With Regards to the Tallest Man on Earth

When you sing 
About snake skin 
Orchards being thrown 
In the fire, I think 
About this steam inside
For when a call is made 
Into my heart, all 
I can do
Is breathe streaks of smoke
And watch the wisps try 
To circle 
               harmonies
     around               your 
                  song

Some Thing

I'm on a platform
waiting for the J
reading Bukowski ranting between gusts
of winter's worn out knives, listening
to my mind whispering his words

The train coming now
Doppler effect with its waves
while watching people rise to meet their ways
and I catch my mind speaking louder
to be heard over the zeal of the brakes
louder and louder, myself
reading, now silent screaming,
until I stop and realize
this train is inserting itself
squeezing in something nasty
it's fucking my focus
the Bukowski is losing to the goddamn train schedule!
my entire self being
killed by what I have to do



I close the book and rise
watching people load
but I can't move with them now,
I will not be a part
of a steelish beast like that
without some serious literature
something rancid
something that'll make me not want
to accomplish goals. Jesus.
Where could I find something like that?

Landing the Job

I love getting drunk
because of my fantastic ideas
For instance,
when there is shit in the toilet
why reach for the brush
when you can clean it with your jetting piss?

I love getting drunk
because it prepares me for job interviews
For instance,
if they ask, "how should we clean this company?"
I'll know exactly what to say

I Click On

Ukulele Song

When I Observe a Bird

When I observe a bird
in flight above Brooklyn
over trees and shit and cemented garbage
soaring over the sound of families snaping
together, then apart,
like talky legos
I think of subway trips and then
of Kathy again
and when I search for the bird
in flight above Brooklyn
there are knockout clouds instead

City Man

I've never faniced myself a city man,
sifting through all the bullshit
like a professional.
Getting up and tieing up and smiling
in the mirror and cursing those dogs,
Yuppie little fucks.

Yippee! I'm a Yuppie!
Paying the rent is easy!
The coffee is so good,
the futons are so replaced
and my feet feel so
decent
on this rug.

Eh,

I can't really call myself a city
man. I'm not
with the push, I'm not in the fire.
When people breakdance in the subway
I sit on my ass and read.
When my friends are out and drinking
I am home and drinking
typing this poem about tonight.

So,

No,
I really don't think I'm a city
man. But I have to say this:

In Brooklyn when you're alone,
perhaps waiting
for company,
it's a much more collective experience

Tiny Screenplay

Drips