Inside Blague #1

Insomnia #22

NYC #14

Social Media Girl #1

Scribble

Scribble

Just Another Stranger #8

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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

Sympathy…tenderness…

And I want to say to him

PLEASE! YOU STUPID BASTARD!

QUIT WASTING YOUR TIME!

DO YOU REALLY CARE ABOUT

THESE WORDS? THESE IDEAS?

GO TO JOURNALISM SCHOOL

YOU…YOU…YOU HOPEFUL FOOL!

WRITE ABOUT DIABETIC TEST STRIPS

FOR A MONTH AND PUT IN THE TIME…

LIKE…UH…LIKE A REAL MAN!

 


 

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

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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

Up.

 
 


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Just Another Stranger #3

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Sunday morning slog

Sweating out a hangover

And grinding through

Last night’s bad decisions

I see an old woman

On a river-side bench

Staring off into the distance

She has a deeply-creased face

Large, crooked glasses

A gray, wispy pony-tail

And layers of faded pink dresses

On her lap is a book

I glimpse the title: Wuthering Heights

And for a moment I wonder

If her soul has been ravaged

By unrequited passion

And sleepless, tortured nights

If she’s thinking of her lost love

And a lifetime of missed chances

As she stares off into the sky

But I’m already choking on my

Next breath and

Running by

 

 

 

 


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The Future #5

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.

.

.

.

Who

Is going

To look

At all

These

Pictures?

.

.

.

.

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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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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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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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Graffiti in a Bathroom Stall

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bathroom stall dark

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
Bathroom Graffiti
While Taking a Poo
Asshole is Red
Face is Blue
I’m Constipated
While Taking this Poo
The Stop light was Red
The Ethiopian Food was New
I’m So Sorry About Shitting
All Over This Room
You’ve Already Read
A Poem or Two
Now Wipe Your Ass
You Disgusting Buffoon

This Hill.

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I’ve been here before

This unforgiving ascent

The moment before the burn

 

I’ve stared up this path

Squinted my eyes

And taken the final breath

 

I’ve heard these songs

These excuses

These reasons to stop

And go home

 

I’ve glanced up empty roads

Glanced down at trembling limbs

Felt icy winds cut through clothes

And had tired eyes go dim

 

I’ve asked myself:

Who is it

You want

To be?

 

This Thrill. This Gift. This Wild

Moment

Before the

Strain

 

I’ve been here before

I know what to do

And now I will do this

Once

Again.

 


pre outside trailer

Prefontaine, the one running on the hill above and one of my heroes, lived in a trailer while pursuing his running dream.

 

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Insomnia #22

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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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