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a.m. switchboard

her arm fell the weight of sleep
to my chest;
the gasping organ in
brief exhalations
sounding just enough to
turn a breathing body towards
my own.
Through cracks of this settled
home, winter found its way
in, crowding from paintless
walls inward
to where heat
representing mortality
imprinted on white egyptian
cotton sheets.
a.m. switchboard,
electricity burned at the wires
of this brain,
kept self from sleep.
These connected tongues
begged attention
from ears finely tuned
internal
and with heavy language
resurfaced, widened
glassed vision.
Fear spoke, bland
on my palette, without word.
Took company, the twitching
limb, like fire to
calm this
chatterboned soul.
A distant bell rang out
hollow, vibrating memory
from rested states
while night shadowed
the cornered streets
outside my window.

tried/true

She’s crying in her bedroom
and you’re acting strange cuz
her friend just told you about

last week when she got molested
outside the appt. as we sat inside,
and talked about some old conversation,

listened to Pinkerton. The tears
I don’t understand because I’m ’ just a guy.’
I just want to lay down and wonder

about my shitty job and ignore the reason
why I’m too scared to call it anything but
‘molested,’ thinking about my new 3 piece

Ralph Lauren grey wool suit I got last year
for your dance and how I lost all the pieces
except for this vest that doesn’t match

with anything.

Look at this right now

under blue moon i saw you.
the sweep light push backs of the conference room.
the view of the financial district.
of pine street,
after 6pm,
when the subway entrance closes on maiden lane,
and you have to walk to nassau avenue,
through the j train platform,
the solemn reminders of fulton street,
the homeless newspaper and haunted headlines,
the quiet cell phone.

sad as hell. wontons.
paper napkins, toilet paper napkins.
soy sauce blisters.
slowly taking the garbage out.
one bag at a time.
the alarm clock at 5am.
blood on the toilet paper.
oral sex.

the financial district is haunted.
i tried to tell everyone that, sent out
email after email.
i saw the ghost of the cleaning lady
eating scraps out of the garbage,
she threw a corn dog at me.
told me to 'get lost'.

why aren't we as cool as we hoped?
the rent check didn't bounce
because i didn't mail it in.

He Felt Like A

reptile, basking in the sun,

warming his pale winter skin.

Wood and knotted wood

and nails—all just scraps

really—placed here

by his own two hands to just sit

and enjoy a cigarette, a perch

to watch the clouds saunter along,

a nest built of two by fours

and dresser drawers, shipping crates

and red barn doors, overlooking

warm afternoons with water vapor

gliding towards the northwest

and the cars rumbling

back and forth

beneath him.

rats

beneath the scummy sidewalks
and outside this stone's steamy center
a community steadily prevails,
their worm dieth not
rodents scurry about in the urban underground
whizzing around, colossal and chrome
splashing amongst roaches in the waste of the city
pregnant with passengers
they whine and moan coming to each stop
spilling their offspring out onto the streets above
only to beckon their babies back into the womb
conspicuous transactions take place between tattered cloth critters
with beady red eyes like leaches
rapidly preying on exposed skin
they lick their chops
each seed tucked tight within itself
in the spot for which they fought
battled off the old and weak
only concerned with blood, money or crumbs
to feed their growling gut
for living or dead, the movement never stops
zipping to and fro
stop to stop, belly to belly
and the innocent ones return to their little mouse house
but after enough time, whether they want to or not
ever mouse becomes a rat
an inhabitant, a parcel
of the creepy caverns
rumbling under pedestrian feet
and coughing misty breath through metal grates
on the cold cement surface

DIGITAL PILLARS OF CIVILIZATION

solace in the mountains,

whispers on the wind.

the cold cocoon of winter,

raveling once again.

forage through the foothills,

evade the rising tide.

the sting of stark reality

dissolves our callused hide.

remove the flesh and sinew,

the morals and the sins,

barter for a phantom life

of binary bits and spin.

amass our fallen heroes,

their skeletons and skin.

drawn taught with expectations,

grim smiles invite us In.

and when the stage is set

the glowing boxes all in tune,

we trade our roaring jungle

for the quiet of the dunes.

tethered to the somber Stage

and paralyzed by pride,

the Spectre of the civilized man

implodes upon his lies.

and from this Broken Heap

of cheap debris we’ve left behind,

we join in song, a bastard chorus

MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE!