New Work

Here is some more original work including a six page excerpt from my book in progress “Landscapes of City Nights” enjoy.


http://media.putfile.com/Lovers-Take-Flight - Lovers Take Flight

http://media.putfile.com/First-Year-on-Our-Own - First Year on Our Own


68. Significance

I am the wordless poet,
humor my song.
I am the wandering night,
behold my soul.
I am the savior of nothing.
When life closes I will
weep that so few have been saved…
I am the joke of the universe,
take a bow.


69. Early Morning Blues in the Key of Z minor

Naked, hair tattered, 5 am,
basking in the tri-tone T.V. lights,
under soaked blankets/fears/insecurities,
all haunting me between the 1-800 numbers
promising salvation, so I flip through the
channels, praying, requesting true salvation,
and the blond evangelist raises her hands
in an ironically fascist salute, to heal
a crowd of souls who’ve given up on dreaming
for themselves. Then again,
here I am,
5 am, just another lost signal
in the night.


66. Sutra

Here I, here you,
we are all: nothing.
Now, before you twitch
at the idea of insignificance;
realize, that is exactly my point.
What a curse that one might find
their meaning in movement (only physical)
without wandering through the heavens
when time stops.
Look with your soul,
and see each moonlit ripple
in the water:
Collect,
form,
contract,
disperse,
all in a fraction of our seconds.
For all in all,
we are all still nothing.

63. Open 24 Hours

Random mutilated conversations,
food slop,
cigarette smoke in cold fluorescent lights.
Strangers discover themselves
among random chatter.
Plates of old sweet & low,
lingering smell of grass,
here in these booths we will
rip apart the heavens,
and show this vulgar shit hole
for what it is.

Give me your tired,
poor,
malnourished,
strung loners
baked on a simple sight.

61. Four Observations

-On Family
Through her bubble popping, sarcastic stare,
I see a father: disconnected and searching
in vain for some way to say I love you.

-On Ageing
An old man, metal scraps for hands,
takes a drag of his Marlboro,
scrunching the contours of his face,
until an expired version of his self
shows through.

-On Youth
Three teens, huddled behind milk crates,
at the back of the building, taking turns puffing
on a rationed cigarette, turn in fear as I pass,
and begin to whisper their secrets.
Makes me feel old.

-On Blue Collar Class
Cigarette smoke and grease, with a lingering anger
of acceptance, knowing we are not machines of
indulgence though they may want us to be.

62. Stranger things

What if this all is just an illusion? What if when I dig my fingers into the frozen earth, and pull them back up,what’s caked between my fingernails is not dirt? What if love, in all its infinite paradoxical meaning is simply a sound attributed to nothing? What if shadows in their movement are speculative forms trying to reveal some unknown knowledge, lurking tastelessly in the shadows. What if there is no reality? And, everything which we attach value tois a complex symphony of nonentities? What if the ink from this pen composing these thoughts is nonexistent. What if I don’t exist either?