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Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Error rating book. Refresh and try again. Upcoming Events. No scheduled events. Add an event. Glassman rated a book really liked it. Oct 19, PM. Glassman is now friends with Christopher Munoz. Glassman rated a book it was amazing. Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. Cast Your Vote. Scar Tissue by Anthony Kiedis. Glassman is now following Neil 's reviews. Glassman is now following. Neil Gaiman. Author of American Gods American Gods, 1. Carl Hiaasen Author of Hoot. Damascus by Joshua Mohr Goodreads Author.

Joshua Mohr author of Some Thin Anne Rice author of Interview Carl Hiaasen author of Hoot. Neil Gaiman author of American Add a reference: Book Author. Is she a Catholic or an Atheist? I am a selfish asshole, but so is everyone, even Mayans and monks. The more selfish, the more one delights.

Atlas, Alas Eskimos are learning seduction Ice cubes are melting in hot tea. At first, I empathized with the girl. But she looked like a Vogue cover girl with a degree from NYU. Her outfit, alone, was probably more expensive than my rent. And I am probably incapable of even estimating the cost of her accessories. Part of me hates this bitch. But part of me still feels empathy towards her. Like so many, she is the spawn of bad decisions. But what about this girl? Is she still ignorant, or as she wised up? Either way, I suppose I can still find beauty in her beauty.

Bananas Sometimes, it's the peel on the floor that causes the fear; but why let the fruit slip from your hand prematurely? Have you ever seen a senior citizen throw a temper tantrum? Actually, the sadness becomes madness and the empathy becomes infuriating. Recently, I was detained by an American with cultural confusion and yelled at as if I were a terrorist. I want answers now! Fucking now! Give me what I want! He screeched with a skewed and slurred European accent, vague as it might be, but his body language was more like that of a South American drug lord who had been smoked by fresh meat.

His veins pressed against his skin like Chris Brown on the body of an adoring fan. Pain for pleasure. Pleasure from pain. I have no tolerance for assholes addicted to being assholes. I am not a violent man, but sometimes even the best poets are occasionally forced to trade their words. Be cause The mystique of homeward antics is encyclopedic; old schools are The Renaissance , and the revival is sympathetic toward striving.

Trash bags as curtain calls on how blindness can be slightly sightly, but the rage can build bridges invisible to phoned-in fatalists. I hang my pants on proverbs, I hang my safety in a locker, and I hang on to the false density of promised destiny because. I really believe in t his writing And I want this Journey to end And my journey to go on As long as I have an audience. Biblical Violence Talk Radio Kidneys stoned to slow deaths by Philistine dreams and livers chopped to drilled bits by Hebrew rulers and hearts hung to dry out by Christian Tongues and Hell is no more than cold coffee and a hanging chad.

And I wish I could talk to any group that always proctor their own exams, and ask how to deal with multiple choices. White was a pussy— see, I can say anything— I can use dashes, too— freedom is fearful. Boomerang Swastika A two-way conversation can be a double-sided mirror; tossed glances always return with nothing indirect to be left. Bread Boy Ignorance, arrogance, and a wealth of stupidity put in a stainless stolen oven smells like shit to all good dogs.

He might be willing to shoot the shit if you invited him to the range. But New York decided to point the barrel straight at his face? Bad decision. Bad decisions. I made so many bad decisions yesterday. I ordered three tacos, even though I can only eat two. By the end of the night, I could taste dish soap in my mouth, I swear I saw Jake Gyllenhaal in my neighborhood, and I feared no longer being able to talk about painting.

All I wanted to do was break bad. Do you ever wonder how an artist gets to be included in one biennial after the next until he or she is basically like Dr. Dre, except with no illegal downloading concerns whatsoever? If I were a Buddhist, I would not want to come back as a fly. Flies are like gods, but even the Dalai Lama swats them. Bukowski Bukkake Lying on my kitchen floor, back to the complaints of everyone I know, and some that I don't You are what you allow yourself to be, and tonight, I claim to be not much at all;. Burned Again It was the worst Sunday of all sunny days I can remember; I woke up sore with sores— I felt like a leper in disguise.

I swallowed a pill and thought about what not to think about— the first thing that came to mind was maybe I am going to die soon; I swallowed another pill and thought about what I wanted to think about— the goodness of a good woman. A voice told me I needed to take better care of myself; the same voice distracted me and directed my eyes toward feline friends on the fray of busking baked out brands— they were juggling personalities over personages for the same audience that could be moments away from witnessing a new form of ballet, or something like that.

I could care less about dancing, unless I am dancing with her, or for her, but I cannot make her my entertained one in this state. There are slices of bread, which is what I call days when I feel closer to the Earth, and on some of these slices, I feel like I have brand new tastes airing through my pores; but on other slices, the end slices, I feel like I have a yeast infection; I feel like nothing more than a shallow skeleton, incapable of supporting the structure I, or maybe some stranger designed for myself long ago.

I just weave my own webs on the Internet and read the interviews in monographs and memorize statistics and watch The Wendy Williams Show when I get a chance and try to engage with down-and-out cashiers and notice things like women with receding hairlines and eloquent thigh tattoos while eating at local taco joints.

I am a busy body. I woke up today, feeling groggy, like I had been fogged up with Googled goggles on, and had been scuba diving in my sleep, all night; and last night was a cold, eerie night in Cleveland. And I had an intense panic attack, earlier this evening, after I got back from my mini-quickee of a road trip; I dropped off my petite proto-buddy at his train tracked Beaver pad,. I recently learned that there is a town named Carefree in Arizona.

If it wasn't in Arizona, I would consider moving there. Out of curiosity, I looked this town up on Google Maps. One state over, there is a town named Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. I have a Ukrainian friend who might like that town based on the name, but then again, so might a cage fighter. I can't make up my mind whether or not he'd like it there or not. I don't think he'd be able to make up his mind.

He's a torturous fellow. He likes to torture, and to be tortured. I mean, he's not like a magician, stuffing rabbits into ski caps, almost to suffocation, only to pull them out at the last minute—a sick act of self-gratifying Romanesque carnage. What I mean is, well, a conversation with this guy is like watching a David Fincher movie—at times it is gratuitously grating, but it is always intellectually entertaining. He grew up in Baltimore, halfway between Siberia and the Southwest. He makes things hard on himself as if it's a competition with the rest of the world.

But it is; isn't it? So who can blame him for being good at math or asking questions of questions? Somebody has to dig ditches in the darkness in order to show us the light. It's like he's a knuckleball pitcher, perpetually pinch-hitting. And his batting average is surprisingly good, considering the stakes and circumstances. Nothing he does is minor. So maybe he would like Truth or Consequences. He believes in both of those things. I take that back. As much as he first comes off as a right and wrong, heads or tails kind of guy, he is much more amicable.

Truth and Consequences. The real and the repercussions. But what is real to him may not be real to me and what is real to me is always real to me. But we need fear and we certainly need guilt. Classrooms instill fear and courtrooms instill guilt. But out in the real world, there is no fear or guilt; only unexpected repercussions. Golf sucks. Carl Andre Carl Andre is a better poet than he is an artist. But if he is a truly great poet, he would have thrown himself out of that window instead of his wife. Ana Mendieta was a great artist, for she died young and is revered by many; yet, where is she when you walk into a museum?

Carl Andre is probably somewhere in every museum everywhere. So I guess that does mean he is a great artist. I still think he is a better poet. I am full of recent regrets; I want to mail apologetic photocopies to all my friends. Another day rides by in a golf cart and honks at any pedestrian standing on fresh ground, awaiting the mow down; and down below cautious waters, cautious waiters plug ears so as not to hear foul play of hard hearing curses. Central Neutral A gay poet told me at this bar in an indefinable part of Brooklyn, referred to by realtors by at least eight different names, that Hitler staches are so in this year.

He had beer foam caught in the one he was trying to grow. I asked him what he was drinking. He asked me if I liked flavored condoms. And I thought about how my ex-girlfriend was fine with flavors and how she was fine with most things, but not with New York. Check Mate I can't believe I ate fast food last night, and I can't believe it was my idea. Sorry, mate. I haven't gotten that greasy since I cooked out with Baby Rihanna almost two years ago. But after pigeon scraps all day and a few beers to sign me off, I was checked out.

This morning, as I was trying to find my colon, I thought maybe sometimes a loss can easily become a win when the game is clearly defined. And when you step through the doors of a neon pit, you have to be prepared for the gladiator event you are about to witness. Skinny pocked and plucked centipedes going toe-to-toe with characters not even Chris Rock could develop. And occasionally, David does beat Goliath. And occasionally, you're thrown to the lions. And occasionally, it is worth it. But tonight, I signed a treaty with myself to from this point forward play chess over checkers. This year might be the last fort we torch until winters are gone for good, so save your tuna sandwich.

I would not be sad if every Chase Bank lost all their cows via tornado or cannibalistic food poisoning. How do I get myself into these ill-fitting suits of situation I try to keep on distant racks? Clean Ex Do you remember when we watched The Piano Teacher together, and I thought all night about what it must be like to hate yourself?

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Schuylkill has to say about Swimming with your shoes on He told me to listen to Joan I told him I listen to Didion When it comes to being alone Because she wanted to be alone I told him I listen to Rivers When it comes to being watched Because she wanted to be watched He said his last name is Schuylkill Which Joan did I think he meant Good point Doc you meant Rivers He said that would make sense But he was talking about his nurse It turns out her name is Joan too I ate two antacids and looked down At my left ankle because the Doc Pulled my sock off my left foot And I noticed a bump on a vein And it was then the bump began To itch like it had a bad case Of rabies or something worse But it was then that I realized That no two veins are the same Despite that common phrase.

Commander and Chief When we share words, I feel like a dictator about to take over the world with you. That would make us Co-Dictators then, which is unprecedented, and all the better for art. Common Wealth You saw grass and I know lawns we are the other sides;. Concussed Poem Unjustly accused of grand theft auto by a black sedan filled with beat cop brats, I was tempted to hotwire a squad car. Transportation never does what it claims to do. New rides, same lives. How many do you have? I just want to howl and be loved like a beagle.

Is there any vacancy at your kennel? I need rest in order to give more life. Moving, moving, moving. I miss my sisters. Maybe I think too much. I think I am dealing with a concussion right now, in addition to all the degenerates and dickheads. When I was three, I cracked My head open like a coconut Where two white walls met And out flowed the brain milk. When I was six, I submitted Myself to the world again I thought one was indivisible Despite the lengths of math. After a decade of disappointment I thought I could break glasses And still be able to be positive About medical advancement.

I was breathing poorly and sharpening pencils when a music man, posturing as middle class, approached with goodies under each of his arms. Our mutual friend told him I was a poet and he told us he was very interested in the splintering dynamics of language, which he found to be very interesting. I went back inside to collect my pencils and my breaths so I could head home.

The last thing I remember was sitting in front of my computer, trying to write another poem, but I was distracted by whiskey and fireworks. A rabid dog woke me up around six A. Craft Work Girls like to accessorize, right? So do guys, I guess. Dating is a strange activity, like a sport or a game. Sometimes it feels like chess and sometimes it feels like hockey. Or is it more like a device? Is true love a laptop: something you hold close to you and press until it unexpectedly signals a warning? I've got creeks in my body; they leak as they wind and wrap and intertwine.

I'm bogged down with water and wood, water-logged with self-conscious rain and fog— I'm overflowing. You cannot annul the stigma of a noun: this thing is a chair; that woman is a cunt. You can, however, tease the alchemy of adjectives: this thing is chair-like; that woman is cunty. You see, one day, an object might be chair-like in nature, but a week later, it might be more like a coffee table. And well, one day, a woman might be cunty in nature, but a week later, she might be more like wife material.

Daring Eagle I heard about another serial overdose of a friend of a friend through a friend of a friend. My friend, the gossip receptacle, is a simultaneous garbage disposal. He only tells me the good stuff and saves the rest for the townies who care. I'm glad I don't have to deal with the hometown Eminems anymore like he does.

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But man, I miss his banter. He's been calling more lately. He told me he's trying to learn how to paint. He's asking me about Filbert brushes and linseed oil. I have faith he'll make masterpieces if he doesn't give up. He went from playing Misfits covers in high school to making Peter Frampton go to death. He always asks me for new music. Now he asks me about new art. Let me clarify—new to him, not new to the world. He feels indebted to me for introducing him to Drag City.

I say don't. I told him to check out Signer's Suitcase. He watched it and said, "HA! He did and said, "EW! He did and said, "OOH! He just didn't get the weird penis stuff. I said, "But think about music. Think about Jandek and Berman and Callahan—weirdos in their own ways. Can I have one of your paintings now or what? Dark Place I can always find joy in sniffing fresh cut wood; one neighborhood over in either direction is home to good bark; lumber and watch dogs are wise to look out for. Foes are few on the outside, unless you harshed too harsh in those inside years before.

I am a man of codes, like a bank robber; when I was in college, I was a Black Panther. Dark places are productive; you can mature like a mushroom, and cry like a cloud, and destroy bad similes and metaphors for good. Death In July I think the acoustics of my own funeral will sound better in the humid swell of the month after Doug had claimed.

Even suicide is out of your hands, really; I mean if you really think about the odds, then you realize life is like uncounted cards. Death String I will die tomorrow if you are willing to let me. Decent Man Have another Orangina, Keith. I think I will, says Keith. I am Keith, so are you. I love water, but not as much as you love water. I love Orangina, but you know that. You know what? Oh, my God. I had a dream last night that I got into a fist fight with Jason Sudeikis and I dominated him.

And I wailed away, making a much larger man wail in a different way. It was a pretty sad dream. I tend to find him charming. I want to be funny more than I want to be most other things, most of the time. I also want to be charming not quite like Jason Sudeikis though. You know who else is charming? Anderson Cooper. Why do you think Anderson Cooper thought he needed to hide his homosexuality from so many people for such a long time? I played it earlier today on my iPhone on my way to the natural food store to get a coffee.

While in the checkout line, I realized two things. Number one: moments like these make me want to move somewhere else that will maybe make me feel like less of a bozo. Number two: nobody needs to play hip-hop at house party levels while driving in Brooklyn. Cities are not a good place to raise children. At least not this city. I hear there is a new addition to the Men In Black franchise. I am not excited about this news.

Not at all. Not in the least bit. I just do not care. Speaking of phrases, all great artists and writers are assholes and sons of bitches. You know it, I know it, they know it. All the greatest artists and writers are probably both. I want to be both, I think. But I want to be a decent man, too. Deed Done Grinding teeth like a mortician, the unarmed taste of grape popsicles creeps onto the roof of my mouth.

There is only one day like this day, and there is only one love if you must break bread like a fantasy loaner. Where are the guys who have been fellows of unshed consumption, companions within realms of upended, uprooted bellies, shooting gun-shed gumption at manmade targets? The weather is finally tip-toe roaming about, around toward the Werner Herzog standard tunes he wrote about when he was a caveman. My best friend has been time traveling lately, so I make enamel Blade Runner quilt paintings on retirement homely pavement in my dreams.

Devotional Poem My mother used to be a nurse; she still is a nurse, but her practice is now somewhat private, though she does believe in socialized health care. She is a Xanax to the Xerox copies of copies of didactic dogma that have been passed down like the clothes my father received as a middle child. And she is often placed in the middle of debates, necessary or not— a model moderator, like Tim Russert— a man her husband, my father, respected from the side of the screen from which he sat. My mother has two daughters and one son me.

And it was an act of compassion when my mother learned how to use the Internet when I went away to college so that she could e-mail me regularly. Now she has a smart phone. How amazing! She is a mother like Teresa, a thinker like Simone Weill— wild, but tamed by her own devices.

She is kind of like the Pythagorean theorem—always right among many squares. That said, she does not understand Calculus or anything, but shit— she balances a checkbook better than anyone I have ever met. In fact, do you even know anyone who balances their checkbook anymore? Most of us just let the Internet do it for us. Her vice grip is tender; she only is rough on herself, biting her knuckle as a preventative measure, so as not to lose her patience with her patients.

I am so grateful for her tenderness and patience with all her tender patients in all circumstances. And I say this as one of her most frequented customers. I am so lucky that I receive her services, free of charge, always without a doubt, and I never doubt her intentions. Her intensity is mild like those cigarettes, her presence is calm like a seasoned smoker, her demeanor is cool like the garage in which she smokes them. I must say it can be quite frustrating watching her shiver, so that she can have her fix, while she fixes those of us who need it most.

She busted out of the bullshit that was a steel trap town of just a few streets of drama that still gets acted out, on one side or the other of some tracks, marked by proud ethnicities. And despite the fact that I sometimes wish I would have not inherited her long-winded tendencies in talking, I am more than proud of her willingness to schlep her sofa around whatever town she is in at the moment so that she can open up for whoever needs to open up to someone. I thought it might be interesting to only read poems about people who mean a lot to me, personally, at some reading;.

Doing Dues Electric and gas bills will burn you out, when you need to stay most warm.

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Cherubs appear in oil on smooth surfaces, security guards for delicate sinners. Doing Time I guess Internet chatting has replaced the water cooler, and high-tech water filters have become abundantly clear— we drink and breathe to survive, but some people want us to die; and as long as it's figurative and not their responsibility, they can sleep well as masters in their master bedrooms. I am not one to occupy much, other than the current space I occupy at any given time, but sometimes some time is enough, and enough time is enough time; however, if your master's watch is large enough, you never are able to save daylight-- you can only hope for water.

I shun all masters of any kind, and draw up my own timeline— I constantly seek aging flowers and rip them out by the roots; I have my own ideas to bloom, and will not be plotted down in any shitty stolen soil by Blue Men squashing down the Green's dreams; I will do my time, but no more. For a moment there, sometime last year, I thought I could pose next to a cactus and look okay. I got some silly putty on my favorite tee shirt— the one that tells the same fucking joke over and over. Dream A Dream A man can only be what other men have not been,. Empty Car Empty car, empty car; give me an empty car, or give me the freedom Franklin promised like before he shocked himself into believing we ever had a chance in the first place, man.

Empty Fridge Most people frown upon cleared off shelves in an icebox showroom, but I find this to be a sublime landscape of calories and clarity; I mean, who want to sort through the cluttered mess of an expired jungle? Please don't be mistaken— I don't want to go hungry; I just feel like Sally Struthers if my refrigerator is too full. End Times Shimmy and shimmer tonight is the night when time becomes more like end times. Epic Poem Euro standards stand in line with stand-in Classics;. Do the math. What's to have? A crystal? A cave? A club? A spade? There's more magic than crumpled paper might tell us.

Score some sheets. Can you hear life, sliced? Metronome in action. A number is never just a number. An enemy doesn't have to be anything. Shaking hands with air doesn't make you crazy. It might be for the best. Limp wrists from long weeks. Weak from weeks after weeks. Pulled up from piled on pylons.

J. Lee Glassman (Author of Jonny Bails Floatin and the Luck of the Bioluminescence)

This place isn't safe. It's just marked off. That means something. It means something, to someone. Do you remember symbolism? Bonds are bizarre. There are no rules to relations. You must know. Love is sacrifice. What are we willing to give up? I am tired of hearing Guitar Gods every time I take a piss. What were you thinking? I walked around with wet feet all afternoon, avoiding miscellaneous phantom crumbs left by my other other.

Other than that, I just wondered:. Eucharistic Poem I will eat every crumb of your waif body because you are mine, and you are my savior, and it would be a pity not to honor thy spirit with that which lifts it. I might not be worth your time, but I still want to cover my ass, because, like you, I too have been told: cover your ass around strangers. Exhaustion Sitting on the carpeted seats of the third elevated row at a QVC talent show for pseudo mystic art royalty and their cock and ball cocktails of veiled shame shrouded for fans, I wonder if Collect still exists… I could call the number or ask Jeeves.

I need another coffee; I need two more coffees; I need the bitter brown to wash out the white. The first time I saw Hebrew characters in wet concrete was the last. There seems to be a fixation with the Post-Apocalypse these days. This seemed like a sign of the Pre-Apocalypse, to me. Right, Keith? This, too, felt Pre-Apocalyptic. Shortly after, I received an e-mail from a man named Israel. I replied, asking him what he wanted, and what he knew of the future. Then I thought about France. Makes sense, no? I wanted to look at French painting in person again before the world ends again. And the Vuillard show had already closed at the Jewish Museum, which was okay, since I already had seen it.

You might be surprised at their collection. The girl sitting next to me was reading The Road. I asked her if she liked the movie. She said she likes anything with Viggo in it. I asked her what she thought of his penis in Eastern Promises. She had a tattoo of a girl in the rain on her calf. Since I was in Jersey at this point, we talked about VFW halls and bowling alleys; good diners, bad diners, and broken jaws. We were close to Hamilton and there were only a few days left in September. I told the girl I had to make a phone call. I asked him if he thought his dad might be willing to meet up with me at the museum.

His dad and I have never met before. But I wanted to learn new perspectives on painting cycles—births and deaths. This man was a role model, a dual model. I want to talk to him. A fern is like a friendship— it grows with you, and you grow with it; that is, if you let it. A refrain is restraint that comes back every now and again, like a standard chorus. Time is essential to growth, and maybe more so in decay; nobody owns time though, not even John Cage.

Fine By Me You can go fuck yourself and your hyperbolized games of duck-duck-goose. Some days, everyone seems to be on fire, selling every last molecule as if there were no longer a need for human beings. Flat Out Poem My foibles can be furrowed In the lands of my hands;.

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Flip Side Walking in one of those Manhattan neighborhoods that I know has a name, but I can never know for sure what it is, I see a groom vomiting near the door of a Catholic church, as the noon bells chime. Poor guy. I walk up to him and say, "Purge away, brother. It's going to be okay. It's just my in-laws are kind of scary, and I feel bad about my bachelor party. Does it matter? I guess not; does it? I dunno I like you. I feel better. Take care, buddy! Have a great day! Thanks again! Catch you on the flip side! Fluke Procession Jaundice was just a nickname someone gave me, or I gave myself.

I am an outsider. No foreigners welcome. Gangsterism is a fantasy. Dogma is a constitution. We are all people. Blank spaces are few, and far between blank spaces, are a few places I can hide. I am more social than my words sometimes say I am. I am hidden for now. I am a night creature. In the night streets, I see emptiness. I see a beautiful yellow monochrome. I see a beautiful piss painting. I post up and see modernism all around me.

At least not in this moment. Then again, I did just pop these pills. I forget what they were called. I swear I pulled out my phone. I just forgot to call. But I picked these flowers. I plucked them directly from the lobby of a Marriott Courtyard. They are for you. One day, I will be a foreigner, with you, and we will be okay. Forever Look Forward Recently, my friend's father severely said the word "nigger" out of nowhere and it triggered bad memories of not knowing what to do in situations wherein Civil Disobedience is twisted and turned to the point where nobody no longer knows meaning or the definition of the word "riot": laughter and tears can be so similar.


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I didn't know what to do; my friend appeared to be twisted and he turned toward me with a Lincoln-logged look of, "C'mon, man" and I looked back and was like, "Let's just watch sports for now and forever look forward. Fresh Dip After a long week of enemas, what could be better than hopping a thick fence or two and skinny dipping all night at the nearest Knights Inn?

Casual fucking can become quite tense if you let it; if you let your self become too casual or too tense, you can end up fucking yourself. Fucking A I am hereby boycotting this phrase! From now on, I am only fucking B. Two years after 13, I drank cinema butter, And in between shits, I learned about terror From a veteran, of sorts. I dreamed last night that I was a gay boy spelled B-O-I , and all of my fantasies of becoming a famous artist were magically fulfilled.

At the after party dinner, John Waters told me I was his new muse, and that he had just the guy to play me in his next move; oh, and also, he said that James Franco and Ryan Gosling were overrated. Then I got really drunk, and told everybody to shut the fuck up, I had something to say; I came out of the closet, and told everybody I was actually straight.

When I woke up, I realized how delighted I would be if my dream could have gone in reverse and simply be my reality. If all it takes to be a genius is a name tag and an octopus tattooed on your forearm, then count me out; anyways, I am getting better at crosswords, and each one of you are getting more snide and pretentious. I was thinking about high school science classes earlier today, and how perfect the desks were, especially for the purpose of carving jokes without punchlines into the part that would press into the inner tubes of pubescence.

I can throw computers and rolodexes out off the Palisades all day long; just say the word and give me the keys. So I curled up next to you, with my limp cock dripping between the backs of your ballerina legs, and fell asleep for an hour until you woke me up again. You can be so selfless; but then again, every act of selflessness is an act of selfishness, because we all know you get what you give in the end. If you want to know, all you have to do is look. You have lazy eyes, compared to yourself. Oh, come back to me; come back to the scrapbook I salvaged, and make huevos rancheros in my kitchen.

If you find yourself in a natural disaster, stay calm. Throw away all your keys. Do we have to? Gone Ape Some monkeys are eating brains, listening to the major leagues, while others are writing names of ex-mates in wet pavement. And now I am on the edge of a compass, and I look up at the terror of the moon, and I think about Virginia and Carolina, two complicated sisters I met four years ago. Mine hurts.

My feet hurt. I need to be walked on. Maybe I should have bought the other pair. I want a dog. You are a dog. You are toxic. You live in toxins. You live in dreams. I think I would like to live in a house, someday. Them was a band I mean get in the Van Sprint like a thespian With a bad phone plan Don't call this number Unless called first. Grapple Every once in a while, my face will feel like Mars. And I pretend to be a lucha libre. If I want to tell you a story, I will tell you a story.

I am in command. Sometimes, I am in command. Sometimes, I am in demand. Why do strangers think they know each other? Cigarettes are not a source or symbol of commonality or camaraderie. Art is money, money is art. If not a landmark wishing well, a Wheel of Fortune trip to Greece? I have had enough of my health; I have had enough medical problems to think I might be a hypochondriac. Heavy Metal Bagpipes Someone will die today and their song is ours and their drink is drank after their song is played.

But imaginary zebras prevent me from being able to do what I desire and imaginary zebras prevents them from being able to do what they desire. Where do we learn about human zookeeping? Is it in living rooms or lecture halls, or is it during smoke breaks? I want to bum a cigarette from a stranger, but those are cherished objects in this city.

And everyone that I pass by is smoking Newports. I want to go uphill. Why would anyone want to go down? Jesus Christ. Some people try to tell me that football is only a game. Those people are not from Pittsburgh. Hey, since when did Andrew Dice Clay start swallowing swords? There are phonies everywhere. Williamsburg: phonies. Upper East Side: phonies. Long Island City: phonies.

West Village: phonies. Harlem: phonies. Park Slope: phonies. Mike, can we just go drive somewhere?

Sloppy Poems & Other Senseless Banter Barely Worthy of a...

I looked out the wet window and I saw so many cars soaking like Cougars. Holy Cow There is likely a different tone used when a Hindu child says these words. But I am from the suburbs, and drugs and money kind of scare me, so I slept through that idea. When I woke up, I began writing. In school, the words rhymed. But I grew up and grained out.

Drunk poems loosened me up. New forms formed. Methods and projects, projects on methods, methods of projects. Holy shit! I can make up stories like a bad rapper or a good writer? I can do anything I want, except jump off a bridge…. How Quirky You were an extra in that one Wes Anderson movie.

You have two middle names, Wes and Anderson. You have three M. You never lose at blackjack. You made your parents cook a macrobiotic Thanksgiving this past year. We can be ravens and bask in the darkness, or we can be rats and search for some light. Do I need to have a mid-life crisis to get everything I want in, I mean from this world?

There are enough days In a month, in a year To make yourself Believe in anything;. He used to kind of be like that actor— the one who played Monk in that show, the one called Monk ; it basically sucked…. But he almost lost every single one— by almost fucking a lost McMexcican that was beyond familiar to him….

I want to know that old young guy again, like I used to know that guy back then, when we fought about political incorrectness, and he pined for invisible nipples despite this. There has to be purpose in life in order for there to be purpose in a person; don't you think? I don't care if I go to Hell; why are you so preoccupied with morality and mortality? Ethics are only decided by you; ethics cannot be decided by your local Congress member. You can dictate all you want in the privacy of your home— isn't that what Jefferson said? Monticello is a beautiful example of necessary architecture— a shrine for intellectual property.

To the thousands of ignorant: I will give you whatt you want if you only are willing to ask. I'm Your Mom I remember my mother telling me a story about her and my father when they were first dating. It's one of my favorites. They were at Mineo's Pizza; although, I wish they were at Aiello's. Anyways, they heard "Allison" by Elvis Costello on the radio. My father was convinced the chorus went: "Anise, son. Listen to those words in the context of the rest of the song! He couldn't accept it. Clearly, Elvis was singing about licorice flavored treats to a young man for no apparent reason at all and he had to prove her wrong for no apparent reason at all.

He dragged her to Jerry's on Murray Avenue, which is still one of my favorite record stores I've ever been to. Of course when my father tried to explain my mother's audible inadequacies, the cashier clerk couldn't but help laugh at him. My father got rattled and barked at him, "Why are you laughing at me? My father demanded an answer. My mother pointed out that he had mozzarella in his beard, but both my father and the cashier clerk acknowledged that was not the source of the teenage stoner's laughter.

My father asked one last time, "What the fuck is so funny, kid? This story makes me think of how funny it would have been if "I'm Your Man" by Richard Hell had been playing instead and my father had thought Richard was singing, "I'm your mom. Idealistic Poem Why is it that technology always seems to fail you when you need it most?

Either way, flu shots are bad. Why does America exclude Ramadan and Hanukkah on wallpaper calendars? I thought we could be coexist— not in a trademarked way, not in a copyrighted way, but, like, in an idealistic way. Doing shots of Listerine with lonely alien fiends, I wonder why I ever wanted to drive hot rods in reverse.

Sometimes I find myself trapped in closets, playing the most pathetic games of self-obsession. Impossible Justifications Are all lessons truly meant to be learned? I sent a mixed message to everyone I know, and regretted it, despite best friends' best intentions. I dropped into the empty pool with no fears, but fear was there; it's always there.

Every religion has at least a dozen days said to be sacred, but are they really more than just days? Every year, we add another number to our entire name— another skin wrinkle, another sore joint, another dreaded number. So we celebrate days, because of books, and the lethargic looks we have to face if we say that we just don't care; that's not to say I don't.

In Patient Out I looked in the mirror today and saw the battle scars from a night on the town. I'm always trying to convince this city of my allegiance, but it often seems skeptical. Sometimes it just beats me down to the pummeled pavement, and I feel like a helpless senior. Who is a doctor or politician if they have no law, code, or oath by which to swear and surrender? I remember when I was a senior with arthritis and Elephantiasis; I should, since it happened twice. And I existed long before you, New York was before us both, yet I'm the only one hurting.

In Theory Some missions are possible, some missions are probable. In Troth I find more value in beauty than you might believe in the idea of few words, especially after listening to armchair philosophers contradict ideas of economy. Indexical Poem Starting in September, Chelsea smells like wet dogs. I imagine the taints of whores begin to drip. More or less. I prefer satire, but sometimes irony can be effective; quite pleasurable, in fact. Days glow by if you choose to be shy. I wonder what his stance on all this might be.

I wonder what his blog would be like if he started one. I wonder what kind of bread he uses for sandwiches. I feel bad for all the men out there who were born with the name Ira; and what about the women given the task of marrying or mothering men named Ira? What a complex complex that three letters create. Iras give themselves nicknames, similar to dog names, like Rocky or Sparky. That is, unless you just happen to be a dry radio persona. I'm a hungry man with no appetite and the only time I feel Italian is when I kiss a man in friendship. For an hour before and an hour after, all I could smell were bodies covered in collegiate fragrances.