Place Like This

Is something wrong
when the subway delayed
In the early morning leaves
me alone on this platform and
I only ask because
I can't help but compare myself to everything in the tunnel
And sometimes it's not the best.
Imagine having to see yourself
As a place like this

and it comes so easily for me

I'm like the train
delayed
I'm like the wait for the next thing
I'm like a filthy drip into a forgotten pool
rosy with the rust of cheap structures
I'm like that specific reverence
for the shifting beauty of decay
I'm like the rails,
strong, true
On which everything depends
A guiding slender hand
worn by cacophonous connections constantly
I'm like the third rail
Powering the movement of millions of souls
I'm like the millions of souls
And it comes to me easily
Is something wrong with me?
Unable to just stand and be
My breath
replaced
by thought

And the sun is rising
on this place too
its beams coiling
through the cracks
to lightly kiss the forehead
Of this tunnel beneath the earth

Seems

Seemed like it seems
a little scrambled
as I sat on the futon,
my feet shoeless
relieved
to be closer to the final reveal


Covered though still
with my currently favorite socks
 awesomely graced
with a set of proud llamas
right where my feet become the legs they’re attached to. I love these
fucking socks.




Tried to
turn on the TV,
thought I
wanted to watch the news
there comes the


reality


blooming like a stop
motion flower, its petals
the color of concrete


that


I actually didn’t want to watch the news at all
And I whispered to the coasters on my coffee table,
“I actually don’t want to watch the news at all.”



Stood in the center
of the kitchen. Watching
crumbs tailgate outside my toaster


Opened pantry
ate some
 walnuts, dry,
need water,
In no mood for yuckies.
Should be


hungry. The fridge revealed
a secret desperate to be shared.
Leftovers


If you leave a secret in the fridge too long it will most definitely start to grow into something nasty.


Have to be on top of eating your secrets


They can be hard to throw out!
Easier to leave alone, cold on a dark shelf, especially after they’ve already been forgotten.
Twice.
For time warps
delicious satisfaction
 bending it to useless
 stinky garbage.
And that's why we bury old leftovers /secrets
  in a landfill. Likely
  in    New    Jersey.




But back to the actual food.
Shaghetti squash with a yuppie red
sauce which was fucking delicious
so satisfying, absolutely
right on
no way
to argue that it was definitely
better the second
time. And again
a significant part of me gets carved out again
to make space
For the experience again
Of cooking a spaghetti squash again
and I worry that I won’t feel my same self once it’s gone.


Picked up Time
Trump on the cover again.


All of the writers were definitely repeating
themselves. High fiving
same ish thoughts
together. I guess
there are truths so stark
So Magazined
So Laid Out (with professional pictures)
that no one can move on from them
It's like this collective how how

 how how howl


Closed the pages
sighed like a fan
Sometimes you know
when shit doesn't help


And there it is
a flicker of wisdom
Something to nod at and stick in your pocket:
Insightful understanding shared
can be unbearably sad


Decided to turn my room into an office and now i’m here typing under an IKEA lamp
the Cars sounding great through my oldest speakers


“You're all I've got tonight”


On my walk home from Jeremy's house I provoked myself to think of it
as one of the last times I would walk down Eastern Parkway

which is exactly what is was


At some point we start to head for the door
and that moment filling the time it takes
to move on
Highlights meaning
 And like a student going back on
     a passage, eager
         to understand
the closer look at what’s around
makes memory susceptible
to the final shape of lesson. Possibly
to be polished by time
and treasured.
but it's too early to tell.


So why move for the door at all?
Each room, especially a room like Crown Heights my God, it’s like a deep bluish chasm pit of beautiful. The potential
of everything here yawns with a sort of unavoidable passion. It’s as seductive as the push to care
about people I’ve loved.


Memories are in
    this trip
  to the door,
   this mine,
they’re blazing
like gems
 on a canvas of coal
like when your desires chant in harmony with your goals


There can be a reason to be in New York
and of course there are infinite people doing infinite things
and some of them are taking naps when they have to


I remember being able to perpetually pour myself through Brooklyn
as effortlessly as a cascade of softly shaking sand settling
around a mound of smooth stones
And I think if I dug
working all hours like a madman
my optimism a drowning chainsaw oiled
I could keep making this work.


Trees are coming down easy
I can make it useful shit,
interesting chairs,
chairs that sculpt the way you sit
Inspiring my spine into the correct line


      I can move all of me
          to the way I want to be


Today
  I considered my room
Packed
with interesting chairs


I think i’m tired of moving things to the way I want them to be.


That’s why the van
That’s why I’m scared of the van
Scared about things i’m embarrassed to admit
I’m embarrassed to admit that i’m scare of.
Stupid shit like I love
a regular shower
I’m scared of That
It’s undeniable
I'm a pussy
An underused human
And it comes to me with a sort of windy confidence


The potential in Brooklyn is a horse reigned by jockeys trying
to be the best


The potential in Brooklyn
when asked
Says it had a relaxing weekend
  “Hung out”


The potential in Brooklyn has called Seamless and put on a movie


I've been watching my growth
     watch his lover
        slowly turn her back


So I’m taking my pulse
Feeling my beat
comparing it to the ticks
extrapolating


Between the poundsI find a gift, clear
like there is no window.

   the simple fact that I have not evolved


My perception wants to grow a proboscis
Wants to mutate so bad
Wants to develop a thousand organs and peer down on the myriad of vestigial structures
like a proud parent


Yea I can start to see me now


I have worn my stability, my dependability, like a suit
i’m sick of sending to the dry cleaners


Each morning when I wake
the sun or lack thereof
shines a light,
or a dark,
on how i’m no
longer tricked
by how I should be


And yea it’s a hell of
a thing to identify
just how full you are
of shit


And my motivation
Fired like a grill
 neath a summer sky
 is the viral acknowledgement
that I've been goin through the motions




I remember that I can pretend to be anything. My appetite for play has been snoaring in an exhausting sleep. Turning. Tangled in sheets. Unconscious. A leftover on the shelf


I can say for sure that I am rarely anxious and yet I know I would never want to listen to its drum. I think this comes from a natural wisdom and by that I mean I know I can look down upon myself
with a Mona Lisa smile
and recognize that my observations will only sometimes give birth to epitome.


It’s like hearing a joke you anticipate, recognize
 know, even told before
 and yet you laugh.
     I genuinely laugh


My convictions are like a cotton candy treat at a circus
being sold to a fat kid who's already had his fill but can't get enough of it anyway


and as I walk
only I know
there are these proud llamas
poised on top
of my unwashed feet
Kings on a traveling throne

Attached: Poem

sticks were thrown
fragrant the sky
there were no buildings
close by

trebled breeze
the birds building
echos across

as I attached
this poem to an email

as you attach the
poem to an email

Cosmo

Tell him to pinch
ouch free in the shower
across an ottoman
between your toes mid foreplay

Give him a pair
chest, torso
plastic wrap
cold against the warm
amazeballs

Stiletto length inner thighs
as he goes down on your
haul ass nipples sliding
a home made whip
when you're close to orgasm
embellished with studs

Silicone pastry brush
he is slick
your vuvla master

Start off gently
Professor Wankerton
as the hard little knobs

You're his backside prisoner
I need a spanking
and have scissors on hand

T's

Hey T Shirt
I'm gonna fold you
incorrectly
You're gonna have a wrinkly front
and a scrunched up back
and you're gonna sit in that drawer
and deal with it
because you're a T Shirt
and I'm a man
who can't fold a T shirt

I Know I Flew but

Death to Spirit
Airlines you piece of shit
company, with your baggage
fees and three hour delays
You delay paradise
You fill the people with bad
nasty thoughts
You've made at least three people cry
You fill intestines with the shit of your costumer service
50 dollar voucher
Go fuck yourself

II.

I'm so hungry
Nothing is complimentary
3 dollar water
3 dollar noodles
1000% markup
10,000% pissed
I'd rather starve than support
your continued existence
Go fuck yourself

On the People Who Write By

You alone over there
With the ink on your hands
And your eyes like a pop
Listen to me soft:
I want to speak
Your thoughts
I want to practice
Your pain so I can
Feel your drops
And when I have you
Summed in my bones
Maybe we can get two
Cheers
And talk how it felt
To be alone