Paris #4

Paris #7

NYC #12

Buddhism Caveat #19

J’avoue #1



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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Insomnia #15



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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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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This Hill.



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


Before the



I’ve been here before

I know what to do

And now I will do this




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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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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NYC #11



After working a few weeks bartending until 4am

And sucking down fried food hastily in a kitchen

The sleep schedule becomes

A little screwy

And the mind tends to become

A little cloudy

So I returned to my time-tested remedy

And ran when I could…and I found myself

At 4:30am in Central Park

With calm and steady strides and my past

Victories reignited in my soul and there I am:

800 meter Olympic final, about to win America the gold

Since Wottle in 1972

When a man passes me and I think,

“Don’t think so, buddy,”

And I sprint past and for the next 30 minutes

We’re racing neck and neck until I break him

And while I run away he yells,

“Thanks brother!” and I keep running

For another 5 minutes until turning into the bushes

And vomiting up chicken fingers, Olympic champion.


Next night my muscles are aching, trembling

And I knock a drink over on to a woman’s lap

And she shrieks, “This is a new dress you shithead!”

And the shift manager grabs my shirt and pulls me to the back,

Eyes bulging, “One more dumbass move like that and you’re fired,”

Spittle spraying my face, but I can’t help but smile,

And he asks, “Why the fuck are you smiling?”

And I want to say, “Because I’m an Olympic champion,”

But I say nothing and return to work.


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The Space and Slip Between Cup and Lip


Published at The Unbroken Journal (Issue 12) on January 1, 2017 (1 minute read)

Read Now

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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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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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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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