This Hill.

Paris #2

Just Another Stranger #3



I ain’t no hipster


hipster tree falls

I got plaid shirts
But I ain’t no hipster
I drink beers that’re bitter
But I ain’t no hipster
I quote philosophers on my twitter
But I ain’t no hipster
She says my beard scratches her
But I ain’t no hipster
I sometimes wear suspenders
But I ain’t no hipster
I prefer vinyl records over digital
But I ain’t no hipster
I listen to music that hurts
But I ain’t no hipster
I move into neighborhoods that are becoming bi-racial
But I ain’t no hipster
I shun things that are popular
But I ain’t no hipster
I own an old-fashioned typewriter
But I ain’t not hipster
I post links to poetry
on my facebook

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Irony hipster

Social Media Girl #1


She has

So many


And so many


And so many


And so many


But none of them

Would give her

A kidney

When it came


To it.

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Last Night At Sly Sam’s Secluded Swamp


Moonshiners bw


Sitting on logs

Passin’ the bloody brisket

Y’all hear them croakin’ frogs

And the racket of crickets

Sippin’ on leftover

Bootleg moonshine

I’d say tomorrow

Boss’ll pay us a pretty dime

Now Sam, put that gun away.

Quit horsin’ around…

One more time I’ll say

Put that


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Pro-(Re)cess Vs. Res-(Ad)ults



You can only celebrate

And dance for so long

On the summit

Of the Mt. you long

To reach.

So you might as well

Learn to savor

The taste of dirt

And the texture of rocks

For all the times you

Face plant

On the way



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Wisdom and a Brief Confession

Heart from a book page against a beautiful sunset.




Than Words


Yo mama



in bed.

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The Simple Glory of a Hot Shower


After a run

On a cold rainy day

Sit around for a while

In damp clothes

Develop a shiver

Wait until the extremities numb

Then turn that hot water on

Step beneath that stream

Close the eyes and realize…

This is a fucking miracle.


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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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J’avoue #1


English Translation Below

Beaucoup de gens

M’ont demandé





En France.



Des raisons différentes à

Chaque personne.

Parce que

Si je donnais

La vraie


Que j’ai quitté les États-Unis

Parce que Julien Sorrel a refusé l’offre

De Fouqué qui apportait richesse mais

Petite gloire

Et puis il découvrit une petite grotte au milieu de la pente presque

Verticale d’un des roches dans les montagnes

Au-dessus de Verrières et

Il vit s’éteindre, l’un après l’autre

Tous les rayons du crépuscule…

Et son âme s’égarait dans la contemplation

De ce qu’il s’imaginait rencontrer

Un jour à Paris…

Personne ne me croirait.

I Confess #1

Many people

Have asked me




To go

To France.


Have given

Different reasons to

Each person.


If I gave

The real


That I left the United States

Because I read a French novel

And discovered a passage

In it that moved me so deeply

That I looked out the window

At the streets of Bed-Stuy

And told myself that one day,

Whether in 5 or 25 years,

I would move to Paris

And learn the language

And submerge myself in the culture

To understand the foundations and elements

That created the words

Which shook my soul…

Nobody would believe me.

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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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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.