fierce,
Though the fiery gaze of his neon eyes
May pierce the skin around my temples,
Though the wits and presence that walk by his side,
Steeped in the potent leaves of too much indifference,
Shine like the silver spark on a just cleaned butter knife,
I must always remember that he is just a man
Like I am,
Imperfect and forever seeking like the rest of us.
I’m tired of the butterflies I never got to see
I’m tired of the empty space where the pages used to be
I’m tired of the concrete floors I have to walk on every day.
I miss the time when uncertainty was welcomed
With open ears and a hungry heart
When race car drivers and checkered flags weren’t so far behind
Back before security was everything and profit was just a false sense of hope
Before wall street rained on everyone’s parade
Before my parents couldn’t stand each other anymore
When happy families still showed their faces in public
And confrontation wasn’t so necessary.
I miss baseball games by the river
Cartoons with dinner.
I miss the way it felt once to put two and three together.
I played chess one time when I was on acid and all I could think about
Was the fucked up power dynamic between the queen and the king.
Any pawn can eventually become a queen, but there is only one king,
And if the king dies the whole squad goes down with him.
Today, I’m bored.
Bored of chess
Bored of acid
Bored of life
And so tired
So, so tired.
12 stops on the F train//the mirror (2018)
With the days of purple hopscotch far behind, it’s no wonder the milkman hasn’t come around lately. There’s
too many perverts in paradise anyway, and I’ve got no choice but to look back at my mirror of misconception
with some kind rationality, even though it shattered years ago when Monty tried to dance his way around the
drunken piano. There it still lies, every day when I brush my teeth and shave my war torn face, scattered in
uncountable shards on the crooked floor, a reminder of all the pieces I picked up and put back into place so
many years ago.
5 minutes (2017)
the yellow platform is rusty
and caked with the dirty scum of the bottoms of people’s feet
and we all know there ain’t nothing good there
5s and 1s are the bill’s she’s got
too bad she needs a 20 spot
guess she’ll have to go home dry now
‘cause the next train to Manhattan departs in
black clad fellow whistles by
chain round his neck looking shiny but tacky
flying high off the walls like a kid in his first bar in a foreign city
the whistle is in the distance now
rumbling in towards the clearing
our path back to the center of the loin
where we can make our stay for a hot second
the people are happy that they can move on
the groove is on the tracks that are rusted
but hold a strange sense of elegance
in the sad Brooklyn night
the yellowish orange letters signify our victory
over the obviously devious city government
and its transit authority
the wait is over
let the ride begin.
My Meeting with the Lysergic Devil (2013)
Deathbed of hypocrisies,
like a wild river
of tangential dreams,
caste out upon the endless sea
of wisdom, and glory,
and all the divine spirits.
Cracked back, tortured mind, and broken heart,
you all glisten before me,
your beauty so wise but so vulgar.
Will you take me to the temple?
Aching like a prince for his maiden,
adolescence weeping for old age,
I am shielded in my misery
by a thin line of virtue,
a think tank of horror and the great beyond.
My spirit before my own eyes,
I am crying like a majestic fountain.
Royal purple snapshot of ten thousand years,
please love me like a child,
the orphaned infant,
the fighting slave,
the sacrificial offering,
and the blood, the blood,
the holy blood of the desperate vagabond.
Clothes torn to shreds, hats thrown aside,
I can see the medallion now,
like an echo of disaster
it beckons me, but I dare not
This time I will conquer the madness,
I will meet the common foe,
the fog within the nightmare,
the cruel, ugly mystery
that disrupts the balance.
I will understand the fury,
I will overcome the burning rage,
I will wrestle the lysergic devil
to the ground.
I will meet him on an empty, stormy beach,
where the black sands writhe
in the toils of an underground city
of hopeless pilgrims,
bound for an endless drift
There, the swift wind
will gracefully carry me centuries forward,
mysteries still hanging over head
waiting to be unraveled,
into the deepest depths
of the magnanimous sky.
You try to put on your shoes, but
you just can’t quite do it.
So much power lies in the depths of a single button, all you can do
is push it.
You follow each and every sign, but
You might try to drive it, but
the road drives you.
You deserve the right, but
you turn left.
Wild skies grow so high and wide, but you
sink so low down.
The pen holds the wisdom and the glory if
you can write it.
You stare into lit hazel eyes, and they
stare you down too.
The full moon bends so bold in the shaky night, but
he’s just one.