“And you musn’t be sad when she disappears, you wouldn’t come home either if your house were made of honey. A black-treacle building. I told you so.”

smoke on the water

the sun slumps low
drags the tide down with it
and the harbor smells hung over,
hurled up, sour, locked out on the stoop.

this april just hangs on us;
wet laundry draped from the door knob,
the morning after our long moans got drowned out in the concave of one another's mouths
and the fog steamrolled over our sound.

escaping the city

its time to outstretch my cramped limbs and give strawberry kisses to the fresh air of the Blue Ridge mountains with my lady.
farewell brooklyn, ill be back before you know it.

Sapiens

I was made in the shape of a man, with few exotic features;
neither beak nor paws, nor anything adventurous,
but my opposable ape thumbs
remind me that there are other things I may have been.

At night, I always feel less human,
like the darkness releases the wild;
the reservoir is filled again
but with a savage, seething current.
But as night recedes into the morning,
I freeze, now solid, frost-capped ice,
deception known to every human.
I expand beyond my animal constraints
and hairline fractures bloom in my beginnings.
I am no longer instincts and evolution;
I am more and more and somehow better
until night, when the myth is once again dispelled.

The power of expression seems to dull and darken
our understanding of the roots of our behavior,
those most basic processes, what we have come from;
I regret the loss of pure primitive midnight, where we were once beasts,
a template for raw existence, nothing more.

need for white

these beauties can be found at oaknyc
gotta splurge. just gotta.

This poem is supposed to have given spaces, but the html will not do it justice.

Animal Sounds Jolted

When something was wondered by curiosity
what that was a cat peaks a bed-head out
of the mid-night door in to a light binged hallway
square blank folded short playhouse vision nothing.
Curiosity side-
Steps and the writing voice thinks about words and
forgets the :: pop :: sound in the hallway
remembers
going back in self-removal
sad rope j u m bl e
of cords tangled chargers.
Likes the sound after all.

Inspiration

Here a just a few of the things that have made writing in the springtime, in bed, far more mystical and beautiful.





Currently, I want nothing more than to escape the city with a tent in tow and dream under the stars.... I will just have to wait for May.