Some mornings are meant for manic behavior and acts too bold for a city
I woke up in California hungover
from a 3 day bender
and road a bus to baker beach
in redemption for the first half
of my life
In fear we walked down the
street to the road beneath
and marched forward
dressing the part I undressed
from denim to swimming trunks
floral and embarrassing to adult life
I still love them.
phone ready for future memory
relishing in my visible angst and hesitation
I noticed your slow revenge,
but I didn’t mind, that’s only fair.
I imagined Plainview and Lewis,
breathed deeply through
the moist air
salt on skin
and ran towards the Pacific Ocean.
punishing sand beneath my feet
lifting each knee higher hopping small waves
I dived deeply.
The water over took me.
The swell braced and held me
in danger and in rebirth,
how quick the principle lost it’s worth
how sacred I became in water and earth
dead weight shock of the temperature drop
I knew I was inside
an animal greater than I
and I humbly attempted to return to your grin
beach side, legs dry.
With force I fought the beast, praying to land ashore.
I’ve never been so scared
for my life before
I swam sober in the Pacific Ocean for you upon arrival because I was drunk when I said I would,
And that’s my instinct for survival.
How am I to write when I read
What Gods have written
In half light
I’ve become inspired by myself
and full of myself
palm pressed face first
in self worth
How am I to read what
my body feels to a crowd of strangers
Who are no stranger to my feelings
oh so strange
How am I to spare the rage
and keep oh so neat
the ink to the page?
How am I to survive doing the only thing I know how to do; write.
How does one abstain from jealousy?
Disregard their modern leprosy
Discover contentment in written recipe?
And how does one feel comfort
sitting still at a desk for a paycheck
to sit still at the table
and while their wife just lays there
to stay still for 8 more hours
awaking, oh so still forever
I could never.
How does one accept their gifts and faults are the same?
How does one find one other than God to blame?
the reason I drink
isn’t the reason you think
How does one be okay just for today?
How does one survive the life they believed was a lie?
What is your definition of success?
does it include thievery and conquest?
I believe in bed rest.
How does one create in the shadow of the Creator?
Can I steal the goods from Christian behavior?
Can I have some better qualities of man and motive?
Will you forgive me of my dispositioned nature?
of my rebellious heart and anger?
Will you take me whole, scars apart?
love me bold and tender
when I weep in December?
Will you accept that I can’t accept myself? (and may not ever)
In my difference society provided
hatred for existence
In my actions I’ve thrived to sentence their verdict.
My pain was worth it.
Reading some Ferlinghetti
in the room where we
inhale unhealthy relaxation
lines of words blurred
down the barrel of my cigarette
heat rising in between
my salvation and lethal determination
turning individual letters into
an oasis of perception.
The poem was about different men, sitting in different stalls, shitting in the same bathroom beneath the New York Public Library.
The book is about the better sides of me.
Given the day before Christmas Eve.
By a woman I debate wanting to marry.
Her opinion on the matter remains irrelevant.
But I enjoy the structured fantasy for the hell of it.
After my over-filling dinner,
I re-entered that room of stress relief
Smoking myself sick with cigarettes, I debate quitting the slow suicide vice I hold so tight.
tension in my chest, the slight cough I brush off,
And just like Gin,
I believe in my camel lights,
literally walking miles with nickels
Upholding my image as the young writer,
with a lowered life expectancy than the generation previous.
The old writer’s new books are so tired of anger,
they still have their humor
now that they’ve found God
in their elder age,
and that’s something I look forward to.
So if you’re reading this, and you came across a chuckle or a smile,
If you’ve read something that would make your parents sick,
and you were the one who wrote it,
you’re not alone; welcome home.
I woke up on purpose still feeling so worthless
like telling all your friends in two thousand and three
I’m tired of weather
we’re tired together of forcing something we both can’t change
I sweat in Septmeber
just to hate the darkness of December
and I can’t remember
the last time I tried
my life is an itch I can’t scratch
a change I can’t make
the majority, a perfect mistake
I just want a sunrise I can’t describe
I want nights I wont forget
but in this life,
I’m just another lie
begging Jeff Buckley’s Last Goodbye.
you left a faint scent on my denim jacket
standing in my kitchen missing last night
holding your hair
it’s been so long since I cared.
leaving my glasses at your place
was the best mistake I’ve made
A night I’ve waited all summer for
led to gin spilled confessions of desire
discovered in september
is I how I remember
honesty isn’t my best policy
the dance floor doesn’t lie
so I stare at my phone after each goodbye
thanks autumn tragedy
you’ve got my eyes clenched tight, tears ready.
I’m not the best sober conversationalist
but I try.
I’ve been busy filling up
I’m full, overflowing to the notion
in the direction you’re going.
it’s a process I’d like to be caught up in
it’s money I dont have
I’d like to spend
it’s a smile naturally ignited for a feeling
let me show up with flowers
and run to the wild.
I gladly spill ink on my last pages thinking about you.
I’ll boast each toast
for the words I post
I want to sweat in a long scream
swinging fists in a basement
believing what words meant
you call it limited
I know a whiskey type freedom
rest up so you can write
what I read
so you can breathe
what I see
I crumble softly under pressure
my emotions escape to actions
you’ve lost satisfaction
to my alcoholic reaction
a simple body aches
the business man takes
what working men make
so raise the stakes for production
teach men how money functions
teach families life and consumption
of worldly affairs I can no longer abstain
in wordy written layers I learn the art
of complaining contemplation
in my Stumptown sensation
I breathe revelation
you speak revolution without a proper solution
to the pain
as I teach resolution to stop the blind, to see in time
to get mine.
“everything’s fine” you’ll find
difference in my mind
You lack character I react
with behavior, I’m in my nature
it’s a new chapter from the oldest book
Not biblical nor prophetic
it’s cynical and slightly apathetic
We are the driving force
so lets make some decisions
we are the thriving nation
knocking on failure’s door
pound the beat to the drum
in legislative revisions
United States of Division
Energetic waste whore
we know not of our fate
but of our floor
I’ll pound a pin through this soft woven heart
to the wall
Scream to the masses
explaining the beckoning call
to awaken the Nation before
I’ve given up
we’ve given in
just to spite our collective sin
we’ll write a verse
of our worst behaviors
and ask your savior to return the favor
we’re told one day we’ll grow old
I’m sold I’ll be gray and cold
You never listened,
I spoke softly
You’ve armed the pen
and prepared the lists
which will end
some truths are forever
ink is not paper
opinions tend to disguise the lies
bought sold and transcribed
formatted to fit the shit
I’ll reach out
far enough to dig down
build walls in deep ground
I refused help willingly
you chose death silently
go on, beat me honest with your father’s belt
no one will stop us
keep the dynamic
spare the mechanic
shred the bill
we’d rather panic
mid sentence I was over taken.
it’s up to you
I’d do a lot for a salary
you puke a lot per calorie
that dollar wasn’t made honest
it’s not true
please stop looking
I’m busy facebooking
locking in public
on a screen
my heart, don’t trust it
I know, its obscene
you fake politics and pregnancy over tequilla
I don’t like your tone
stop the flow of Patron
“Not now chief, I’m in the fucking zone”
it’s the coral wave
and the bitter teeth
I’m smoke’s slave
it’s the redemption you crave
do. not. do. you
I’m busy doing me
it’s been a Revolver winter
heading towards a Vietnam spring
and it’s getting better as the three sing
so I’ll refill and foot the bill against Fante’s will
I’ll withdrawal these last sixteen bucks
and ride a bus to my future.
while everyone at this cold bar stares at me
scribbling my manic expression
drinking through enlightenment
reaching for depression
to the Grog: thanks for the fish!
to Maloney’s: thanks for being irish enough
to take me back to my heritage
and dear Kellys: go fuck yourselves you pigs,
To The Erin: I couldn’t say sorry enough,
but that Villanova Law student was begging
to get punched in the face.