1986 Camaro

I was asleep in a cold room.

She turns on the air conditioner

in the middle of the night

and hogs the blankets.

I dreamt of a unfamiliar house

pushed back onto a steep hill.

and then I got to see you.

We hugged and talked

only I cant recall about what.

You’ve been gone a while

and I had so much to tell you.

I started to remember

there was a old stereo

and while we spoke I recorded songs

onto a cassette by pressing both of the buttons,

just like the ones that littered the floorboard

of the Camaro when we were mere children.

Did we talk about old hardcore bands?

or what all are friends are doing?

Most of us are married with children.

Scientists may have proof of an afterlife.

maybe the proof is there in my dream.

my alarm clock pulls me out of one world

and into another, but which is more real?

I cherish your visits, and I want you to know

I have love beside me, and I wish you knew her.

I’ve told her all about you.

I tell everyone about you.


Pilgrim State

We sat at cluttered tables

talking about the friends we lost,

we explored the decrepit halls

of abandoned buildings,

and it dawned on us that we were the ghosts.


It is so natural to feel useless,

a ball on the floor of an empty room.

We know for certain this world is broken.

Read the message etched into the wall,

“Forget me. I will do you no good.”


A door slams in the distance,

to remind you that you are not welcome.

What happened to everyone?

Cynicism is the consequence

of life deemed unfulfilling.

We walk towards the holes

we bore in the earth,

and times passes swiftly

with no regard for us at all.


If only all of these repairs were so easy.

high above the east river,

high enough not to feel a thing.


Hung up, under history, under structures

with dirty hands that only want to hold you.


The world is beyond me,

I’d prefer to be a moon

but not if everyone is going to be one, too.


Life is dangerous and liberating,

but I’m terrified of living,

and the want that visits me in my mind.


I appreciate the wind,

and words beautifully put to paper,

the myriad songs stuck in my head,

and you, whom I’d give the world if it wasn’t so corrupted.


As I look over the edge,

with feet firmly planted,

I will give us a fighting chance.



Oort Cloud

I thought about those lonely old men
stationed at the end of long bars.
I was already one of them,
Born of nothing,
Disconnected and hopeless.

I’ve seen God between the legs of hookers
And levitated on the broken springs of vile beds.
I acquired humility through the slow efficiency of death.
My aversion festered from the world’s hubris.
Everyone around me is getting good at dying,
I’m inclined to say its for the best.

I’ve feasted on the liars, and got nauseous
from the ignorance, from the planet’s inhabitants.
I am the anti-human.
Restore your faith in the carcass,
Our bodies are mandalas, manifesting impermanence.
Wayward hearts ice over from disappointment,
They drift, may your sun’s ambit refrain from brushing
The flesh, let it be untethered to wander the darkness.

Discourse Of A Lonely Man

Descend from the solitude,

tell us what you’ve learned

under the great star of tireless light.




Your poetry is rendered useless

and all of the ponderous figures you mumble to,

shivering in dark rooms are long since dead.




You are more worm than man.

Helpless, meager beasts

stumbling over your own beliefs.

Wipe the soul clean,

our days are numbered,

count to yourself.


Thus spoke.


I’ll bury this letter in earnest,

in hopes that you’ll read it

and know this,

my words are wrought with anguish.


Death is a coward

who cheats at chess.

I found what no one should find.

I can not help but cry.


The disconsolate never had the chance.

My little brother

slipped through my fingers.

This grief will span a hundred lifetimes.


I will wander,

with a devastated heart and softened eyes,

so clear a path.

I will scatter the last pieces of you

in this mournful world,

until the carriage halts

and the ground swells from us both.

-For Johnny

She Hated The Name Francis

She died in her bed alone,
Upright but slouched over,
Clutching her broken heart.

In an austere apartment in Corona,
With few earthly possessions,
Some butchered pictures and Elvis memorabilia.

My stepfather found her.
I always thought it would be me.
It was the first time I ever felt sorry for him.

It had been ages
Since we’d seen each other,
Since we left or were told to leave
Depending on where you get your stories
And what you choose to believe.

I thought of my mother everyday.
I felt bad for her.
It’s my thing, you know, feeling bad.

I wrote countless drafts of her eulogy.
Which always seemed a horrid thing to do.
I mourned the living.

She scribbled tear soaked letters to me
In a book I bought her, I read them posthumously
And now I have an urn I can’t bear to fill
And a good night’s sleep is impossible.