old man

drag me down through the low e.,
under this amber moon and failing starlight.
along shattered sidewalks
scratched with the names of long dead loves and lovers,
beneath trees that reach through the tired asphalt for a drink, like me.
pull me up the winding stairs,
past creaking doors,
and into this room, womb,
where we can wait in away from the storm of flesh and steel,
hide away in this dissolving midnight,
and let the receding darkness reveal the last sips of my soul
as they hang from the masts,
tapping away in the breeze
with the gentle drum of deep, dead waters against the hull,
sleep is the ocean on these late summer nights,
as salty,
as damp,
sinking,
drifting
and praying for a breeze to give us a shove
out to sea.

to NZ

new york city is spinning,
humming like the air is a dream on fire,
she always has the way with the warming,
encompassing embrace.
i can feel her in my lungs,
in between my toes,
thick,
drowning,
and yet at the same time
there is the possibility of buoyancy here,
the mire could lift you to the surface for a second,
above the clouds,
looking out and down,
the tickle of weightless hovering in your gut
as the the stars swim around your ears
like as if nothing was happening,
the moon drifts by like nothing,
as if you were one of them all,
one with them all,
even if just for a moment,
you get to feel what it is like to shimmer in heaven,
careless of the seemingly inevitable descent,
back to the underground,
back out into the day,
reeling and teetering through the sense
that pays the way
for our nightly birth and rebirth,
for comets,
shooting stars
and falling ones too.
the cycle gains speed,
swarming whirlwind, faster and more,
and with each passing day
you get one step closer to the heart of the thing,
looking straight in,
watching and listening to the distant echo
and fluttering glow
that creeps through the mess, the mess.
the mess that keeps us all
on the edge of our seats,
tip of our toes,
stretching and straining for a glimpse
of the perfect impossible...

cave

morning from a basement in brooklyn doesn't mean shit.
it could be dawn or dusk.
luck has it that it is noon.
could have done worse i suppose.

change and pants tumble in the dryer outside my door,
liquid ebbing rythms that lull me back in and out of easy afternoon slumber.

possibility is that i might get something done today.
save for the hypnotic beat of coins on steel,
which might be enough,
to tip the scales in favor
of getting something done
tonight.

tucson

my childhood home is all of the mistakes
all of the failures of a family gone mad
and friends that slipped under the carpet with the desert dust.

she calls me into boiling embraces under tan red sky
and about once a year i am given a chance to really remember
the open roads
shards of mountains
saguaro cactus
apocolypse sun
midnights empty, save for the train
lightning
thunder
rain
heat
the death that is long gone
and can only rear its head
with me
as i dance
across
the valley floor.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

brooklyn is singing
a jewel on fire.
while time
stands
on
e
n
d
doing stunts
with the dogs
and late night trucks
that drag race
washington
and
atlantic
for the worst trophy that anyone could have thought of.
the lover is missing
the ravage
of pitch black midnight
the caress
of cool morning
and stroke
of late summer
late afternoon
rain.
she has gone off to sleep
under sitcoms
salons
and leery
cautious
fools
that don't know
that for this shark
sleeping
is death.

welcome home

guage your life
by the airports you know,
the train stations you lept from
into the belly of the land.
scores are kept
in miles underfoot,
and roads under tires.
spend the whole time
running,
running,
running,
and laugh heartily
knowing
that you can travel a lifetime
and end up just a few short inches
from where you began.