The Sapphire Room 

On Friday afternoon, after  
crossing the Queensboro Bridge  
into Manhattan, 

I’m too distracted by 
Britney Spears’s super mega hit 
“…Baby one more time.” 

Looking down from the Queensboro Bridge, 
I feel a little sinful riding an Uber 
as I imagine half-naked women hitting it— 

Next door to the 
Primal Cut Steakhouse  
is the Sapphire Room. 

Steak, ass & tits a-plenty  
each Saturday night  
by the East River— 

Can you imagine  
seeing these girls 
bump, grind & shake? 

I am somewhat curious  
about these women 
born in the ‘90s 

strutting with their God-given gifts 
(later in silicone) to “It’s Britney, bitch!” 
when they were little children. 

Now they give all the Johnnies hard-ons 
before they can dig in 
for some hot, red meat. 

How easy is it 
to captivate  
their attention? 

Even ordinary girls 
need some action 
& a tender touch— 

Leave Britney alone. 
She’s a grown woman  
with a lotta shit to do. 

We can dance 
to the steamy beat 
with our own moves— 

a dylan song come to life

i used to be able
to dream in colors
now, it is simply
despair
 
this beautiful woman
once told me i would
look better if i could
smile more
 
i once tried that
but only frightened
little kids
 
now i look like
someone who lives
in the creases of time
 
a poet
 
a dylan song 
come to life
 
the romantic notion
that stringing together
a few words can evoke 
change
 
somewhere in that pile
of dark thoughts a little 
boy first saw a rainbow 
and thought of magic
 
the balloons became a 
dog and if he imagined 
enough
 
that dog spoke spanish
and told him the secrets
of the world

Lost motel

I would stay with you in a lost motel 
along a forgotten highway. 

I would stay with you always
and eat what we forage.

I would stay with you in a lost motel 
with black mold and wolves  

and strangers who sometimes come 
but never leave. 

I would stay with you in a lost motel 
happy as a raven and in love,

hidden in your dwindling flesh 
and silent as a stone.

The Little Things

reeling dialog
reeling scenes
to long for without
any more promise

reeling happy thoughts

reeling dialog
reeling scenes
for longing

happy thoughts

Ghosting over the abyss
that gazes also—

reeling scenes
reeling portraits
of being pinned
to something unshakable

reeling pleas unheard

grabbed at the throat
locked down at the hip

happy thoughts

reeling dialog with you
an abyss
I want to look in to.

gray pube

I found a gray pube
while taking a piss
coarse and thicker
then the rest of them

Aging has never 
been a problem for me

Better than the alternative

The beard’s been graying for years
chest hair sparkles with it
if I had any hair
on top
I’m sure it’d be gray

The pube though
gives me pause

Even my dick’s getting old

Mutual Masturbation

From 2300 miles away, I hear the slapping sound 
of your fist against your thigh, as you
reminisce about that winter night when 
you squirted whipped cream in my ass.

Due to a dairy allergy, I insisted that it be vegan.
You, ever eager, went to the co-op
and paid an exorbitant price for pleasure:

mostly yours. I felt like a car with a too-full tank
spilling gasoline from its insertion hole.

I fantasize about your mouth 
on my nipples, the time you slid your cock 
between my lubricated breasts,

your spilled ejaculate across my chest.
My whispered assurance that the lotion was organic.

Ten years later, I own a different bottle
of organic lotion, and I rub it between my legs
with brisk motions, until finally I come
in oceanic undulations, minutes before

my cell phone battery dies. 
Fifteen percent charge means I must 
make the most of my orgasm. 

We have a knack for climaxing together, 
even across three time zones. 

Afterwards, we speak in familiar tones, 
as you lie in the puddle of your own effluvium, 
just as you did when we were together. 
It’s both comforting and sad,

the after-sex intimacy of long-distance lovers, 
two sets of genitals in solitary rooms. 

I tell stories about old paramours, and you listen: 
your ears wide open, relaxed as my vagina,
damp and glistening on my living room chair.

Our beds finally claim what is left of our bodies.
Both of us will plug our phones into sockets,
then fall asleep on separate mattresses. 

This is the way we have always been.
We will never be any different.

the usual weapons of choice

and the poets grab
a bottle and a pen

the usual weapons
of choice

now picture your 
mother naked on 
the floor of the 
bathroom

and your first thought
is she is dead

or picture pissing on 
your father’s grave

or go visit your sister 
and piss on her utopia 
like how your future 
was flushed so many 
years ago

it ain’t some miracle 
we tend to thrive on 
chaos and dysfunction

we are wired for these
moments

trained to find the right
words to destroy, uplift,
conquer and heal

whatever the words
happen to bring us

when our backs are
firmly planted against
that proverbial wall

Ennui and bad and jaded poetry

My room looks like
Three uneducated 
Gypsies live there.

My piss has an
Unhealthy color.
I function, I talk
With people at work
I wash myself 
and work seven days 
A week
Because I can’t stand 
To be alone with myself 

Books are good 
Company. Good
Music is important
In everyone’s life.

Some people feel
Regenerated after
A bath.
Some people
will smile and yawn
And stretch with delight 
For the new day in the morning
In their warm beds.

I look at the night 
Becoming a grey 
And cold dawn 
Through my window.
I do twenty push ups 
And laugh at this 
Exercise in futility 
As if I’ll take care of myself
A twenty five kilos bag 
Of protein still sits in my closet 
Unopened three months later.

My body is crooked.
I need a chiropractor.
I need a friend. 
I put my working boots on.
I take what makes me
Productive, what makes
Me talk with people 
Easily, people I don’t know
Or care about or like,
The pills that give me enough
Life to flirt with the Brazilian girls 
At work.

Fluoxetine and diazepam 
My good friends, my only assistance, the reaching
Hand that helps me.
Codeine sometimes at night 
To drown all the thoughts 
Into the jaded swamp
Of no-thinking.

There’s a pattern 
At work. 
I go to the bathroom
And take my diazepam
I hold the reaching hand tight
I don’t want the grip to loosen 
Arielin introduced herself to me.
What a name.
What a girl.

I keep it together. 
The misery is well hid.
The mask of normality 
Worn well as well.
The boredom of life.
Why do I have to feed myself.
It’s hard work. 

At the clinic the person 
Has a kind and eager face
Behind a counter and 
A plastic surface. 
I talk through a
A small hole with
My mask on my chin.

I need a psychiatrist.
I have to almost yell it
For him to listen. 
What type of symptoms 
He asks.

Anxiety, overstimulation,
Existential despair, 
Thanatophobia and self hate.
I wake up in the morning 
And I don’t won’t to wake up
In the morning. 
I don’t want to be.

I only say
Let’s just say I’m depressed
And probably have been
For a decade and it’s time 
To try this awful process.
These pills can fuck with your 
Sex drive you know.

Have you ever been
On medication before
He asks.

I was prescribed seroxat 
And Xanax. Didn’t take them.

I’m either afraid all the time
Or don’t care at all about anything.
I think. Can I break
This plastic surface with my elbow?

A doctor calls me later.
She can’t give me diazepam
But only fluoxetine.
Diazepam is highly addictive 
She says.

No shit, I think to myself.
I’m 60 mgs a day.
But it helps to flirt with 
Arielin. What a name.
What s face. What a beautiful
Cunt at times.
She said all the Chinese 
Workers looks the same to her
And laughed.
She told me I look young for my age.
I told her she looked older for hers
Arielin laughed. A nice laugh. 
She’s so beautiful she knows 
It’s bullshit. But I don’t pamper her
Like everyone else does. 
I tease her for being lazy. 
I ignore her when needed.
She is hooked you see.
I got her frying in the pan.
I’m hooked with the diazepam.
It’s the hand that helps me.
I might have an exotic warm 
Body in my bed.
I might be happy some day
Or at least okay.

Never mind I tell the doctor 
On the phone. I’ll just get them
Myself.

A day off means pregabs 
And joyful loneliness in
My room. Music is important 
In my life. 

There’s a bud of weed
In my drawer so big
It’s a shame I’ll have to tear
It apart and smoke it.

Good sleep is important
Why can’t I cherish what
I got?

Such a large void.
A black hole can be made 
By compressing anything 
Long enough.

I take vitamins too.
I laugh every time I take them.
But I take them.
So much wasted time.
So much bad time.

I lock my door in the morning
With a crooked key.
These random things can happen
If you’re all fucked up.
I step down the stairs 
And out into the world.
Ready to face it all
and not snap at anybody.

Love is important. 
All my family is spread
Around the globe.
Video calls can’t 
Be as wholesome
As the hug of your brother 
The embrace of your mother
The handshake of your father

I miss everyone 
And everything
All the time.

I feel nostalgia every day.
The one thing 
The meds can’t seem to kill.

I don’t mind it. 

What to Watch For

Killers with small knives 
obscure poisons known to the elect 
photographs deciphered and burned 
one bullet left in one revolver 
a woman somewhere afraid and hidden 
friendships tested and found wanting 
betrayal behind a mask 
the dream of a final score 
the dream of victory
the dream of nothing 
silence
killers with ropes 
killers with blunt objects
killers with blank faces 
bounced checks and no time left
delicious whiskey in dangerous bars
cigarettes smoked in the dark
confidences shared with pretty strangers
the child hidden well enough
easy money
easy love
easy the vanishing 
hope left in a sack in the woods
dismembered items
lovely auburn hair
shooting stars 
rage, tears, catastrophe 
the perfect moment 
the leaving 
the lovely eyes
never seen again

Report From Beerland

seedy bars are always good for songs and cities

faded posters announcing some forgettable performance

fleur de lis wallpaper—St. Louis or New Orleans

the unintentional clank of piano keys

the river roiling

Tina rolling on Proud Mary

the back door open

an unheard whisper from the night

all those tires on the road

in the morning clean-up crews mopping the dance-forsaken floors

door open to release the stench of this night’s crowd

arse and elbowed so tight

the angelic barmaid with buck teeth
holding a tray of drinks up so high
as she works her way to far tables

amazing there aren’t patrons like dogs
leaping to clench the lip of a glass in their teeth

politics and failed marriages were certainly caught in their teeth

heroes everywhere in conversations nodding off

table tops aren’t pillows for spinning dreams

outside stars as far away as a kid’s grasp on things

things are stumbling forward, as they always do, in the dark