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