the prosecutor

we took polygraphs
we didn't lie
we just proved inconclusive
we told the truth
to men in suits
who wore the same stone cold faces
we were comparable
in our results
the lines filled up the pages
like w's joined at the hips
we caused investigative headaches

you aren't so guilty anymore
you're just a bunch of innocents
rounded up before the daily's deadline
checked off on the prosecutor's list
just in time for the morning's election speeches
he won by landslide

we were good cop'd
we didn't flinch
the bad cops marched their way in
we were photographed
fingerprinted
told of the right we had not to say shit
we kept our heads
we played it cool
we asked could we get some some cigarettes?
we drank their sludge
from polystyrene cups
and promised to appear in the new year

you aren't so guilty anymore
you're just a bunch of innocents
rounded up before the daily's deadline
checked off on the prosecutor's list
just in time for the morning's election speeches
he won by landslide

everybody loves a man
who's tough on crime
all the time

they want to our bodies hanged
in the city's square
for the crowd to share

only i never did no crime
but i hang tonight

(cue the harmonica)

qu ni sheng er kuai le

you are asleep
soundly i presume
under the sheets
waiting for me
and i'd have liked
to come earlier
but i needed
my incognito
back door entry
to go unheard
how else could i sneak in a charlie brown christmas tree?
without a stir
i hope you like your gifts
i hope you can excuse my wrapping
i hope their bellies tantalize
your 7/4 shoreline
we share our every fantasy
and we put them into practice
we share the forces we create
we succumb
lights camera action

wakey wakey

i sleep beside a go-getter
which means i often wake up alone
but sometimes when i wake
in the middle of the night
she's still there beside me
i'd liken it to listening
to a really great song
one that you never want to end
and when the chorus peaks
and you're expecting the outro
you realize
the second verse has only just begun

hands

if you took someone else's
masterpiece fiction novel
and you were able to erase it
from everybody's memory
and you copied it word for word
on your remington typewriter
and you typed your own name
on the new first draft manuscript
and you submitted it
to one of the big publishing houses
and they ate it up because how could they not?
and they signed you to a wonderful book deal
and they assigned you to a wonderful editor
and this wonderful editor knew
that this was your very first novel
and being that this was your very first submission
and that he or she has been editing novels
for twenty years & change
and therefore knows a thing or two more
about what works and what doesn't
and that he or she must hack it into a thousand pieces
to compensate for your lack of experience
it makes you wonder just how differently that book would read
it makes you wonder how many writers may have gotten it right
the first time around?

06.30.56

you sailed through the horizon
putting 1880 miles between us
soon to descend upon a sprawling canyon
carved out by the colorado river's erosion
i'll follow the path of an ancient boom excavator
underground into the subway tunnel
carved out and braced for stabilization
in six days and nine hours or so
we'll come up for air
together again on the surface
this time for a happy ending collision

transoceanic

all these little reminders. laying everywhere.
pieces of you. all over. stretched. a cutting room floor.
a cochophonous ringing. memories filed. recycled. hellbent.
constructed butterflies ricochet inside my battered abdomen.
your mouth. it plays the radio. your thighs on every station.

i am your pamphleteer

we are left
when we are leaving
we are weaker than
a sinking feeling

fall where they may

at mid-day's solemn stillness, i settle upon a far reaching oak,
with which to rest against my head, under a heavy setting sun.
between trembling leaves, downward rays happen upon my face
in ever-changing fragments, tingling the pores with warmth
and dancing indian summer glow; an orange and blinding opiate white.

i, widening my unfocused eyes, allow words to bend and blur and burn.
an unassuming and stirring rarefaction, shy of any such intention,
slumped over the dog-eared pages of a dusty borrowed book, open before me.
i, gazing upon shards of brilliant light so curiously bestowed at once; auras emitted.
with the picking up of a rustling breeze, loosening my grip, i allow the pages to be freed.

at mid-day's fading stillness, nicely settled abut a far reaching oak,
i watch as wiry pages implode, passing over each other in rapid succession,
it'll be the cheeky breeze that decides which fluttering one to settle upon
and as the churning turns to solemn stillness again, i inhale the page before me and read:
for ever panting, and for ever young; all breathing human passion far above,
that leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, a burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

at mid-day's solemn stillness, the breeze, it finally settled on a storied ode by keats.

do not swallow

all i can smell
is 16 fluid ounces of hydrogen peroxide
making fun of all the blood

this hour the more you ignore me

rum & coke in the shower
even at that this hour
czechvar for breakfast
over eggs with brent
of imported timor descent
whiskey shot on the flower
one for every hour
speedway on the setlist
vauxhill and i forget the rest
southern belles on the prowl
in the morning hour
seemingly reckless
leaving all the silly boys breathless
rum & coke in the shower
even at this hour

para lucia con amor

las palabras son una cosa divertida
la mayor parte del tiempo que pueden ser tan poderoso
pero a veces incluso un escritor debe abstenerse
para algunas cosas no se pueden poner en palabras
incluso los mejores que tenemos a nuestra disposición y
se entregarán la belleza que tenemos ante nosotros

the suburbs

i like poetry
because there aren't
any rules to it
at least not in these poems anyways
i've never been good at following rules
here, it's just me and rows of keys
and lack of sleep
and fears and dreams
here, its just me struggling
to get through
each and every day
without a wink of sleep
poetry happens within the cracks
while the rest of you lay dormant

i was in the virgin Islands once. i met a girl. we ate lobster, drank piña coladas. at sunset, we made love like sea otters

what's new?
she asks in italics
nothing really, i say
work. play. repeat.
it's like groundhog day
only i'm no bill murray
and there's less going on here
than in punxsutawney
that and harold ramis
isn't even jewish anymore
it's not even february 2nd
for christ's sake
and there never was a damn andie
just a photocopied piece of paper
that implied her
stuck to a trailer door

late at night

we could always get so drunk
that we just pass out fully-clothed
side by side on a couch
and meet in the middle
with our foreheads for support

fine print

she said she needed
somewhere to sleep
sure i said of course
don't even mention it
when i came home that night
my room looked so big
and both her and my bed
were nowhere to be found

bi or be wear

we glorify ourselves
in our profile pictures
but it is within
our view more photos of
that we really live
unflattering
and mostly out of focus

the social

she writes to me
that she's been busy
that it's social season there
lots of outings and outfits
and champagne hangovers

i think to myself
that i've not been so busy
that it's baseball season here
lots of innings and infields
and cheaply-achieved hangovers

i picture white gloves on everyone
garsington opera season in oxford
the guards polo club queen's cup final in berkshire
the british jumping derby in sussex
holker garden festival in cumbria

i picture gents wearing monocles
just like the monopoly guy
and i picture all the lavish events
and impeccable table manners
and horse hoof banter

and i smile and think
she's probably the fairest of them all
and that she pulls it off
with wit fired right over their heads
and that she can't really be into all of it

fat posthumous chance

i keep on
immortalizing you
in poems
that will never be read
by anybody
before or after i'm dead

we both drink from the same tap, so what gives?

i live with a musical genius
it must be frustrating for him
waiting for everyone else
to wake up and realize it

the good, the bad and the terribly tailored

i'm almost certain
that most of these
city investors
& business
professionals
have copies of GQ
strewn about
their imported
winsome oak
coffee tables
so why haven't
the majority
of them
bothered to
flip through
even just a
few of the pages?
there is enough
worsted spun
vicuna fabric
sagging and sauntering
on bay street these days
that if you brought in
even just a few good tailors
and their measuring tapes
you'd have enough
trimmed excess
left over to dress
all the slums
in all the cities
in all the world
in peak lapel
double-breasted
power suits

they'd stil have their cars to tell em apart

radical metal

it's moments
like these
that make me refuse
to get a hair cut
sometimes i forget
just how much
i love the way
some people can make their guitars scream

Prší déšť

fitting that it should start raining
just as we begin to stop fitting

spitting off tall buildings

didn't mean much of what was said
it was mostly just the mdma talking
oh, and the vodka added a mouthful or two
my mouth merely served as their microphone
someone really should have pulled the plug on us
we're not looking forward to reading the review

a soft spoken landslide

i'm not sure why
but i dialed your number
yesterday
no longer out of habit
more so out of cat-killing curiosity
it rang
i panicked
i told myself
hang up
hang up goddamnit
but the curiosity froze me
mesmerized by the ringing
and the not knowing
i sat and listened
i never did know
your new number
overseas
but i know at one point
you're here number
forwarded to your there number
it's all just bank magic to me
but surely with so much time elapsed
the bank isn't still redirecting me
but who knows
your bank does have all kinds of money
and big bank gadgetry
it is ringing after all
i pictured you
digging through your over-stuffed purse
in search of the source of the ring-ringing
at first, i had expected some recorded female
to offer me an apology
explaining that the line had been disconnected
then there was a click
phew
going to voicemail thankfully
i wouldn't have known what to say had it been you
had you said hello from so far away
but no
it was just a different female recorded apology
only this one explained to me
that the proud new owner of your phone number
hasn't gotten around to activating their voicemail yet
i'm sure it was for the best

your mayor is raising fences to keep bodies off the don valley parkway

don't want
new friends
they just
become old ones
all too fast

got errands
to run

got
an erection
to calm

and anxiety
to dismantle
and this is just
waking up

criminally
predictable
this man
is
pigeon girls got no religion
at least
that's what
he always says

i'm afraid
to see
through sober
eyes
don't tell mother
my head's
barely attached
a thread
hanger-on

terrified
to consider
what lies
round the bend
more and more
buttons to button
only just to be
unbuttoned again

bludgeoned
by all my yesterdays
bleeding into one last sunset
and then another
and then another
and another
more and more
buttons to button
only just to be
unbuttoned
again

shooting myself out of a cannon

i'm coming apart

bursting at the seams

feeling the tension

knotting and sucking

and writhing and tangling

and squeezing

the air

out

of my black lungs

screaming in my head

in dizzying keys

i have things to say

skeletons to face

to let out

to spill to the floor

because there's so little room

left

to suppress

any more of it

one man can only take so much

bursting at the seams

desperately wanting to shoot myself out of a cannon

a brawler & a poet

so i'm in the local cheque-cashing joint

the line is long or so it seems

there are two drunk natives at the window

slurring expletives to the girl behind the partition

a man in a nice looking suit is ahead of me

i suppose he's the oddball here today

an old chinese lady sits on a bench to my left

behind me walks in an older gentleman

dressed in nice enough clothes that have seen better days

he comes so close to me that i begin to feel antsy

i can feel his warm sherry breath on the back of my neck

finally unable to bear it any longer

i turn my head and say hello and smile

a response does not appear to be on its way

his eyes are crazy

his right arm is upright

so that his hand is parallel with his jaw

his entire hand is bandaged

wrapped so many times that its size is monstrous

"hello," he finally says, "my name is michael"

i tell him that mine is as well and nice to meet you

how are you today, i ask him

"not bad," he says, "for a guy who's just had a finger amputated"

my eyes raise up in that stupid fashion

that signifies shock and concern

there is indeed a digit missing

"doin' a helluva lot better than the other four guys," he chuckles

"they're no longer walking god's green earth"

i force an awkward laugh

even thinking to myself - wow, that sounded so fake

"michael huh," he repeats, "know what it means?

no, i shrug

"means the hammer of god, michael does.

would you like to hear a poem about it?"

i smile and say that i would

he proceeds to deliver a beautiful piece of writing

in a most grand and jovial manner

all about michael - the hammer of god

i was touched, i really was

all i could think was that i wished she had been here with me

to witness this scene and all its irony

here's these two almost-strangers in a queue

both of us a brawler and a poet

adamo

when i close my eyes
and think about your bed
i think of morning
i think of movie light
i think of purring
i think of us
entwined
when i close my eyes
and think about your bed
i take a break from hating
the thought of waking up
and that means the world to me

chicago scored perhaps i can too

you are one room away

down a creaky hall

past the giant tv

hang a left before the bathroom

where the record is playing

sweetest kill or something

you're bettering yourself

from my bed

i'll be better myself

when i climb in too

next to you

my love

the bestest part of my day

only twelve steps away

starts with a k

self medication

my body is my temple

no - that's a lie

it's more of a receptacle

for hazardous material

all pokey and stabby-like

tonight i'm pouring

down my throat

better than up my nose

i suppose

this poem includes a free digital download

he's got skinny tie daydreams
rolled up in silk oriental shrugs
with bangin' rock pistols slung on his hips
hair too long for mother's liking
lighting matches on his cowboy boot spurs
down on his luck and up on his meds
middle fingers splayed across the pages
in the journal he won't admit to keeping
kicked to curb joints dis location
firing on all fours cylinders
wide awake on ethereal club downers
breaching someones probation somewhere
he's singing fuck you falsettos all the way to the bank

ghost vocals

ghost vocals
warmed against
chords unwound
dragged-feet
delay
underneath
music sheet cities
harmonies
repeat and repeat
despairing female
screams
under sheets
backwards repetition
spewing fourth
at sixty-seven beats
per minute
all in a day's work

cylinder rust hour

i reach
out and up
sun above
warm with love
hollowed hearts
underwater
city sirens
watermarks
warm to touch
sad to smile
sewn in thread
on bursting seams
pretty dirty colour
tired feet proceed
beautiful horror
touching itself
waiting for summer
leaping frog
together
blowing horns
sun above
warm with lust

hatchback satellites

this is a bus we ride
down the queen's highway
a comet of strangers
arranged
in neat rows lined in twos
violins in my ears
my overhead light
a fixture of heaven
eyes ajar
blue doctor hands
coming in and out of focus
lumber loads waving bye
hopped up on medical light
weakknees armrest
lift this bar for emergency exit
weak
knees
arm
rest
push window open
pushing ink to page
ink-filled sky blacker than october's ebony plight
spinning tires
touching
yellow wires
faulty lines
hatchback satellites
help me tonight
i need more miles
more and more miles
passing underneath
someone must kill the driver
if he touches the brakes
'cause we need more miles
passing beneath

deleted scenes

dead romantic
tips the stem
of
his glass
towards the sky
with silly
drunken wine
smile
hung out like clothes
drying
on a chiseled jaw
dreamy electric breeze
blowing
with new music
in his ears
about to be
released
tomorrow
and her on her bed
dead to the world
perfectly sewn
soft as pussy willow thread
soft as cottoncloud stratus
lite bright lamp woes
first song crescendos
rosedale sirens and fans
humming sleepy hymns
her awaiting him
with nakedness
always perfectly lit
like a film crew
had already perfected it
this shot
is his one shot
to maybe not
die
alone
like others
like parisian morrison
we forgot
hearts across
a pond
it in people
he's still your fag
he's still forgiving
she's worth surviving
another morning
actually
he can't wait to wake up
not surprising
it's
the way the light hits her

ativan

i'm staring the bottle down
like we might just have a go at it
30 of them and just one of me
one refill for a rainy day
another one only a doctors office away
2mg of calm vs 160 lbs of raw anxiousness
i pour the bottles contents onto a record sleeve
i spell out the word choice in pills
tiny little white oval ones with open arms
whispering sweet nothings
i read the label - take 1 when needed
seems a little vague
i'm building up a tolerance to you
i'm already dependent upon you
i wonder if the withdrawal
could feel any worse than this does
you ease my hopelessness
but you steal so much of my memory
damned if i do and damned if i don't
i sigh and wash you down with water
i'll tap foot to floor until you release
into my bloodstream
let's relax for the time being
we were made
to abuse each other

3/4

piano keys. wet notes.
dripping taps
and dancing shoes.
pinging scales. sun arose
falling stocks
and singing birds.
ugly papers. set clocks.
stalling engines
and towering egos.
major chords. dead hands.
beautiful echos
and faulty wires.
tired friends. press play.
serving lulls
and faster cars
jet lag. torn apart.
countered commas
and blistering thoughts.
piano keys. wet notes.
dripping taps
and dancing shoes.

always screwed out of royalties

she
told me
that
there was
this simple song
that always reminded
her
of me
so i listened
some
and sure enough
it was mine
my life that
the singer sang of
i'd lived
his words
a thousand
times
over
my bright
eyes flickered
and burned
out
no one carries
those fuses
anymore
so he gets the glory
and i get all the fucked mornings