(C)rap Battle #6

Inside Blague #1

The Future #5

J’avoue #1

Paris #7



Insomnia #22



Mind is burning

Another petty crime discussed by the jury

Whining and already wasting in a hurry

And time is racing and turning

Over brain-storming hardly learning

Insane stories this wooden floor is worn

Out are more poems just boring torn

Over these past glories subconscious oratories

To the surface not sure the purpose yet perhaps the worst is

Yet to boast toast roast and coast

For these caught thoughts ought naught

To be

Forgotten I guess unless

A lot is in

A night I might bite

My lip a bit that’s it oh shit just

Slightly with tightly

Closed eyes yet who knows

Out the window the wind blows, I see three tall trees in throes

Now I’m taking stock of the alarm clock

Spinning over my bed my body’s like lead it’s dead

Unlocking the phone so

Postpone the

Morning’s near


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Paris #6


(For English, scroll down)


J’ai le feu

Mais j’ai toujours peur

D’être paresseux


Les rêves et les espoirs

Ils s’estompent et se désintègrent

Comme tu veux

Putain, ce n’est pas un jeu

Mais ce qui est enjeu ?


Voir les même choses encore et encore

Entendre les même choses encore et encore

Penser les même choses encore et encore


Trop d’efforts

Dans un monde

Qui est mort


Qu’est-ce que je cherche ?





Toujours se sentir comme un connard

Des mots et encore des mots

Trop d’temps à lire d’vieux livres comme si je me trimballais une vielle charrette bancale

Et je sais que c’est de ma faute


Je n’ai



Mon esprit


Une autre tentative stupide



There’s this fire in me

Yet I’ve always been terrified

Of being lazy


With dreams and hopes

That are fading and disintegrating

As you like it…

Fuck, this isn’t a game

Yet what’s at stake?


To see the same things

Again and again

To hear the same things

Again and again

To think the same things

Again and again

I’ve always tried too hard, too much

In a dead world that’s becoming dust


What are you searching for?

Wake up

Shut up



I always feel like bastard

These words, more and more words

I think I’ve wasted too much time

Reading old books

Like I’ve been pulling an old, useless, broken cart

I know it’s my fault


I’ve never understood

Who I am

Here’s just another

Stupid attempt


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NYC #14


I’m smoking a cigarette with the warm-hearted bus boy.

He’s got a Cali-surfer mixed with Greased Lightnin’ vibe

Without the 1970s pep rally pep nor the beach bum laziness…

We’re working in Union Square, 12 hour shifts shuffling between tables

Of oblivious rich New Yorkers and duped tourists drinking

$18 watered-down martinis eating $12 re-heated microwave-crostinis

We smell like the dumpsters on the other side of the playground fence

Where there are children chasing each other lost in their innocence

While the sweat steadily dripping down our aching backs that’re torn from carrying

Bins/trays and he generously passes me the lucky strike pack for another

And we joke about something I can’t remember

My memory’s no good about this depressing blur of time-my-in-life-but-I do

Remember feeling quietly lucky that I was moving steadily, all-bite slowly, towards

Great literature the world had never seen and that him and I were already

Far from these menial jobs, petty bosses, little restaurant conniving dramas

Where many sad souls reconcile themselves to mundane lifetimes and dark mantras

And late-night subway rides on the G with no relief and no sleep

But later, after closing

Surf-Lightnin’ invited me

To Central Park with a Thespian Texan who conveniently had a guitar

And we drank cheap beer from brown paper bags

And shared our own emo chord progressions

Like the silly heartbroken boys we (are) used to be + had ambitious conversations

Cause Cali was going back to Cali soon to be/become a great actor

His fire and certainty were contagious

These small flickering moments for me were bright and kept my

Head tilted towards the expanse of a starless sky

And nothing would stop us we knew we were right

And now I see he’s starring in a Netflix special with Sabrina and witches

While I see over her shoulder a busboy fixing a torn napkin on a table

Sweating by the Seine while I’m being handed a cigarette from a sultry Parisian

Still a long way to go, but Cali and I knew and still know

We wouldn’t stop back then

Remember when


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Paris #5


(For the English Translation, See below. Special thanks to Bertrand Hauger-Enard for the editorial suggestions.)


La beau, le célébré, l’aimé

Le riche, le confortable, le puissant,

L’artiste, Le talentueux,

Le génie qui se pend

Au milieu de la nuit


L’obscur, le solitaire, le moche,

Le pauvre, la malade,

Une âme qui trouve un moyen de se réveiller

Le matin, riant et allant au travail


Chacun a des attentes différentes de ce que leur vie devrait être.

Et chacun a ses propres façons/moments/parties de sa personnalité et de

Son experience qui les aident à avancer.


C’est peut-être


D’être bon dans la vie


D’avoir une bonne vie





The beautiful, celebrated, loved

Rich, comfortable, powerful,

Artistic, Talented

Genius who hangs themself

In the middle of the night.


The obscure, lonely

Ugly, poor, sick

Soul who somehow finds a way to wake up

In the morning, laugh, and go to work.


Everyone has different expectations of what their life should be.

And everyone has different ways/moments/parts of their

Personality and experience which help them get through.



It is better

To be good at life


To have a good life


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Buddhism Caveat #21


“If not



-Zen Kōan


In a week when I receive

My shitty paycheck from my shitty job

Which I took out of desperation

Because I have five children to feed

Because my religion doesn’t believe

In contraception and I thought my

Neighbor was pretty

When I was young and reckless so we

Had sex many times because that is what humans like to

Do and love and now the babies are crying

Because they’re hungry and my boss is going to fire me

Because I don’t sleep

And I’m not productive enough at the office

And my life is hell.


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Paris #4


(For the original French, scroll down)

“An outburst of emotion

Is always absurd

But it is sublime

Because it’s absurd.”

-Charles Baudelaire


A homeless man yells, “Fuck the Bourgeois!”

While wearing a suit

A young girl, without a helmet, riding a motorcycle with her dad

Shouts, “Woot! Woot!”

A young man shrugs his shoulders and laughs

At his broken toilet

A shirtless woman kisses a man

While leaning out a window, with an air of “who gives a shit?”


Lazy, reckless, rude…perhaps

Or visionary, brave, and honest.


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“Le cri du sentiment

Est toujours absurde:

Mais il est sublime,

Parce qu’il est absurde.”

-Charles Baudelaire


Un sans-abri hurlant, “Baise le Bourgeois!”

Vêtu de vêtements impeccables

Une jeune fille, sans casque de vélo, à moto avec son pére

En train de crier: Incroyable!

Un jeune homme en train de hausser les épaules

Et de rire de ses toilettes cassées

Une femme sans chemise embrasse un homme

En se penchant à la fenêtre, blasée.


Paresseux, téméraire, grossier…peut-être

Ou visionnaire, courageux, et honnête.

NYC #13



I’ve thought about writing this poem for months.

I don’t know why. It’s only a split second

When I’m on my bed

On Staten Island

Sweaty and tired

With the window open

She passes me her cigarette

And as I take it

We make eye contact and her

Face in the shadows, a slight frown

Eyes bleary, teary? Don’t know, should know

Her mouth open a little

She’s a bartender near where I work

But she also lives on the island

Was born and raised like shit

By a schizophrenic mother

On the island, she left home at 16

Her younger brother only dates MILFs

She enjoys her job

She has raw intelligence and reads long books

We had some adventures together

Walks in parks, gritty bars, mediocre museums, late-night drives

But in this moment I know it is

The end and I think she does too

And I know I will pay for this in one way or another

And I think I’m still paying

But after this moment I look out the window

And I hear the shower turn on and

Five minutes later

Before she’s finished

I’m asleep.


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Buddhism Caveat #19







Of joy…


But it

Is also



Of ambition


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Just Another Stranger #8


He is sitting outside of

A crowded Parisian café

Writing in a notebook

With a cup of expresso

Smoking a cigarette

Disheveled red hair

Rough beard

Furrowed brow

Lost in creation…


For a moment I have a flashback

Of writing outside NYC bars

With literary dreams

In my swelling heart…


And as I observe this young man

I feel a wave of


And I want to say to him












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Paris #2

Canal Saint-Martin


Wisps of fading smoke

Above crowded and noisy tables

Of an outdoor café


Dusty streaks of fading sunlight

Through the avenues’ trees

Laughter and shouts

Philosophical banter and drunken bouts


As night takes the day



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