The Future #5

Insomnia #22

Inside Blague #1

Scribble

Scribble

Last Night At Sly Sam’s Secluded Swamp

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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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Paris #6

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(For English, scroll down)

 

J’ai le feu

Mais j’ai toujours peur

D’être paresseux

D’ailleurs

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

Toujours

Trop d’efforts

Dans un monde

Qui est mort

 

Qu’est-ce que je cherche ?

Réveille-toi

Tais-toi

Merde

 

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

Jamais

Compris

Mon esprit

 

Une autre tentative stupide

 


 

There’s this fire in me

Yet I’ve always been terrified

Of being lazy

Grappling

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

Shit

 

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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Insomnia #15

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There are lifetimes

Contained in breaths

Cycles and seasons

Of birth and death

Can these mortal passing thoughts

Be merely electrical signals caught?

Briefly, instantaneously

Between the scattered synapses

Billions of electrical field gradients

Shining as varied patterns bent

As magnetic resonance images

Are anxiety and hope only the blinking battery messages?

Joy and despair chemical scrimmages?

Limitless combinations of reflective cinemas

How can these electric mazes be

Conscious of the game and change the game maybe they only

Tame or frame categorize reality to maintain, stay sane?

I should close the curtain because I’m certain

I won’t be able to sleep with the neighbor’s light

Another labored electrical device

Affecting my fading sight

I might just close my eyes tight

That’s right all right don’t fight just listen to the

Sounds of the night.

 
 
 
 
 

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Paris #5

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(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

Miex

D’être bon dans la vie

Que

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.

 

Perhaps

It is better

To be good at life

Than

To have a good life

 


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Wisdom and a Brief Confession

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Heart from a book page against a beautiful sunset.

Actions

Speak

Louder

Than Words

 

Yo mama

is

Loud

in bed.


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Paris #2

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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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Buddhism Caveat #21

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“If not

Now…

When?”

-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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Just Another Stranger #7

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He is sitting across from me

On the stalled subway

Sunday morning: 1:45am

Unshaven, bulging cheeks

Bags beneath the dark eyes

Age 35-45

Black pants with food stains

Black shoes worn apart

Peeling leather, frayed laces

A Shake Shack baseball cap

A Williamstown Theatre Festival

Sweatshirt (W.T.F.)

A dirty blue backpack at his feet

His hands are clasped together, firmly

And his dark eyes are looking down

With a distant, contemplative stare

And I imagine him as

A hopeful actor

Dreaming of Broadway

Or Hollywood

Of shining lights and leading roles

For years through cramped apartments

Menial jobs, constricting poverty

Tumultuous and poisonous relationships

Forgotten sacrifices,

But he’s flipping burgers

For now

And waiting for that acting role

That will break him away

From burgers and late-night shifts

And stalled subway rides

Smelling like grease and sweat

But for now

He tells himself

Hold on

My time will come

Be patient

Hold on

I will wake up tomorrow

And keep going

Hold on

 


 

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NYC #13

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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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The Simple Glory of a Hot Shower

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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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