Insomnia #15

Buddhism Caveat #21

Paris #7

NYC #14

NYC #13

Scribble

Scribble

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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Paris #4

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(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.

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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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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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 #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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Buddhism Caveat #19

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Comparison

Is

The

Thief

Of joy…

 

But it

Is also

The

Chief

Of ambition

 


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I ain’t no hipster

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CRATE

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
Fuck.

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Irony hipster

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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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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