Breakfast With Las Locas

Old birds and heavy old glass, and me a’battle over meself, “me” fights for pits, waked up and cracking nuts in me’s teeth, handling old new feelings like new and new again ‘til more roasted art. Poached cashews, et cetera. I rode up my bicycle on the y-axis, hills and hills and saw and sawed away at these own legs and smelled laconic luster of desert, wishsinging in my nose-thrill, fumbling upwards with wind through the beard all cool and cold, fingers passing over my face, feeling heavy think deposits upsurging and winnowing down to hills once more. The windows now are closed for a time while sweet things express themselves rottingly in garbage and other areas of everyday life. Right now old watermelon, never ‘et, just came out of fridge and went under the can lid, staining my notions of health and healthy eating for a winning lifestyle. We happy three spoke of crazzy and of how the middle has no import, of bodies doing their dead thing making skin crawl, mind popping open, like steaks slowly blowing out insides on Poltergeist countertop. You note some will say that with no purpose we’re out there with the trash, living off the carcass of a dead world. It may be. So and so-so. And bathtubs show how faces screw up into themselves, transient foxholes for ducking into when guns go blazing outside the little casa. We fit up holes in our heads for putting eggs into and papaya, too. Signs on the wall collaborated to make the breakfast restaurant feel like a tribute to itself. Little amounts of coffee kept coming keeping the conversation coming. La ciudad grandly warped its arms around me and I felt light, excited, new-intentioned, clamps loosening on moldering idea structures, a brushless carwash for the body.

Old Piano

I remember my dog liked to lie under the piano while my dad played, resonating sounds must have soothed him. I remember how my sister used to practice her string bass and we would sit around, my parents and I, listening to her. That probably only happened a few times. What do I believe? I remember listening to the birds as I woke up with Jen next to me in our bed. It's her bed now. I remember waiting for rain. I still wait for rain. I remember watching a man get his nose kicked almost clean off. I remember feeling strangely more than myself when I finally knew, for the first time, that a girl I liked really liked me. I remember sweating from drinking too much coffee. I remember falling asleep from drinking too much coffee. I remember writing poems from drinking too much coffee. I remember wondering how my mother's hands could work so well when my infant hands could barely hold onto things. Now not only my hands hold on tight.

This Morning Comes With Me

This morning comes with fatigue and a sense of purpose.
This morning comes with dread and ambition.
This morning comes with light and weight, heat and estrangement.
This morning comes crawling without romance.
This morning comes with a big feeling of wanting to make something.
This morning comes with a fist.
This morning comes with a beard trimmer.
This morning comes with a sore back.
This morning comes with a hot shower and skin scrubbing.
This morning comes quickly.
This morning comes with these lines.
This morning comes with a side of beans and salsa.
This morning comes with a little shim.
This morning comes with a story about intentions.

From The Memory

Members of The Ardsley High School Graduating Class of 1989 That I Remember off the Top of My Head(And Some Others Who Were In My Grade But Left For Other Schools):
Jeremy Kantrowitz, Suzie Canone, Richie and Dannie Guerra, Stephanie Ellis, Lyle Goldstein, Larry David, Tricia Jones, Jennifer Fencl, Andrea Dube, Jonathan Wolfson, Sam Thyrre, Howie Kobrin, Stevie Gymesi, Janet Cryan, Benjamin Liu, William Strauss, Lee Horowitz, Mark Woll, Rob Rothbaum, Tracy D'Apice, Linda Locasto, Linda Castellito, Lizette Smith, Gidon Isaacs, Paul Kyrmse, Deirdre O’Brien, Tara Mathews, Mike Beck, John Choi, Gautam Ramakrishna, Edward Lathan, Maritza Thompson, Bernie McNernie, Mindy Wachs, Shari Kleinman, Danny Roemer, Leonard Scaparatta, Richard Kim, Kazi Aoyagi, Jimmy Joe Capuano, Erica Plumer, Janine Gutteridge, Craig Stevens, Kenny Keenan, Nestor Laracuente, Joe Scapesi, Doug DiStefano, Tony Mason, Kyle Johns, Debbie Choyne, Elise Davgin, Jennifer Emerich, Christina Acampora, Lisa Dessina, Dana Absgarten, Lynn Aurbach, Jody Jacobson, Pina Monteleone, Danny Fried, Michelle Capiello, Eliot Richman, Matt Smith, Michael Rachanelli, Gary Whalen, Jasmine Rajbandary, Jimmy Markowitz, Laurie Fink, Chris Fayette, Kim Collins, Laura Schwartz, Danny Glusker, Naveh Greenberg, Dave Chenard, Jackie Shaffro, Kai Nichols, Robyn Moskowitz, Tammy Feldman, Danielle Inch, Stephanie Pecora, John Raniolo, Mike Morel, Leslie Delman, Jeff Harris, Deanna DiFillipo, Elise Takara, Victor Arone, Sibu Thomas, Victor Rugiero, Mike Weinenger, Danielle Inch, Deena Gault, Mike Venbturino, Anne Marie Mosca, Kelly Mulholland, Kevin Morris, Jeremy Gardos, Donna Zucker, Adam Shovolski, Kaori Nakamori, Naoki Kamiyama, Nick Vasti, Lino Iozzo, Chris Brown, Leslie Stern, John Tucker, Rodney Brown, Steve Kahn, Jeff Pasquale

Plum Flesh

New foundlings of a gone world roam lightly on tar and fabric. See there a stunned money man and his rumbling pocket of fish, all his meanness goes wildly and forward. Lift to uncertain height that willing dog, spots or something for feeling closer to places where I’m vulnerable…so vulnerable like seeing a young woman young and friendly but she has too hairy arms for me and something else like learning to sweat enough. The world passing me by with me staring at it in the face, swift in heart. All philosophers and plowmen whisper something to their lovers at night, some of them lovers to each other. The string thing gathered the world under its aegis and weather for new feelings for no one whatsoever wishing to rim the glasses or some kind of fish haggling in the ether for a chance at things, then things, then things again, more things. This one goes with saying, this one without. Either way, no one sees what happens in the swish, we one and another getting too sad for just doing strange things. Here, fuck, I am in my aloneness, feeling alone and like I have given up so much, the domestic world that I aspired to and gave up and couldn’t handle and the two girls perhaps were out on dates and I with nothing, but my uselessness thoughts shuffling through post-steri(li)ty, they are shabby and give no bread, no milk, no light feeling like I am free. This is the experiment, fanciful and brown in the closet. I ask and ask, but really am mostly silent, afraid, low-selfed, depressed, aloud in the world wishing for a voz intelligente and you/me you/me, poetry of the bed, little sayings with neck nuzzling et cetera and bands around my arms. There is no you and I am thirty five and alone again, Christ. Alone again and wishing for the work to be done without its doing. A lazy self1sh fuckhead, ranging thoughts through mountain scopes, alone in the world with demons and fantastic me, charged and changing. All the brothers and me are quick, grown in the elder tradition of baying hounds. Frakking pound of flesh.