True Story

Looking back now I can taste February like it was last week.

The acrid flavor of winter rises in my throat and miles and millennia have passed away. These hallways haunted with dreams and failures. What a small corner of the world for such epic nonsense and leaving. The place is ripe with leaving and crawling with the bedbugs of change.

This was never forever. But we settled against our better judgement and started taking up the notion of home.Wherever we hung out hearts. Strung out like laundry in the alleyways. Pinched and soggy, flapping heavily against a meager breeze. All around the cards are falling like leaves of September.

Now for the disbanding. Now for the disarming. Now starts the countdown. The annihilation of the camp. There will be nothing left but an empty fire pit and a lost group of ribbons tangled in a tree limb. Plastic bag in the wind. 

We will all go from here and when we've nailed our hearts to somebody elses wall we'll look at the shadow of a beer can and weep for what we couldn't keep and where we couldn't stay.

Perfume of cigarette smoke and lashes of ashes.

Sets of dirty hands around the last supper table- All the white linens gone grey. I will miss you. Many moons from now I will remember how our voices bounced off the bricks, how the music was always too loud and the dirty dishes sat on the kitchen floor with mice running over them. How there was always piss on the seat and never any toilet paper and the angry look written in Spanish on the cleaning lady's face.

I will remember the tags on your walls, and the fingerprints everywhere, and the dirt. The smell of weed smoke and stale liquor, spoiled milk and bleach. Old mildew. Bad raves, fairydust, drugs and pipes. Flip flops in the shower with no curtain. Flies in the hallways. Hot plates on fire. I will remember the hungry nights, and the bellies full of wanting, and the eyes full of dollar signs and all the endlessly empty pockets.

Pale light up on the morning-after sleepless night tableau. Hipster eyes adjusting to the sun, Nosferatu rubs the hangover from his temples and walks his pit bull up to the corner bodega so he can buy some smokes. This is the future and everyone wears Elvis Costello frames and rides their grandmothers bicycle with no brakes. Doughnuts are vegan. Pizza is free. PBR has replaced the water in the East River. Williamsburg has swallowed all of Brooklyn. And we're all moving out.

I get to weeping- thinking about everything left behind. You and me and the Mac truck. Rusting, rusting, rusting, and needing proof that we existed. Ancient History. That there was purpose and meaning. 

Or maybe not...

You know that monster on the roof? Well he's lying in a pile; King of the Meserole skyline, now dismantled and nothing but splinters and kindling. Last night we sat waiting for the slow burn in your absence and he gave me good advice. He said, "Somedays you exist, Kid, and then maybe one day, you don't anymore... But we were here."

For the Kids of 286

We were rolling our eyes

and laughing through sighs,

"Like, it fuckin figures"

she said to me
As we belly up to beer cans all over the floor

Hallway hurricane dance parties outside my bedroom door

Dirty fingernails and noodles with butter

All we have is each other

Windowless Universe Warehouse Home

This is the first place I could call my own-

Busting bottles in the dark, roller skating in the park

howling out the songs of our savage little hearts

I leave my door unlocked and you 

can climb into my bed

If I wake up and you're gone

We'll let it go unsaid

I'll just see you round the stalls

While we're tagging up the halls

And spray painting our madness

on our neighbors walls

Baby, check that sadness at the door

That's not what these rooms are for

We got ceilings full of dreams and cracks

Hold ourselves together with old thumbtacks

And I'll scratch your back if you lend me a dime

We're all living on cigarettes and rented time

This is as good as it gets and all bets are off

As we cough up for coffee on our way to Starbucks

Odds are stacked, streets are packed, and the world is OCCUPIED

Just lay with me, stay with me, we got nothing to hide

Beyond this closed door, it's America's war

And no one out there is sure what they're fighting for

It's students in the park and

Drummers in the dark

It's our history laid out

like a long Boardwalk Empire

On fire and one step at a time

We go hand in hand in hand and cross over the line..

And if you write me in your rhythm,

You know I'll paint you in my rhyme.

Back To Basic

DISCONNECT.
I spent two months in self induced solitary.
I had no internet service and only basic cable.
I didn't frolic wildly with friends, or obsessively check my emailfacebooktwitter.
I worked, and counted my pennies, and tried to climb out of debt.
I hung art work on my walls and curtains on my windows and unpacked the last of my boxes.
It's only been four years since the move.. Feels like sanctuary again.

CELEBRATE.
My Aunt died of cancer over the holidays.
Made me appreciate my appreciation. For everything.
The wonders of life.
Fresh produce and clean dishes, a cold glass of wine, early morning sunlight.
Running in snow with dogs, laying in bed with someone you love. Chocolate.
A good cup of coffee. Working the body hard. Letting your mind dream.

SIMPLIFY.
Life is too sweet to be filled with the bitterness of worry.
Life is to preciously unique to be compared,
one individual to the next.
We all march steadily to the grave. It's not a race.
Overflow your numbered days with the deliciousness of things you love.

PAY ATTENTION.
You are missing all the beautiful details of this magical exsistence.
We are water and iron and electricity
and we are spinning through space towards our destiny at the speed of thought..
And that right there is a miracle.

Train Tracks and Other Metaphores

This is a poem for my generation

written on a Monday at the office,

while I Facebook and YouTube

instead of filing and data entry.

Because I'm trying to peer over the wall of time

and spy on a life I had once, where we all went to high school together

and cut classes in favor of the beach and the woods

and driving around in your parents convertible without their permission.

And in the dark of the night my footsteps make no noise,

and the cars on the high way are a river of fire. 

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

Where are we? We wonder out loud,

to each other, and to ourselves, and to no one in particular...

Who have we become, and who did we want to be?

And did we lay our plans with as much care as we should have?

Probably not. But there's no time now to,

Lament some of my moments of execution..

Where I lost my grace, and fell out of they eyes of honesty,

and struck out.

And in the dark night my footsteps make no noise,

and the road to anywhere is paved with dreams.

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

We are treading water somewhere between the shores of Child

and the rocky horizon of Adult.

We are piled into rowboats, some of us with children,

some of us with men, and some of us without..

We are filled with wanting and painted in covetous technicolors-

We dare to dream the American Dream that our parents dreamed

and distilled from their parents who dreamed and distilled it from

their parents, and now it holds just a drop if it's original elixir, but we dream on.

And in the dark of my dreams my footsteps make no noise,

and the yellow brick road rolls out a red carpet.

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

I want to live in a big house with a porch

and a yard for my garden and animals and children,

and a barn so I can hang my half moon out on the eaves

and wind chimes from the rafters.

Maybe I will have some chickens,

and a goat, or a pig...

And I'll make pottery and beaded necklaces

in between pulling weeds and putting on plays with the neighborhood kids.

And in the dark before the dawn my footsteps make no noise,

and the path we walk is unmarked and winding.

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

I have to write this down because I FORGET MYSELF (all the time....)

and then go throwing blame at every one around me.

Telling them they don't know who I am,

when really it's me, making a false idol of myself.

And at least we are all lost together,

you and me, and all of us, in our rowboats,

between here and the future, 

still updating on Facebook, to validate our existence.

And in the light of day my footsteps make no noise,

and the faces of strangers are all familiar to me.

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

Conversation with Jesus

I saw Jesus walking up the hill,

He said, "Go on without me, I'll be here when you get back."

and then he climbed up on his cross, one limb at a time

and hung out, waiting for the return of the crowds.

And we all went back to college, 

to tiny apartments paid for by our middle-class parents,

where we hung posters of 60's icons up on our walls and

burned nag champa and drank grain alcohol til we threw-up on our tie-dyed tapestries.

Then we stayed up past our bedtimes around open refrigerators, 
letting the cold air escape, 

and discussed theories about foreign policy and oil and capitalism 

and other things we didn't understand,

and we passed the joint around until it was nothing but ash in our hands.

But me, I turned my radio up and rolled down my window

and shaved off all my hair, started calling myself Diane and

tried to go somewhere I wouldn't recognize myself for a little while.

I waved to Jesus on His cross and He said, "See ya soon."

In the fields under the Moon

trying to find myself amongst all those exploded little particles of light.

I thought I saw you in my reflection, out on the edge where the tall grasses whisper against the wind,

but you were just a trick of shadows and air.

I returned hot on your heels, like a blood hound on the trail 

and without missing a beat, ran face first into a brick wall of sorrows

with your name tagged all over it in suburban child spray paint.

With nothing but time on your hands, and me with never enough time on my side.

Jesus was still chilling, called down to me from His perch, 

"Why don't you try something different?" and I told Him 

I didn't know what I had, so I didn't know what I was missing.

He said to keep looking, and He'd let me know what happened while I was gone.

All the while the people were dancing in the square

banners flying, flowers in their hair, the band was playing brightly

and the hours wound down to nothing but fire and sparks and

me and Jesus, we were no where to be seen, but they were all still dancing in the streets.

And in the morning-after light, on our way to coffee grounds and 

The Grind, and the grim of the grin above the rim of our ugly mugs, 

We shuffle like ghosts in the mist, in the midst of what we missed and

who we miss the most. The Father, Son and Holy Rollers...

I rolled over, and pulled over, to pump my brakes and stay awake.

With a fist full of tears, I rest my weary gears.

Feels like we've been walking away for years and years at a time, 

never quite yours, and you were never quite mine.

"It was a gamble," said the thief at His side.

A couple of Dudes with nothing left to hide, I honk as I drive by.

Jesus waves at me from far away and I pull into the parking lot of my local Mom-and-Pop-Shop. 

Under the street lights, He tells me, tonight, it's alright.

Uptown; This Time Last Year

To Harlem, With Love-

This time last year,
Uptown,
I had an apartment that was small and
didn't really belong to me and
I loved it.




Walking across the Madison Avenue Bridge
in the New York City Summer Heat,

Listening to the thunderstorms roll up the island.

Stealing wireless from out of thin air to fuel the
beginnings of my Pandora love-affair,
running from rehearsal to rehearsal to rehearsal and
working 3 days a week.

We rode the bus one morning,

hungover and in matching ensembles

with my dog in a bag,

and thanked God for Greek diners.

You left your shoes in the middle of my floor

and your reflection in my mirror.

Now, back on the tree-lined streets of Suburbia,

I miss the sunlight on the East River.

I miss Kennedy's Fried Chicken at 2 am, 

and the obnoxious smell of burnt death 

escaping from the apartment across the hall.

New York.

You Know.

I Need You.

Green-Eyed Monster Girl Tabloid Blues

Oh yeah?!

You... with your photos..

You make me want to beat you senseless

because you were born pretty and tall and 

genetically predisposed to max out at 20 lbs soaking wet.

Fuck you and your countable ribs and

your big wide eyes and

the fact that people 

PAY YOU 

to dress up and make faces. 

Today, I hate

Pretty People

and

Rich People

and I super-hate

Pretty Rich People and Rich Pretty People.

My Daddy doesn't sell retail space on Mars 

so I actually need a desk job.

And my Mommy's not an heiress

so I only get to window shop for designer threads,

and they don't let me get too close to the windows.

They say my fingerprints are greasy

and I scare away The Benjamins when I press my face against the glass like that...

Nobody pays my rent. 

Today, I hate

hating people

and 

Facebook stalking

and

my hair, which hasn't cooperated all day...

Destiny & Other Fates

“Destiny

des-ti-ny; noun
1. something to which a person or thing is destined; fortune
2. a predetermined course of events often held to be an irresistible power or agency

synonyms see fate.

Fate- 2 entries found.
1. fate; noun
2. fate; transitive verb

1) the will or principle or determining cause by which things in general are believed to come to be as they are or events to happen as they do
2a) an inevitable and often adverse outcome, condition, or end;
2b) disaster-especially death
3a) final outcome
3b) the expected result of normal development.
3c) the circumstances that befall someone or something
4) plural capitalized- the three goddesses who determine the course of human life in classical mythology.

synonyms fate, destiny, lot, portion, doom mean a predetermined state or end.
Fate implies an inevitable and usually an adverse outcome
Destiny implies something foreordained and often suggests a great or noble course or end.”.

TRAVEL AND SEX

Travel makes me horny..
I like the mystery of horizons unknown.

I listen to jazz and smoke lots of reefer.
I am very introspective.
I am very deep.
I am very boho chic.

I think heavy thoughts while washing my hair
singing along to the radio
eyes closed,
fogging up the mirror.

And I roll my own cigarettes these days,
Like back when I was smoking Camels, Unfiltered, and
Drinking my coffee black black black, and dating a
Masochistic Sadist with a penchant for Domination,
who was old enough to be my father..

He still sends me emails once in a while
That I don't answer.

I dream of Thai food and Starbucks coffee and
shiny new shoes,
Boxter convertibles and small islands who's names I cannot pronounce.
Giant sunglasses and condensation on my umbrella'd drink.
Painted toenails.
Strangers in strange lands behind velvet ropes.

Travel.
Sex.
Either is nice.
Both is better.

ASTRO-ODE;

A bit early in the season for a twelve dollar
beer and fried starch products.
Albino pigeon amongst the gulls-

They are DEMOLISHING childhood as we know it.

Astro Land shadow. How I miss your neon buzz.
Replaced by the moaning of jackhammer death.

BoardWalk Away from the destruction.

Junk Yard Dog- you don’t belong here..
Among these relics of America.
Once Upon A Time,
Before they tore out your guts and laid them in blue dumpsters.
Before they dared to dream you better.

“Crypto-Fascists!”, I cry!
That sounds better than,
“Fucking Commies! Stop destroying my youth!”

The smell of summer beach still faint in dirty hepatitis winter bathroom stalls
without locks or toilet paper.
Why did they leave us these pockmarked slabs of concrete where
Americana past once reigned, bright and luminous against twilight.
Cotton candy teddy bear dreams of long ago.

You can leave the Wonder Wheel up.
You can spare the Cyclone.
But I know. You’re trying to kill us.

Drive the thrill junkies out to Play Land.
Let them eat fried dough heart attacks
beneath the empty eyes of the Dragon Coaster.

I bought my ticket. Where’s my ride?

Gutted haunted house. Ghosts in the sand.
Don’t let your dog crap on the shores of Young Americas future,
Sallow face haunting rocky sidewalks.
Hypodermic Haven for the lost neo-post-pre-apocalyptic
Sword Swallowers.

SHOW ME SERPENTINA IN THE FLESH!
O Human Blockhead! How I want to buy your tee shirt!
Flip Flop Panama Jack Pilgrims
to a wholly, holy Mecca.

Flock of oversized sunglasses perch before
grease painted signs of mystery and promise.
They shut down our Museum.
They took away our Merry-Go-Round
and wrapped the pink elephants in body bags, my love,
and started drilling.

STORE FOR LEASE, signs shout
SOULS FOR SALE.
GET YOUR LAST STOP SECOND CHANCE SOUVENIRS HERE!
SHAKE SHACK SHIMMY, BEACH BLANKET BINGO!!

It’s too cold to swim, but the local Polar Bears are here.
Drinking beer and eating hot dogs.
I suppose global warming has forced them further than we’d thought..
Things are changing.

We walk, gathering sweet simple sand in our winter boots.
All around us, they are caging up our dearest innocence
and hauling it all away.
Bulldozer among my giant plastic bumble bees..
A thorn amongst my wilting roses.

Prest-o-Change-o, automatic illusion.
They’ll steal this out from under us and give us houses we can’t afford to live in
with ugly door men and pretentious decor.
Just you watch.

And, O, Fortuna! They’ve torn down the walls to your parlor!
And your harlot wall paper is showing!
Where is your crystal ball now?
We should have seen this coming.

Turn a blind eye to the sun set,
We walk into the wind.
Even the cheese on your pizza would curl up and blow away
in this cold embrace of abandonment.
At the end of the line.
Out here on the edge of the universe.
Amidst the mechanical carnage falling all around us.
In a sea of modern decay.

Compelled by this sense of loss
we rush the gift shop and gobble up
florescent knick knacks and
brightly colored bikini madness.
Touch everything fingertips spit pennies from our pockets
to buy back a piece of our grace from corporate america take over chaos.

Fall away candy cane striped banners of hope,
and bold black brush stroked letters on white washed walls.
Melting soft serve ice cream memories
tossed into rubbish bins with the rest of our self respect.

Cellphone snapshots don’t do the day justice.
The ride home bops to i-pod tunes of summer rhythms.
I dream of youth. And love. And loss.
Salvation seems far away.