Parking Lots

‘Bad Moon Risin” hits my head,
as I stumble past here, again,
grey sandals
shuffle thru dirt
as they trail behind
it’s tail.

Coarse hair hits my face,
cement graces my figure,
I figure,
let’s have another,
as I trip against time.

Structure collapses over the tar,
stifles its sounds
of nothing at night.
Suddenly it creates treble,

Not so far as humble homes;
not including fixed stables
waves and waves
amidst all those

Divided by change.


AD, Part I

‘Alex’, I whisper,
before voices were meant to prosper.

Your Name Here, I reject,
once so many lovers became suspect.

Here, and now,
Consciousness upon a cloud,
I open without revelation
of a desire so profound.

You create health
in all gone sour,
and relief
in all that was fire.

I lose inhibitions
previously concerned,
in a way that heals
in a way that ceases to yearn.

Never have I realized my craving
for this,

until you fulfilled no expectations
and introduced pure bliss.


burning holes, and then the sheets,
burning holes and then the sheets…

haphazardly mixed into automated voice
the faces of inclines,
facets of the clouds
cut from cliff
shaped from sound

the skin I’m in
had never been home,
until you blessed it
with your solemn tone

Until then,
I flee from sin
The sin, the sin,
I place myself in.

Niceties of a Lady

I lack the soundness
in stature,
Subliminal pace of which I
must go,
Perched upon iron,
Set unto stone,
Few and far between
that endorse you have grown.

Towards grandeur
Forward still,
I found a partner
Within your windowsill

Not of flesh,
absent touch
for present flight,
Around the time
you lost your sight.

Fast, withheld speed,
the Winter Lady fell upon rock
Retrieving slack from your rope
As time passed
Without a clock.

I’m Sane

It was just one last chord that struck,
And I was just the last guest in line.

And it was only ten o’clock,
But it was just me.

And I don’t think they really understood
Why I kept on about the scratchy horn
Playing over the speakers
And why it got to my head

And then I had already ordered
And it was time to go, I held my food,
And I couldn’t open the door
And a kind soul assisted me

And there I was, back on the street,
And I had no idea where to go.

And I did have a place to go,
But that defeats the purpose, now.

For Frank O’Hara

bright like light lavender
slips unintentionally
between your glimpses back
and forth,
noisily contemplating
each other’s banter
lengthened between
the litter.

Beseeched liquors while living
Leaves no burden but lament;
Lifted a ban that left you
Literally belligerent

After four cups of coffee,
Six shots of Jameson,
and two free chugs of Tecate.

My change had been chartered
across your street
and when soft words bleed into ashtrays
I listen in to your minuscule exchanges.

Get it Gon’

How many times ’til time forgets
What petrifying occurrences we left
No doubt an expletive
Behind with
What would have been suitable
for such undying circumstances
to citizens
of some non
directional advancement.

What time will remain
Considering absolute finalities
All which concern your regrets,
Confirm your subtle intolerances,
of none figured without your privilege.

I think that was it

Paranormal Activity could
never be considered adequate
in a reality such as ours,
where actuality takes the wheel
and we are generally forced
to the left.

seldom a maneuver,
rarely exquisite pain,
is it found,
our mentality,
breaking ties with time,
forcing upon it strict guidelines
to abide by our crass reasoning.

And sporting shoes unlike
What’s needed
In some few men
And seldom women

in the deepest of our extremities.
the shallowest of our souls,
we become soulless
yet of another’s
although we may become
to untold tendencies
and overstated dramatizations.

‘that was hard, man’


Love is an empty bench.
Created by man,
Yet it’s obligations permeate
Throughout time,
Without the conscious decision (intention?)
To suspend ignorance.

Love is an empty bench.
It does not grow cold when winter hits,
Or warm when spring returns.
It may wear overtime
If abused,
Made only for those
With mistakable motives.

Love is an empty bench.
Honed to be completely utilitarian
To those imperfect wanderers
Unaware of the culmination
Of their unwavering confusion
On the matter at hand.

Love is a stable bench.
It rests, stagnant,
Left on the assumption
It will varnish heat
Once more.


Built with a purpose in mind,
not for those with purpose.