When You Didn’t Call on Saturday
The din of wood against beer
In the place between
Time and you
Wouldn’t tell me your age
Or if you could still taste my pussy
After dinner and two more
Glasses of wine
Beside the fire pit
The nicotine tarnished the air
And snuffed out the smoke
You showed me the scars
The red on both wrists
Young women smoked
And we ordered shots
Of Blue Agave Tequila
In some blur
We became part of the bar
High on bar stools
I licked Margarita salt
You paid over two hundred dollars
Our bartender was a bitch
With a great ass
You told me that one time
You accidentally
Took too many pills
When you didn’t call on Saturday
Sunday I knew you were dead
When your sister-in-law
Called on Tuesday
I thought I was going to be sick
I HAVEN’T LISTENED TO RICHARD CORY
Just outside Ithaca,
The rain beats the foliage
Just inside the Denny’s
There is florescent warmth
Speckled brown ceramic
Cups of hot chocolate
Teenagers in groups of four
Their neon bracelets clash
We sit around the table
My aunt Carol, my uncle Fran,
My mother
My dad, and me.
I order a glass of milk
And a bowl of oatmeal
My Uncle Fran
Wears square glasses frames
He looks just the same
As the last time
“How did Mike do it?”
My mom asks.
I try to move my chair
Catches the carpet
“He shot himself
In the head
With a shot gun,”
I haven’t listened
To Richard Cory
Since I found out
How you died.
SONGS NOT PLAYING
I’m now lying
On the carpet of the
Living room floor having just
Masturbated.
I see the
Fringe of this
Green and maroon afghan hanging off
The coach in my parent’s
House. It reminds me of
This story about my
Uncle Tim who was
Told to toss the
Afghan
Down the stairs, but he
Tossed the ventilator instead.
He just knew it was a
Thing with a
Funny name.
And like a
Platypus
I feel awkward being in
My parents house, my old
Home. As a Quasi adult bearing
Young things with
Tiny black duck bills. And
I sit with the Afghan in my
Parents house, my old
Home. And I listen to
All of the the Songs that my
Mother should know.
And
All of the
Songs not playing.
(Poets)
They are obsessed with:
Syntax, quater moons,
and the adjective metalic. Long lost religious wars.
Fuck, Cunt, and various dirty words in disconect
and
The defraction of light against the clouds, defining
God, pretty
words, anomalies
And flesh between Conversations.
They are obssesed with science, silence,
and the langauge lacking any sense
They are obssessed with time, loss,
Buddah, Jack Kerouac, and Ginsberg-
(Though they won't admit it)
Nipples, the mouth and the
word didactic origins of parataxis
dappled by centrifigal force.
Crisp sounds in asphalt like ipicac, pop, stark and
Stars,
They speak too much of the ocean and sea
too much meaning in waves
against the mirror
They are obssessed with abstractions
and avoiding them with
Concrete objects and metaphores, like
cars called Galaxy.
They are obssessed with
Teeth
and broken Things
We expect too much, they are Poets not actors.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
June 9, 2009
June 9, 2009
Scranton…
Ithaca….
$300 for a flight.
Back home.
The wind in the chimes
Never stopped.
And death.
Is not some boding storm
No
It’s a phone call at the mailbox
Brewing coffee
Dead in the woods
You quit life
My dad remembers laughing in the dark
Listening to Bill Cosby
He hasn’t even cried yet
You were his big brother.
Scranton…
Ithaca….
$300 for a flight.
Back home.
The wind in the chimes
Never stopped.
And death.
Is not some boding storm
No
It’s a phone call at the mailbox
Brewing coffee
Dead in the woods
You quit life
My dad remembers laughing in the dark
Listening to Bill Cosby
He hasn’t even cried yet
You were his big brother.
Shaken, Not Stirred
Shaken, Not Stirred
Iced venti unsweetened green tea. What delusions has he? Some, but he is stunning. Alone in the corner with no wedding ring. He makes all the female baristas wonder…
PJ it’s adorable how he tries to be an asshole. Aspirations of being like House. No such luck. I’m a “bad ass” he says. Right. We sat and had a drink or three or four. Me checking my posture in the beginning, if you sit taller you will look older some how. He sips his wine and I’m all shifty eyes trying to figure out what this cat wants from me. I want to know what he does. What “things” he continues to work on as he sits in his corner at Starbucks… that chair has become his and no one else’s.
Tramonanto is his last name. He says he used to hug Joe Bannano on Sundays. I would think he is a mobster, but I don’t get that vibe from him. I called him out on being a spy. One day at work I decided this was a good thing to assume. They all want to be James Bond so nourish that fantasy and they notice. His smile is straight and charming, sort of ridiculously so. I want it to say, “nothing I say is true’ this is just the glitter that my teeth spit out, but everything about him seems genuine. He’s not a liar as far as I can tell… but what do I know? I’m a writer.
He told a story about how he rolled the sheriff the other day. Body slammed this cocky little kid who did not understand the situation. He pulled the tasers out too. This is how they train you in “spy school”. The lines are so blurred between reality and whatever else it is we chose to believe. But his stories tumble out, and his blue eyes are fire bright like those embers that glow forever.
Peeg is something else. He told me about this time when he was with his friend Glen. His best friend- he emphasizes. He cut his head open doing something under the house. And Glen’s wife Danna insisted on taking him to the hospital. His voice seeped into the streets of New York with that story, his accent just tagging along on the end of certain words. And I just want to write his story.
The one where he bulshitted his way into working at Postrio with Wolfgang, and shadrack, and abindendigo. I forget the cat’s names but he is impressed by their venire to this day. The stars in his little boy eyes coming back to haunt him, as the pure shots of tequila we took began to sink in.
PJ stumbles into stories he’s not supposed to be telling me because I’m kryptonite. He had two-no four glasses of wine and in his lifetime he has almost died two-no four times. No matter how many times he busts his head doing something stupid he never notices blood- that’s just how he is. He spent three days in the hospital once barely breathing. Living- just a vapor that dreamed up his existence. When he finally came to- the IV’s in his arm were coming out like a Christmas tree ordainment and tubes were crowding and carousing in every orifice. They told him not to try to talk- to write things down one word at a time. He wrote 24--- or--- 32---inch---plasma? The nurse figured out he was asking about the TV screen above his bed. The man has a crazy mind like a steal trap. Trapping in the experiences he only hints to whisper at my kryptonite.
Then he smiles that smile he says he never smiles and tells me about Glen’s kids, and the wine he slips them, while learning about video games, and cruising on the house boat. He and Glen own a Ferrari, and ride around like the kings Dana will forever despise for being so ridiculous.
But being down to earth is really what these life long friends hold dear to their existence. Because “it’s sad to know that life is more than who we are”, but is it? What life throws at us is what we take to the bank like quarters rolled in paper. We walk out with cold hard cash that we squander in the streets. Does it matter what you do? Who you are?- Or just how you do? We get verbs mixed up with pronouns and the language of life begins to stutter confused with syntax. But PJ tries to stay above all that- and he tells me- it’s lonely where I am…I wanna come back down but please don’t tell them my name… It’s PJ- iced venti unsweetened green tea, skaken, not stirred, and flipped when the moment is right.
For PJ RIP
Iced venti unsweetened green tea. What delusions has he? Some, but he is stunning. Alone in the corner with no wedding ring. He makes all the female baristas wonder…
PJ it’s adorable how he tries to be an asshole. Aspirations of being like House. No such luck. I’m a “bad ass” he says. Right. We sat and had a drink or three or four. Me checking my posture in the beginning, if you sit taller you will look older some how. He sips his wine and I’m all shifty eyes trying to figure out what this cat wants from me. I want to know what he does. What “things” he continues to work on as he sits in his corner at Starbucks… that chair has become his and no one else’s.
Tramonanto is his last name. He says he used to hug Joe Bannano on Sundays. I would think he is a mobster, but I don’t get that vibe from him. I called him out on being a spy. One day at work I decided this was a good thing to assume. They all want to be James Bond so nourish that fantasy and they notice. His smile is straight and charming, sort of ridiculously so. I want it to say, “nothing I say is true’ this is just the glitter that my teeth spit out, but everything about him seems genuine. He’s not a liar as far as I can tell… but what do I know? I’m a writer.
He told a story about how he rolled the sheriff the other day. Body slammed this cocky little kid who did not understand the situation. He pulled the tasers out too. This is how they train you in “spy school”. The lines are so blurred between reality and whatever else it is we chose to believe. But his stories tumble out, and his blue eyes are fire bright like those embers that glow forever.
Peeg is something else. He told me about this time when he was with his friend Glen. His best friend- he emphasizes. He cut his head open doing something under the house. And Glen’s wife Danna insisted on taking him to the hospital. His voice seeped into the streets of New York with that story, his accent just tagging along on the end of certain words. And I just want to write his story.
The one where he bulshitted his way into working at Postrio with Wolfgang, and shadrack, and abindendigo. I forget the cat’s names but he is impressed by their venire to this day. The stars in his little boy eyes coming back to haunt him, as the pure shots of tequila we took began to sink in.
PJ stumbles into stories he’s not supposed to be telling me because I’m kryptonite. He had two-no four glasses of wine and in his lifetime he has almost died two-no four times. No matter how many times he busts his head doing something stupid he never notices blood- that’s just how he is. He spent three days in the hospital once barely breathing. Living- just a vapor that dreamed up his existence. When he finally came to- the IV’s in his arm were coming out like a Christmas tree ordainment and tubes were crowding and carousing in every orifice. They told him not to try to talk- to write things down one word at a time. He wrote 24--- or--- 32---inch---plasma? The nurse figured out he was asking about the TV screen above his bed. The man has a crazy mind like a steal trap. Trapping in the experiences he only hints to whisper at my kryptonite.
Then he smiles that smile he says he never smiles and tells me about Glen’s kids, and the wine he slips them, while learning about video games, and cruising on the house boat. He and Glen own a Ferrari, and ride around like the kings Dana will forever despise for being so ridiculous.
But being down to earth is really what these life long friends hold dear to their existence. Because “it’s sad to know that life is more than who we are”, but is it? What life throws at us is what we take to the bank like quarters rolled in paper. We walk out with cold hard cash that we squander in the streets. Does it matter what you do? Who you are?- Or just how you do? We get verbs mixed up with pronouns and the language of life begins to stutter confused with syntax. But PJ tries to stay above all that- and he tells me- it’s lonely where I am…I wanna come back down but please don’t tell them my name… It’s PJ- iced venti unsweetened green tea, skaken, not stirred, and flipped when the moment is right.
For PJ RIP
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Fun with Words!
For my poetry compatriots and anyone who wants to play with some words
Try this website: http://lonij.net/wordstorm/
Try this website: http://lonij.net/wordstorm/
Sunday, March 7, 2010
I Have a Book
Some new poems from my book Play Flip at 18:30! 
Constants of Nature
The notion of reaction channels is particularly
appropriate to deal with the resonances,
this is another good prospect for this elusive
democracy of observers and in these
things we wish and want to understand each
happenstance of proposed interference on lips lost in suspension
at which the increase is observed
in which reality is nothing more than the mystery or difficulty
of fucking and really feeling love
with the formation of the short lived
moment
in which you
will only respond to a sound wave coming from the outside
and in this violation of Newton's first law of motion
there is no way to
know just how much is left in each sentence-
Broken Symmetries
The unity and interrelation between a material object and its environment
Is closely paralleled by that of the Eastern mystic
Where the workings of a magic box are always found on the inside.
Beyond this there is no real knowledge
And yet
Out the window the pretty boy plays and sings silence,
The child stands wide eyed so we can have this poetic moment to talk about innocence
And all forms defy description and specification,
but
What we imagined then and what we know now
Could make our consciousness and unstoppable force.
Constants of Nature
The notion of reaction channels is particularly
appropriate to deal with the resonances,
this is another good prospect for this elusive
democracy of observers and in these
things we wish and want to understand each
happenstance of proposed interference on lips lost in suspension
at which the increase is observed
in which reality is nothing more than the mystery or difficulty
of fucking and really feeling love
with the formation of the short lived
moment
in which you
will only respond to a sound wave coming from the outside
and in this violation of Newton's first law of motion
there is no way to
know just how much is left in each sentence-
Broken Symmetries
The unity and interrelation between a material object and its environment
Is closely paralleled by that of the Eastern mystic
Where the workings of a magic box are always found on the inside.
Beyond this there is no real knowledge
And yet
Out the window the pretty boy plays and sings silence,
The child stands wide eyed so we can have this poetic moment to talk about innocence
And all forms defy description and specification,
but
What we imagined then and what we know now
Could make our consciousness and unstoppable force.
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