Thursday, July 23, 2009

Arbitrareum: Of Right-Forking Trails

An older man pushes laps
On his cart.
The wheels are rickety
But the sides shine of freshly polished aluminum.
The umbrella reads in red and green: “Apollo’s Pizza.”

A woman’s back is covered in earth and briars.
She crunches forward, gasping,
And smacks into a man’s face.
She coughs and sobs,
Clinging to the fabric, still at half-an-arm’s-length.
She sees the nametag sewn onto the shirt
And sputters, “Thank you, Apollo.”

A plastic bottle is crushed
Among its comrades.
Weight bears down and builds slowly.
In a few days, the pressure will release,
Only to be replaced 1,000-fold.
As of now, its label is split down
The words “Aqua” and “Apollo.”

A man arrives home
From a full day’s walking.
He stands on a mat
And closes the door behind him.
He tosses his coat to the banister.
It drapes evenly in half.
He tosses his hat at the banister.
It lands in the other room.
He grunts as he bends to untie his boots.

Friday, July 3, 2009

Starvng and Useless invades Cambridge, Ma!

Starving and Useless will be hosting a reading at The Outpost in Cambridge, Ma. on Saturday July 25th at 3 P.M. Entry is free but we would appreciated donations in order to help us produce more books and to keep us on our feet. We hope to see all of you there!

Saturday July 25th.

OUTPOST 186 : 186 1/2 hampshire st. cambridge ma 02139

3 P.M

Free admission with a suggested donation.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

The Tea Notes: When Skies Are Gray (Unformated)

The A.A meeting next door looked especially festive this evening. The church welcomed every abuser in the area for a night of small talk and guidence at the hands of yester-users named Frank and Jack. They park their Kias, sip their iced coffees and lit one more smoke before the service begins. As I watched outside the window I couldn't help but feel like I've never been more welcome in a place of God.I had one beer and smoked a little grass, knowing perfectly well I had to drive. I managed to maintain a certain enlightened level of insobriety and for a while, I actually wore a smile. That all went out the window with a song. I won't bring up the name or the artist, it's meaningless anyway. What does matter is what it did to me. That song, so normally beautiful, provoked a complete numbness of my glee. With eyes wide opened, I dreamt of city streets, hot tubs, clothes lines, seconds before secure slumbers, Her. But that needs to end. I've concluded that chapter in my life, though much later then she. I just can't figure out how to move on. It's like your first cloudy day. How do you react when the sunshine is gone? She was my sunshine; my only sunshine.I left just as the meeting was gettng out and was approached by an older gentlemen. He commented on how he liked my guitar and smiled and seemed generally pleased with how his life was going. I smiled through it too, this time forcing my lips to curl. I couldn't even listen to what he was saying nor did I care. He got to go home to nice weather.

The Rain (Unformated)

The rain before the first day of summer has an aroma unlike any jarred, bottled or jellied fragrence I have ever taken in. It's the smell of smoking pine logs, ghost town concrete, fresh sheets being shared early on in an evening. I took a mere break from the weezing of my out of date air conditioner to step outside and destroy my lungs and there it was; Waltzing gently through the neighborhood on a cape cod breeze. The porch was splattered with the translucent tears of Mother Earth, turning each two by four into a bland Pollock rip off. I trust that I was the only one who found it so beautiful. I leaned against it's rotten railing and closed my eyes as I took a deep breath through my nose. The air rolled down the back of my throat and I could taste the season, so rich and filling. It was then that my loneliness had finally caught up with me.I snubbed out my cigarette and headed in, knowng I would go right back to lying in my bed of bad memories; And I did. Summer nights of long ago replayed in my mind of when she would curl up in my arms under my drug rug, seeking warmth from the industrial strength A.C. One night in particular, she closed her eyes and clumsily spoke "I'm so comfortable in your arms". As my brain brought forth this moment I assumed I had repressed, my eyes swelled and the tears started to fall. I was suddenly paralized, unable to move neither my limbs nor my eyes as I sobbed hystericlly."Jesus Christ" I thought. "Pull it together."But it was useless. Her diamond ring fingers were still wrapped around my heart. My first instinct was to reach for the bottle and push those tears back with a firery slug of Dominican rum but I stopped myself. Tonight, there would be no use of artifical harmony to ease my natural emotion. Instead, I would simply sit, think and cry as my shakey and breathless voice would ask walls, "Why did she leave me?". What a pitiful sight; A grown man, weeping and pleading with an unresponsive memory. This is what my own, foolish heart has done to me. I doubt I will ever be in love again.So here I sit now, with moist cheekbones and terrible sight, still broken hearted, snug under my blankets, wishing some girl was here, drinking my rocks glass of rum.....forever being romantic.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Of Hip Hop and Country (For Victoria)

She was beautiful and quiet
as we drove through a tangerine midnight.
"If only the rear view stares
were for me" I thought."instead of those speeding
pick up trucks with out of state plates."
I shut the blinds of my eyes
and I pictured an evening;
Red white with a cheap name,
pink roses with a kind fragrance,
warm sheets to hold us both
while we hold each other.
Watching the tall and short candles
flicker inside the iris as our lips meet.
It would be perfect.
Perfect to fall into dreams
with her
after kisses on the nose
and laughs at absurdity.
It's difficult to explain,
especially when I try to say her name
and my stomach becomes a womb
for butterflies
and my heart works overtime.I
t seems so recent
that her smile could lift me
but I can't lie to myself
or to anyone
when I say I float
when she walks into a room.
And then it got colder in the backseat
knowing the breakfast sun
would come into my bed
and only wake me.
It would be another day
of meaningless work
and fucking up
because she's all you can focus on.
She looked in the mirror again
and for a second,
I think those precious eyes
finally saw me.

Honey Chords

Honey chords
from sticky voices
dripping in my ears.
The words are hand picked;
Very particular and churned.
Sweet and savory
with humorous accents.
Once inside,
each molecule of sound
begins to paint
animationsscenes of beautiful women with egg yoke
or goose feather hair.
They might even sketch tomorrow.
Where will I be?
Please don't stop kissing me
with your incense mask.
It's more about the noise
then the feeling.
"Then the feeling."
It's more about the noise
with your incense mask.
Please don't stop kissing me.
Where will I be?
They might even sketch tomorrow
or goose feather.Scenes of beautiful women with egg yoke
begin to paint
each molecule of sound.
Once inside,
with humorous acents,
sweet and savory,
very particular and churned,
the words are hand picked.
Dripping in my ears,
from sticky voices:
Honey chords.

New Unfinished/Untitled Poem

When I find myself in Jesus' bloodline,my eyes glow
brilliantly.I have become the Sun
that breaks clouds,
warms pools,
burns, burns,burns!
There are sensations
of marshmellow fluff
and strawberry skies.
Jam slides
that breathe
when you go down
through the heavily settled thick
rich with pinecone stink!...

In utero coma begins.
Mother's milk symphonies
muffled by atmosphere casing.
Streams that applause
in blessedness.
Peach galaxies
with fuzz.
Immaculate comfort.

Saturday, April 4, 2009


Starving and Useless Presents: Toxic Inpublication Vol. I is now available. They're 40 pages of poetry from Me and Todd. We're selling them for 5 bucks. If you live a distance from either of us, we can mail them to you, but we have to charge you the s&h, unfortunately.

Naturally, the money is going to future books. So spread the word on these ones, because the more we sell, the more books we can put out, including your work, if you want.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

been a while......years actually.

Sweetest Martina, wont you let me pay the tab?
Wild rose of the county Claire, Take my last Jackson for a cab.
and if we never meet again, for an hour you meant everything.
So go see the world but please remember me when you get back.

seemingly endless, anticipation.
will i hear that angelic voice again?
Chalk it up to Irish luck. He will never get that girl, in the end
and mother said, "Those Irish girls will only break your heart."

Oh my darling watering hole, please keep that pint glass full.
For i got nothing but time and patience, waiting for my Martina to show
and even those mother said "Those Irish girls will only break your heart"
Its hard to sleep with out my Martina by my side
So goes another 6 months waiting sleep deprived.


When the death man comes, in the cold dark night.
I'll make sure he knows, We dont like his kind.
If he gets to you, I'll be by your side.
I'll hold your hand to the otherside
and when heaven's gate opens up so wide
and the trumpets blare, we gotta make it inside
and im not a man with concrete beliefs but
i aint done that much wrong
i aint killed nobody

singing so it goes my soul cries freedom
so it goes my soul cries freedom

when the sky falls down we stand our ground, we aint scared
when the horsemen ride, when they're in sight, we just stare
cause their aint no use in fighting
if we aint got the time left
aint no one wrong or right
in heaven

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

PBR (unfinished)

Bless those who can dance
in the face of tomorrow.
Bless the hearts that yern for arms..
Bless the lightless streets
with loud foot steps.
Bless the empty cans
that yawn.
Bless the TV
and its lulliby static.
Bless the ones
who do not respond.
Bless the bedsheets
that know no flesh.
Bless all of our
boring walls.
Bless the curtains
that hide our secrets.
Bless our voices
that whisper truth.
Bless the hair
that grows on chins.
Bless each child
that never knows love.
Bless the playgrounds
where history repeats.
Bless the class rooms
where games are played.
Bless the blackboard
that speaks to the deaf.
Bless the text books
that lie updated.
Bless a woman
whose lips leave stains.
Bless the changing rooms
full of uncertainty.
Bless the jeweler
that holds together marriages.
Bless the diamond rings
blood was shed for.
Bless myself
for being a fool.
Bless myself for believing in good.
Bless myself for hurting myself.
Bless you for the spring.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Dont forget.

 I remember young love.

late nights

short sentences

passed back and forth like name calling

and double takes from across the room

I remember tough shit

no heat

yes ma'am

bed without dinner

if you were lucky enough 

to have one, or another, or both.

 I remember feeling young

drinking too much 

caring too little

about anything anyone said

and "fuck you" if they looked your way

now what is there?

a quick fuck

with just friends

a full stomach 
payed for with plastic

permanent academic mental fucking vacation

a brain massage just to get the juices flowing!?

and i still live

 with new love
in tough shit

with no dinner 

and i drink too much 

and i care too little

and i envy no one

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

It dies at dawn

There is a portrait
breathing inside my mind.

I'm thinking of you.

Your eyes like emeralds.
Your hair like silk.
Your lips like orchids.

You whispered like a saint
"I bring good luck".
and just as softly,
we kissed.

You are utopian
in touch
in beauty
in words
in voice.

come to life
twenty two years ago.

Two glasses of wine.
Two people.
Two hearts.
One feeling.

You need no work.
You are you.

I fell for one of God's creations
in a smokey bedroom
at Midnight.

Eyes like Death (unfinished)

I fill up on toxins
and expel waste.
I am an American disease.
I've got holy lungs
and headaches
and my own elixer
to keep doctors away.
I speak in coughs
and hacks
and I shake hands
with palms that should be disinfected.
My throat is paved with tar.
My cavavities are stuffed with nicotine.
My fingers are yellow and weak.I
'm the proud owner of a burning heart,
a wrinkled liver
and back pain.
I run a pharmacy for myself
out of my bed room
and medicine cabinet.
A bartender
of red and green syurps.
Wrong turn relationships
hand me prescriptions
for mile long cigarettes,
one after another.
I'm a failure at sleep
and a champion of being over tired.
I am an American disease
with eyes like Death.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Any feedback on my writing, positive or otherwise would be greatly appreciated.

Family Tree

i squint through the cracks of my awkwardly bent glasses

mangeled from a run in with a man named jack, or was it jim?

maybe jose, johnny. a common name like that.

If you have met this ghost before you know who i mean.

 the dark figure at the end of the bar

that stares you in the eyes and then slowly creeps up behind you to empty your wallet

and rob you blind of your senses.

usually i can avoid him for a few days,

a week maybe

but lately he has been coming around more often.

breathing warm air, this time

down my neck. reeking of broken promises 

and winstons, and breathmints

in one ear and out the other.

and straight to my head.

Friday, January 16, 2009

Buffalo Bill's bargain outlet.

Ed gein should have worked in retail. he was really quite a tailor. 

He could move out of his farmhouse and buy a yacht,

drink out of coconuts , not human skulls.

why make suits out of women when you can make suits for women?

Maybe his mother didnt love him.

Riddle (a haiku)

Hoffa had it right

even the dogs cant find him

wish i had his luck

Deja Vu

1 (The Flat)

i woke up at the crack of noon,
and poured some sludge from my chipped coffee pot..
i turned on the frosted 60 watt sun that lit my cell and listened to a cockroach tango
move gracefully along the floor.. It was hotter than a methlab in hells kitchen.
"I wish i had a window to open"
i thought to myself. I put my dreams of airborne escape on the back burner,
and tried to cook up a way to get out of that fucking place.

2 ( The hallway)

After a hearty breakfast of chinese take out leftovers, i pulled on two dirty
mismatched socks ,a pair of shoes i ripped off from the funeral home, and my ratty peacoat,
i stumbled half drunk out my front door. the loyal dog piss stain was there again as if
to say
good morning master. I always wanted a pet...closest i ever got was a box of "chicken"chow
from chang's.
as i walked down the hall, the sound of someones screaming misguided abortion wails
for food... i ate everything i had., so i kept walking.

3 ( The Elevator)

Once again the stairs are out of order, neighbors say its a crime scene or somthin'.
none of my buisness,as long as it doesnt leak under my door.
so i forgot my mornining excersise and take the reeks of piss and shit and is
littered with taco bell wrappers and half eaten double cheeseburgers.
I pick one up and shove it into my pocket. that should last me through the week,
as long as that damn baby doesnt get it.

4 ( The Street )

I walked out the revolving door of the complex on 6th street and thought
" cant get much closer to hell than this" it was 17 blocks to the train station but
the walk to the bar was a short as a schoolgirls skirt, and twice as easy to find,
especially in this part of town.they were mostly drop outs now and
the lesson plan was a bit different. Down the street a dear john throws a jane doe
against a wall.he screames at her with the back of his
hand leaving her payment across her lipstick smudged face.
that was his plan all along. "i hope she learned her lesson" he whispered.

5 (The Pub)

It was quarter past 2 when i arrived at Phil's for my liquid lunch.
The air was stail like the bar mix. pretty busy for a monday afternoon
i remember thinking. So i sat down next to no one, one away from everyone else,
on the far side of the bar,

and counted my quarters. the man next to me talk to a waitres about his missing dog
"what can i get with this?" i asked the bartender.
To that she replied "I have a half eaten double cheeseburger,and you have just
enough for that" I sheepishly took it and slid out of my seat. "keep the change"
i said politely. i left quietly with my other half.

6 (The Lobby)

when i arived back at chateau Alighieri i was awestruck by what i was witnessing.
The lobby was paited like one of Pollock's ,in shades of anger and wrath,and wrapped
tediously in yellow tape like a late birthday present. I took the stairs. the sound of a
screaming child mis-carried through the halls like a church organ. I stopped and said a
and took a bite of my cheeseburger. i was whole. i slowly stumbled through a field of
waste towards my doorway. i walk inside and shut the door tight behind me.
i slide the lock. i turn the key.i flip the switch and the florescent light dances
above my head.
a perfect spotlight for a cockroach tango.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

The Last Slam (with Todd's permission)

"I will use my pokeball
to try and catch 'em all"
the kid, I guess, seventeen--
I couldn't see too well from the back row--
recited at the podium.
About two minutes into his reading,
I burst out laughing.
"This kid's hysterical,"
I whispered to Todd, sitting next to me.
"It's so ridiculous, so ironic.
I mean, who presents
rhyming couplets about pokemon
as serious poetry?
It's fucking genius."
People looked back at me,
annoyed, even insulted.
I figured they were stuck up, stuffy.
They just didn't realize:
poetry can be funny.
I nudged Todd,
showing him that it's alright to laugh.
But even he tried to ignore me.
He thinks poetry is all cigarette smoking
and serious tones.
I leaned forward,
ready for the next rhyming punch line,
when I noticed that there was something odd
about the kid's face.
He continued reading,
"Articuno, Charizard and Pikachu
are waiting to go on an adventure with you."
Then I realized that it was his eyes that were off:
they were heavy set
and his forehead sagged down over them.
I whispered to Todd,
"Is something wrong with that guy?
His face is all screwy."
Todd snapped back,
"Yeah, that's because he's retarded."

Thursday, December 25, 2008

Adios, Corozon

For Diana

I'm flying through these pages
like those three years passed
and there weren't enough years
just like there aren't enough pages
to truly let you know how much I love you.
My bed remains a remorseful reminder
of why not to be so cruel
in the torments of love.
You will never lie here with me again,
will you?
And T.V shows we used to watch
will pull tears like teeth.
God damn it,
I can't escape your smile
and laugh.
Why can't your arms hold me again, Diana?
Even just for one night.
We could stare into each other's eyes
and not speak a word.
I just need you.
There are no quarrels about it.
You were my only warm nights;
my beautiful days
where even the grumble of garbage trucks
sounded like an old love song
crackling on vinyl.
Is that music to the ears
of the boy that now glows?
Will he put your future
ahead of his own?
Will he kneel down
and give you his all?
I've been praying ever night he does
because that's what you deserve
and that's what I should have done
and trust me I tried.
Every rose I gave you
was my silent promise
to keep a vacancy in my heart
for Poland
and white Zinfandel
and your blue eyes.
Oh, why can't you believe me?
I've cried enough tears these past few days
to fill the voids I left in your soul
and every sea that was occupied
by men searching for it's treasures.
Pearls and diamonds
that napped upon your neck, fingers and wrists.
Working two weeks for a check
and a reason to make you light up
as bright as the stars on our first New Year's Eve.
When the ball drops this year over Times Square,
so will my heart
as the pictures develop in my mind
of your lips softly putting pressure on his,
showering in confetti
high on champagne
while everyone around you says
"That is what romance is."
Well I'll be making love
to the cigarettes you hate
on a bed of concrete
more alone than I've ever been,
pulling my thrift shop jacket tighter
thinking of the cold winter nights
I'd bundle you up before you went outside,
laughing at how many layers you were sporting.
Your tequila hair
bunched up in my winter cap.
I'm looking out my window
and starting to despise the snow.
I've lost all interest
in hot chocolate and heating pads
yet they both stand guard near my bed post
and I doubt I'll touch either of them
not without you.
Here I go again,
cleaning up the room
like you're going to walk in and surprise me.
There are only ghosts and angels
waiting to tuck me in
when I'm tuckered out
from crying.
They can smell the left over tea leaves;
Mostly green
on my breath.
You got me hooked, you know.
Nice and hot
with a lot of honey.
Peppermint for tummy aches
and long days.
I've been having a few of those lately.
Long days, that is.
After pass out dreams
where you pop in,
kiss me
and I melt into my mattress and sheets
and then the sun starts peeping
through my filthy blinds
and the water turns on
all over your favorite pillow.
I lay my head on that one often
on your side of my world.
Where the dawn breaks
well, I think you know where I was going.
You always knew what I was thinking
and how I felt.
Do you now?
Maybe I should explain.
I'm thinking
about why I can't stop thinking
about you
and I feel like you forgot me
or are trying to.
Please don't.
I could never forget
Booj Booj,
belly grabs
Eskimo kisses,
all of our kisses.
It was all too magnificent.
Like gondolas in Providence,
long walks in Boston,
burning comets over tall trees in Foxboro.

Tomorrow will hold another carousel of emotions
but what else is there to say?
You are the only girl
I've ever truly loved.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

I'm Back! (For a few minutes anyway)

Hey people. Toad here. I lost my computer and now I have to scramble for a few minutes on one at school or else where. I hope everyone keeps writing and soon enough I'll be back on this thing!


Monday, March 10, 2008

The Ox and the Pig

The ox and the pig had business in New
York. They were both meant
To be in the Lower East Side. The ox moved
Into an ancient tenement
With plans of writing a tell all
Memoir. He bought an ink block set
In China Town and used his tail as
A brush. The pig went to confer with the Rabbinical Congress.
I’m flattered, he said, we all are. But why
Us? Don’t you see how much pressure this is? Don’t you hear
Our wailing? Honestly, I want to die.
I’ve been alive for thousands of years.
I’m not the only one who feels this way.

The ox has since fled upstate.

Sunday, March 9, 2008

The Roommate

Joe lives under my bed.
He mumbles terribly.
I thought he was a ghost for years—
Always wailing and squawking.
He starts in around eleven
And goes for an hour and a half.
Sometimes he’ll do an encore.
I don’t sleep well.
Occasionally, he’ll just talk.
Typically, outdated, British politics.
Something about the Queen,
Take to the streets this and that.
All sorts of righteous vagaries.
But he’s so passionate
That I want to get involved.
I don’t sleep at all those nights.
I write Marxist pamphlets
On antique typewriters
And cut the sleeves off everything I own.
He preaches about the entrapments
Of money and the great corporate scheme.
I’ve called in sick to a lot of jobs.
I think he wants me to be poor.
What would he do if I lost my house?
Would he hang around for new tenants?
I like to think that we have a great rapport,
Although one sided.
I can’t imagine that anyone
Else would put up with him.
Especially if he just keeps lying
Where my bed was.
That must be awkward for the realtors.
Not a chance they could move him.
He’d eat a subpoena.
I’ve heard him eating worse.
I doubt they could move him by force.
He seems like the type who only goes when he’s ready.
Maybe he wants to move,
Try out a new floor, something carpeted,
But wants me to lead the way.
He comes off as kind of out there—
Lost in his own thoughts.
But I wouldn’t put a plan like this past him.
Maybe he’s screwing with me.
I’ve woken up to plenty of new haircuts:
Pompadours, too-wide mohawks, respectable trims.
I can’t say that he doesn’t have a sense of humor.
I hear him giggling down there plenty.
He smokes a lot of grass.
It’s not that bad, though.
I just light up a cigarette and crack a window.
At least he doesn’t leave
Corn chips and bongs all over.
Maybe Joe just likes to talk.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008


A batch of birches hover in a row,
Or not.
Why not? They do,
Quite elegantly, in fact.
They each have at least five hundred
Years of ballet
And the one farthest down
Just started gymnastics.
He loves the high beam.
There’s something almost erotic in being
So perfectly, symbolically perpendicular.
It’s like being rerooted
And slipping your mossy tendrils
Inside the Earth so snuggly
That you wonder
If it was made just for you.
Man, does that take him back.
The boss says that he’s too big
For the ground now.
The tree doesn’t feel too big
But he doesn’t want to make a fuss.
He’s sure they need the room
For some new saplings.
A group of teens comes up
To the tree and all blow at the same time.
The tree tips a little.
They come about once a week.
They’re sure going to prove something
One of these days

Monday, February 25, 2008

Thoughts on Phil Ochs

I wish I could have known the man

Not too many liked him then,
Not too many know him now.
Not too many cared enough to hear what he had to say.
But I hear him now.
I hear him now.

Sunday, February 24, 2008


I've been talking with the missing Toadie and we've got some ideas. We want to publish a short collection of the poetry of Starving and Useless and have the authors do a reading. Hopefully I'll hear back from him in a day or two about the cost of publishing and I can let you know how much it will be to get your work in it. The plan is that once we have a published journal, we will organize a reading (we figure that that would be the best way to get people to actually buy them). We are talking about doing it in the Attleboro area, or maybe Providence, but nothing is set in stone. I think this can be pulled off at minimal expense. But, more crucial than the cost, we need to people who want to be published and to read. Reply to this if you want to take part in this or have any ideas.


Thursday, February 21, 2008

A Sonnet

As the moon shines across your face,
I realize that we really won't live forever,
And as there is nothing but this place,
Fear, like love, is also an endeavour,
The fear of losing you because too much,
Too much to drink, too many bottles of wine,
Fear of using you and not it as a crutch,
Fear of pushing too hard or crossing the line,
Or, perhaps I worry that I will pull you in,
Maybe I don't want you to be as I am,
For you are Catholic, and confess when you sin,
I failed at that, and tried again and again,
And watching you sleep, I pour another glass,
And smile because I know soon this will pass.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

I Eat Francis Bacon for Breakfast

My father says
That all arts are understood in terms of oratory:
Pick and cater!
I’ve been chastised
For not taking a class in sitcom writing.
I listen to Klaus
And don’t know to laugh or cry.
A speech will not defeat speech.
Only direct!
Only straight!
Emily is crying.
My father has hurt a woman.
He belongs in metaphorical prison
With the ghost of a story
Told under the lamppost of July
And the walking past to an electronics window.
I’ve read a book on Charles Bronson.
Did you know his real name is Buchinsky?
Still, I can’t read prime time
And there’s no point in typing my mouth shut.
Robocop is Burroughs.
It’s all come full circle.

Monday, February 11, 2008


And all you said was,
'there is a time and
a place to grow up.'
But maybe I did not
want to, maybe if I
acted my age, then life
would become too serious.
I knew how to masquerade, and
play the part of the full-fledged,
but I wasn't ready to
take off my mask of
youth. Perhaps I had to
leave my puerile days too
soon, and this was my
way of not letting go.
Because once it slipped out
of my fingers, that's it,
there would be no going
back. No more ditching plans,
and staying out for days,
no more packs upon packs
of cigarettes just because of
boredom, or lack of better
things to do. That's it,
no more midnight bike rides,
or drinking until dawn in
the park. I could see
all my glorious wasted days,
falling away. Now, it's strange.
Part of me wants to
follow in my father's footsteps,
part of me wants to
be a man like he
is; give everything I can,
and raise my own children,
and be as loving and
selfless to my wife as
he is to my mother.
Part of me wants to
get up when it's still
dark to put food on
the table, and live a
quiet existence, up in the
hills of Maine or Vermont,
with my pen and paper,
stove and axe, while the
other part of me wants
to leave my mark of
existence on society, by doing
nothing, and doing it well.
Part of me wants to
stay in bed, tangled in
the sheets, skin to skin,
all day long; champagne and parliaments,
no responsibilities but to love,
and to be loved. An
existence that says 'I did
what I did.' Maybe those
days will never be quite
over, they will be like
a bird on a wire,
balancing when the wind blows.

Saturday, February 9, 2008

The Recipe for Fun

The Racist Space Helmet
is just for show,
in the typical sense.
No guarantee over
cosmic vibrations
and vigilante rays.
It is intended
for the soft, the squishy,
that unrisen dough.
Consider a cookie mold:
a christmas tree
or star, only bigger
and without the violence
of an oven. Perhaps a self-
rising agent is more appropriate—
a hard plastic baking soda—
or ceviche—cold and slow.
Though, anything with cilantro
is a poor example.
No, it must be sweet, for, you see,
toys are always palatable.

Thursday, January 31, 2008


I remember, in the middle
of winter, around January, a
few seasons ago, which have
all blended together since, right
around the setting of the
sun, before five pm. How
depressing it was, usually. The
shadows of the sun settling
behind the hills, behind the
ocean, like a hand over
my eyes from my mother
when I was a child.
But I was on the
train, from the north of
the city, coming home to
see you. My face had
changed much since the last
time I saw you. My
eyes grew dark around, and
my hands had grown a
bit more shaky, perhaps I
had used the whiskey as
a crutch. Train 1641, passing
the time of the ride,
which seemed to drag on
and on, by reading Billy
Collins, and with my last
sip, I knew soon enough
we would be touching again.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

The Fair

A curator scolded me for stepping out of queue.
But it was hard to focus with such a long line
of dreadful projects and a mammoth, dark smudge, radiating
from the other side of what used to be a warehouse.

Nothing about a theory on economic stability
through a currency based on the speed of light
grabbed me, nor any of the countless other drudgeries.

I floated about until I came to that colossus in the distance.

An infalsifiablity bell—and an impressive one at that—all big and brass.

Poster board would have done the same work
(but then, where’s the finesse) to show the argument
of a bizarre looking deer that is extinct and was always rare.

Maybe it was just how innocent the creature looked,
but it took me back to when I was a child
and, right down the street from there,
paid a man to play Emperor and dance like a Hare Krishna.

Sunday, January 20, 2008

Improvisation Over Miles Davis and the Red Headed Girl

It's late. It's gotten late. Sunday nights are the blandest, always have been. Somehow when you have music on, it's not so bad. Just keeps the wheel turning. Like a bike upside down and you're just there easing one of the pedals.

If phone calls made sense, then I would use a phone more often. Yet phones drown people. I damn near drown every time. Can't help it. No life preserver, no blow-up vest. No boat coming to help me out. I don't like telephones anymore. Maybe phone calls are like poorly executed bits of syncopation. Just too much. Too much. Makes a bad racket.

It's funny thinking of this chick. No clue how it'll work out. Where's the relation? Who knows. But I keep at it. I'm easing the pedal on that bike I turned upside down.

I always liked turning a bike upside down and turning the pedal. Makes me feel like I'm cranking an old movie camera from the twenties. Sixteen frames a second. Gotta keep a beat to get that steady sixteen. Just ease the crank.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Johnny Prozac Goes to a Show

Johnny Prozac is an overexposed
roll of French cinema ennui stereotype.
His hometown is full of stoners.
Guess they’re bored too.
They should’ve been taught
moderation in health class.

Johnny Prozac goes to a show,
finest leather on sleeveless.
No ear plugs because
he’s just a fan. Between sets, the background beats
blast loud enough to be their own band.
Chicky next to him bitches to the bouncer
about the new smoking ban,
like he was grounded for not cleaning his room.

Johnny Prozac goes to a lot of shows
so he don’t hear too good no more.
He has to crank headphones to find
lost secrecies in low frequencies.
Maybe he’ll go skiing next weekend.

I would really appreciate some feedback and criticism on this one, if anyone cares to.

Friday, January 11, 2008

Another Sonnet

Another anyday
Of basements and gilded smoke.
I’m part of the stay
Through constant come and go,
Like selective slow motion
Or the island between traffic—
A visual feedback commotion;
I suppose the word is “hectic.”
Longing for distance
From a city block of cement chimneys.
The pearly remains of pilfers clog each stack.
I imagine that some face up and others, down.
But skeletons have been known to dance
And a certain house tells me, “You’re going to be a great father someday.”

(I'm also back)

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

we live life

so i haven't written or tried to write in probably a month. partially because i never had my own computer, until now! I apologize for the inconsistencies.

we live life like we're gonna die.
the next time we close our eyes.
a sense of urgency, resins in the night.
and every bottle is our last drink.
we imbibe until we can't feel,
the phantom feeling of pending loss we share within.
shaking scared so silently
so much tension surrounding me
this bubble we've made is ready to break
caused reaction of fear and fate
it comes down to heart, it comes down to pride.
and whether or not you like what you feel inside.
so tonight, ill take this ride
to try and walk alone on the other side
and problems will surely follow
as sure as the sun will rise
a soldier of Emerson and Thoreau
in self reliance ill survive.

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

The Space Between The Streets And Dreaming

it's 2:00 am,
and you're waiting outside the window.
your breath fogs the glass,
you write "let me in."
so i let you in.
it's 2:04 am,
i stop breathing,
close the curtain,
keep the night from getting in.
so hold your breath love,
it's all we have.
so don't open the shades.
when all the bars are closed,
the city seems so dead,
please don't wake the beast.
these words are for you,
kissed with elegance,
and thrown inside the fire of my house.
this match is for you,
laced with eloquence,
and thrown inside the fire of my house.

The Ice On The River

i'll stand.
i'll stand deep in your heart.
your tongue moves as words are said.
your words.
words i've come to anticipate,
come to love.
i've saved you a place in my mind.
i'd give it up to fit you in.
a privilege, so let's begin.
please dance this dance with me.
you can lead.
it's the only one we know.
we're dancing on ice.
the river is my heart.
frozen for so long.
i need your hands against my chest.
you've broken the ice.
you've conquered the cold.
you move me in a way
i have never moved before.
swim in my veins.
turn me.
move me.
love me.
you've broken the ice.
you've saved me from myself,
and winter.
take me.
we're going under.
you are the air in my lungs.
me, with you in my heart.
me, with you in my lungs.
me, with you in my veins,
in your arms,
they keep me warm.
we're going under.


when she walked out,
i waltzed around the place where it ended,
and it should have been sooner,
and different than it was.
but she walked out,
and walked out well.
so i was left there grinning,
and spinning on the wood floor,
at my mother's place.
we learn from our mistakes,
to never make them again.
i know what love isn't.
we move on when things are wrong,
to something we didn't expect,
and find shelter in it.
four years have passed,
two have been perfect.
one golden ring,
and i know what love is.
when she walked out,
i waltzed around the place where it ended.
and i don't dance alone,
i dance around the living room,
of our new apartment,
on the corner of main street,
and i am dancing now with you.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007


when has my coffee ever been so cold.
december .where has it been .i'm waiting.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Epic Tales # 2

"Welcome to Dewclaw. Here, you will find guns, ammunition, drugs and easy women."

Yes, it was a wild place. You really should have seen it. It was a speck of shit on a toilet paper map. It's streets were home to many a scavenger in search of easy work. One corner, known as Easy Street, was where the pimps sold their product. Fine women draped in silk and gold were handed out like candy canes on Christmas. Easy Street was no stranger to married businessmen who peddled lust. A hotel near by was where these patrons held their court. From what I hear, the rooms were gorgeous.

The next corner was just as sleazy. A tall man in a burgundy sport coat dealt hands of cold pleasure for just under $60. The concrete bench where transactions were executed was the closest thing to a five star restaurant you could find in that general area. It was complete with candles, spoons and all sorts of exquisite desserts. Although these dishes were often wonderfully proportioned, sometimes a little over eating could cause sickness. Saint Ann's across the street was the perfect after dinner mint.

In an alley, not to far from there, sat God. He was more beautiful then anyone could have imagined. He was often crying and would brandish a gun on any mother fucker that tried to get in his way. The pearly gates of his stacked soda crate heaven were visited by many in search for redemption in one way or another. Every disciple received an aluminum cross, courtesy of the good people at Coca Cola. He could only laugh when they thought they would be saved.

And last, but not least, was the kindergarten.


We are starving.
We are useless.
We are what society threw away.
We are poor.
We are struggling.
We are trying to make something
out of nothing.
We are tired.
We are scared.
We are in need of a future.
We are this.
We are that.
We are the anti celebrities.
We are refused.
We are denied.
We are everything you hate.
We are religious.
We are faithful.
We are praying.

The Great Wall of Relapse

Every time I find the path, it leads me to a wall.

Marijuana, Buddhism, Booze, Taoism, Psychology, freedom, love, pills, mind, blood, happiness, age, wisdom, cough syrup, faith, and teen-aged girls cloud my path.

I can find an argument to love, or hate, all the above. And so can all of you. If you can't, then I ask this simple question.

Are you human?


is no one posting and/or commenting, critiqueing, giving input?

Monday, December 10, 2007


i pulled into the station just after four a.m.
after a night of lights and cocaine.
so i lit another cigarette,
take it in and let it out again,
only to watch my world fly by,
from state line to state line.

the starting out of daylight,
on a one lane highway.
with nothing but mountains
in the rear view,
and a picture of you on the dash.

and me,
my problem is i'm always right.
i argue for the sake of argument.
i argue it's raining when it's not,
i argue for the sake of argument.
i disagree to make things harder.
and when you give in,
i push a little more.
i argue for the sake of being right,
but i'm not.

and up ahead now out on sixteen,
it's just about six a.m.
stop at the all-night diner,
and flick away the ash.
just like i do,
with everything else.

and i know there's more to life than this.
but i just haven't found it yet.
so welcome to,
my hearts still on 5th avenue.
the postcard stated clearly in words,
"you do what you want. i don't want to get hurt."
it's where you are,
you do what you want.


since you've been away,
i haven't done much of anything,
i haven't done much of the things that we did.
i haven't slept much,
and i still haven't been able to breathe.
since you've been away,
the cabin is now overgrown.
the wildflowers cover the yard,
and i've been taken over by wisteria.
was it everything you thought it'd be?
was it everything you dreamed about?
was it everything you thought it'd be?
when they came for you,
heaven sent horses.
heaven sent horses.


when i was born,
i was supposed to die.
and grasping on to life.
but i was sinless.
when i was a youth,
i was supposed to die.
and grasping to a ledge.
but i was sinless.
now i was a man,
i was supposed to die.
and speeding to my death.
but i am full of sin.
now that i have something to live for,
why would i want to throw it away?

Friday, December 7, 2007

reasons without reasons

Every second of eternity is planned out with the cautious hands of an unknown host, pulling at the levers which command STOP! GO! YES! NO! - every atom aligned with precision holding hands in formation of something even greater than itself, much without it's knowledge- a clueless participant, just like me and you.

Without any definite reason I was drawn to your presence and by the time I was near enough to feel your warmth and oxygen was exhaled time froze my heart. This moment, solitary in itself has already been laid in stone. And with this knowledge, I bowed down graciously.

For you have a purpose in my life, and I to you. No doctor, scientist, or researcher will be able to crunch numbers or write down those 26 polyphonic symbols to predict the course of this engagement; neither through equation nor guess. It just is as what it was designed to be - and what becomes of it is a blueprint for something beautiful.

Thursday, December 6, 2007


Our very own Franky Prozac has been nominated for the Glascock Poetry Prize! For those of you who don't know what that is, 6 students from students all across the country are nominated and Franky is one of em! Fuck yeah Franky, stick it to the man!

Could really use some advice

I've been nominated as a candidate for the Glascock Poetry Prize. I need to choose 3 or 4 of my best poems to submit for the contest. Please let me know which, if any, of the poems I've posted on here I should choose. I'd really appreciate the help.

-Franky Prozac

In response

Let me begin by saying that Don's post was fantastic and deserves response from all. Please take some time and do so!

And now for something completely unoringal....

It seems today that the people in our society that we deem "important" are one of the following:

1. Extremely wealthy middle aged persons heavily armed with college degrees and a lack of intrest when it comes to the opinions of the youth of America.
2. Hollywood's ellite, who also are wealthy, but 95 percent of them are without college degree or knowledge of anything going on in this world (Ex: Paris "Tupperware" Hilton)

Now begins my rant/response on the youth of today.

Newspapers, magazines, Television news: These media outlets are run by older people, who have earned their right to be there (in some cases). College degrees are a must in persuing a career in one of these professions. Or is it? With today's advancements in technology it has grown easier and easier for teenagers and twenty somethings to voice their opinions of the world without a degree or any real formal training. While this is fantastic news for us, we are left to wonder: Who is going to trust us? Who will be listening? In my case, I just want a voice in the world. I don't believe you need a degree to be a great writer or to let the world know how you feel.

Paris Hilton gets a chance to travel the world, meet people who are struggling, and donate her billions for a cause. Fantastic! But does she have any idea what the hell she is doing this for? Does she really care? Probably not, it just makes her look good. While this is going on, kids all across this country are doing everything they can to help out those in need, whether they are throwing charity shows, running food/clothing drives, or simply speaking out and they don't get that chance. Why? Because this country does not trust or believe in it's youth. Sadly, kids today can go to war and die for the country, but without a degree, you are deemed useless. Regaurdless of your natural talents. We are left with little choice; College to "make something of ourselves" or join the military.

What is my point? My point is that the youth of today are NOT idiots, despite what some of our elders tell us. They need to be given a chance to make a difference in the world. We, as Americans (well some of us), put our trust into the hands of celebrities and the wealthy and "knowledgeable" to make a change, but what about the average boy or girl, man or woman? They are doing their part all over the country and are overlooked by everyone, while Brad Pitt is on every magazine in the country because he adopted a kid. Way to go Brangellina.

So to everyone reading, LET YOUR VOICE BE HEARD. That is why I started this blog. Writing groups and newspapers and everyone else in this god damn place ignores the talent of the underground. We are all here to give them one great big giant FUCK YOU. A piece of paper that says "Hey look! I took a writing class!" doesn't make you a writer. Whats inside you makes you a writer. Same with anything else. If you don't take a stand and do something about it, no one else is going to help you. Start a blog, hand out typed up thoughts on flyers around your town. Refuse to be ignored.

Well thats what I got out of Don's post. My two cents have been given.

Action Vs. Reaction

There are those who would have us think that the time to act is now. There are those who would have us pause to reflect upon the implications of our actions, causing us to second guess everything. What do we do? What does my gut tell me? I think too much, I do nothing. I act first and accept the consequences of those actions.

What is all this about? I sit here from time to time and I read the news on the internet and carefully invest my belief in what I deem to be an adequate balance of what seems credible and what my instincts tell me. I recently heard a conversation where someone commented on how the newspaper was a dying art and that when people read it, they got their information from one or few sources, thereby creating a unified consciousness on what was happening in the world. To me, the benefit of having alternative sources of media online is that your finger is on the pulse of what people really think. There is two way communication. The lines between Left and Right begin to blur when we learn that the average Joe isn't so typically dumbed down as to digest and regurgitate what is spoonfed from only one or two points of view who happen to be pulling the strings on what we think we know to be true.

"One more run-on sentence and I'm bailing," you say. I don't blame you, but please bear with me. There is a point. Many feel that we are so disconnected through our technology and gadgets. We isolate ourselves from personal interaction through the use of e-mail, IM, and online forums. This may be true to an extent. Personally, I prefer eye contact over a drink and some music in the background when it comes to communication, but to those whose whispers become silence because of what will no longer be accepted in our "free society," we have a place at our fingertips where we can speak our peace without fear of retribution and, more importantly, to listen.

Those same fading industry moguls would have us believe that our youth today are uncaring and hopeless, that you are too distracted by your reality TV and the rest of the sensory assault which is perpetrated and perpetuated by your very accusers. The idea is propagated with the goal that we all buy it and in the end so do you. You are our best last hope, my friends. You are out there and you are listening, watching, speaking. I see you. I hear you. We have an arena to offer and display all view points. Plenty to consider, to reflect carefully about the implications of what we do next.

Now, what to do about the state of things? Do we throw our arms up and say, well, "they" all think we're stupid anyway and do nothing? Then, we simply moan and groan when something comes down the pipe that we don't like, OR, only then do we get all fired up and want to go taking names and breaking things. I say right now that we are in the midst of absorbing unprecedented amounts of information. It's seeped into our mental, spiritual, physiological, and developmental processes as well as our Collective Unconsciousness. I believe that as a whole, we are processing this information and narrowing it all down to simple conclusions on what the next logical steps are to advance as a culture and to leave behind what has not worked. This absorption allows us the sense to believe or disbelieve what our gut tells us when it becomes time to act.

The question remains. Should we always think long and hard before before we act? Time's up. Decide now. You are alive and capable. Your actions are based on what you already know. Me, I'm going to bed. Let me know how it turns out.

PS: The real purpose of this post is to call for solutions to the observations that stop us and make us think, "yeah, that could be better." I listen to a lot of talk radio and the thing that I notice is that it's a great forum for people who just want to complain. Let's get creative and offer ideas from people who may not necessarily agree, but would otherwise feel they have no real power to change things for various reasons. Let me know what ails ya. Let me know how we can make it better!


The House

and you'll know you've done enough,
when there's dinner on the table.
and you've prayed to God to do everything he can.
and you'll know you've done enough,
and tried to be the better man.
when you've prayed to god to help you do everything you're able.
he never said a thing about the money he had to borrow.
they'd kiss us all goodnight,
and say "we'll see you all tomorrow."
but it's my father's house,
it keeps the water off our heads.
and it's my mother's house.
it's got four walls to keep us in and well.

so take a look at them now.
they carried all of our own weight,
and never said a word so we won't know.
this was the place where they'd lay our heads at night,
with a chip on the shoulder,
and a smile to let us know it's alright.

and he's been working to hard now, for days.
i wonder if he'll get a raise.
he's gone before the sun gets up,
and home after it goes away.
and mama's got the overnight again.
he never said it,
but i wonder if it ever had him beat,
trying to make ends meet,
without us ever knowing.
we never had our clothes wear out.
we never knew a thing about,
we never had our soles wear out.
we never knew a thing about.

sans titre, numéro cinq

Je l'un suis.
Je suis seulement un homme.
Mais je tout suis.
Je tout suis dans le monde.
Et mon amour est tout je peux donner.
Oui, mon amour.
Mon amour me fait, donc je tout suis.
Je tout suis dans le monde, si je pense que jesuis.

La guerre

Ils vont là-bas.
Au loin.
Ils retournent mort.
Et je ne sais pas, oui.
La guerre est dans le coeur, maintenant.
l'histoire répète.
A cause de rien mais les loups.
Nous sommes fatigués.
Nous sommes fatigués.
Nous n'avons rien dans nos coeurs plus.
Je n'ai rien dans mon coeur plus.
La guerre.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Brothers United

Man he's down and out again,
they say this kid will never win.
and the look on his face says,
"someone just shit on my birthday cake."
someone get this kid a valium,
and a joe strummer and the mescaleros album.
"Life will be O.K! Dont be afraid! Know you're the master of your destiny."
well he dropped right out of highschool,
at the tender age of seventeen.
He sat down on my couch and smoked the memories from his brain, everyday.
Just fed up with the bullshit,
and the plight of the teenager.
I said, "toke on this, and listen quick! life only gets worse if you dont put the effort in."
he said, "sometimes man, I just wanna die!"
I replied, "I know the feeling of wanting to end your life!"
The next moment was silent.

Brothers united, full of pride and violent
towards anyone who trys to fuck with you or me.
Brothers united, until we expire.
True to oursevles, true till death.

We toasted a shot to our beloved departed,
and chugged a beer for good measurement.
Smoked a spliff, and split a bottle in dreams of better times.
and he said, "Man these are the times! When i feel so alive! And i take it back, you live for me, and I live for you!."
This kid, He finally gets it. And it's not an understatement. there's a reason why we call ourselves a family.
Without bloodline relation.

Brothers united untill we expire!
True to one another, unconditional, unbias.
Been through the same shit, throw the flames we rise! (we exist)
I pledged my life to this crew, I'd die for any of you!
Call it an act of selflessness, but its an exemplification of true friendship!


its sad it may come to this

They held massive evacuations
in every major city
from boston to los angeles
from seattle back to philly
A country at a stand still
looking to the horizon
bracing for the impact
panic of pending nuclear attack

f-16's, prayers, and hope. littered the sky
as mothers embraced their children, fluids leaking from their eyes
The president was moved to camp david, safe and warm inside
from the lies that he told, and his bold selfish motives
well aware that america, may burn for his lies

we're the workers, we're the poor,
we're the ones that cant afford
to buy our way out of this mess they've created, in our name.
why will it take another disaster for us to realize?
that we are this country
lets take it back before we all expire

with so much blood invested, did you forget?
that your first priority is domestic
not off in foreign lands
i have got no problem with a middle east man
if he bleeds human blood, and breathes the same air
and if he follows the law of the common man
then he is my brother, and there is no problem

a united human race
a united share of believes
you should not steal
you should not kill
respect and honesty for every man
respect for the women and eldery
respect for our children,
and differences in religious beliefs
its obtainable if we believe
we're beautiful creatures, intelligent and free.

free to speak


I saw a ghost today,
Hiding behind the trees.
I smiled at his branch rifle,

Because that ghost used to be me.
Hiding from danger,

Commanding his invisible soldiers.
As I walked by, I grinned at my attempted captor.
I said "Boy, I am the general of these pines here,

Now open your lines.
There's no need to picket, the enemy isn't here."
He stepped back, saluted.
So proud he was of his army.
Oh my Lord, life was so simple then.

I spent my youth running in the woods,
Climbing over Civil War battle grounds,

We were so sure were there.
Listening to Daddy's stories on his knee,

Waiting for more,
About his cowboy days,
Up Indian's Head Rock,
Down to the water's shore,
And watch the sun disappear,
Then crawl back through the woods to our home.
Oh my Lord, life was so simple then.
We may have grown up and not had a lot,
But oh my God we were loved.