about sandy and the space between you and I

When we speak, we whisper in craacked hums

they bleed through our fingers in variations of

ones and zeros

and contradictions flow between them, edging out

the missed touch and memories of swollen eyes

that keep us together, close

close

close between the yellowing walls of my privileged entrapment

close between your painted yellow walls of forced independence

but we are close

she wailed to me, the other night.

As she tore through trampolines and phone wires

casting green branches to the ground for their arrogance

and still life

like a wolf she howled through the Caribbean

scattering the children of her tears with only a thought, an echo of her touch

and I heard her on my windows

calling me outside for another bummed cigarette

pieced together from fallen leaves and burned with fuel flown up

from the cholera'ed canals of forgotten countries

and we are close between the wind and rain

close

close between the boarders of mad kings swinging sticks like

broken bones,

guarded by whipped horses and blocked by a teeming pool of life

close between space

close

she was not angry, ever

just spreading her arms over us with fractal ease

following streamlines created by gaps in our logic

by one in the afternoon, she was just fingertips

tapping rapidly to get our attention, but too soft for me to notice

by three in the afternoon, she'd emptied great cities

and even I could not walk without exclaiming her progress

between you and her I sat

sending whispers of craaccckkkkked hummm

in ones and zeros, dodging the contradiction of

ones and zeros

there is only one

and zero is not

and between them is you and I, and we are close

close

close

about the clouds and the moon

as the moon drifts through the sky

leaving trails of lunar reflection

in the hearts of clouds

I can see your eyes

blue and cracked white

focusing back at me

It is the most rough-cut of mirrors

and you, the brightest of suns

does it shine brighter when you can see it?

or do I just look harder when I think you're watching it as well

3:30

There's a slice of it

sliding through my curtains

reminding me of your lunacy in the purest sense of

the word

I am

tired and d d d d a bunch of forced coughs

and think k k k king of you

as I draw out words to ignore the slowing rate of the passing of time

deep in the edges of my ash stained couch

drawing deep from the edges of my memory for words that I

can't seem to find

and the slice of it is

not quite fully formed

and the ants in my eyes/

not quite fully focused

on the task of falling asleep

it's 3:23 in the morning and

my academic sleeping patterns are playing tricks on my mind

and d d d a bunch of forced blinking

is mak k k k king my eyes hurt

and, well

I should sleep

but my fingers cannot stand keys as a replacement for your spine

so I'll tap poetry into plastic

until I see you again

Hey

I am going to focus on getting published so more people can read my poems. This means that I won't be posting everything I write on this blog. Wow, I really don't write very much.

ugh

shelter

I'm sitting in stamford hill, wedged between synagogues and kosher wine

sipping from the cup of shared dissent, it is pained on the walls

in portraits of past madness, lines drawn with impulse, driven by intangible memories

repeated blue and orange essence, wired forms and abstract black and white obscenities

and is this obscene?

Stealing space from the void, reclaiming the un-used red and black walls,

tracing the textures of flowers that creep up the

un-used red and white walls

and I dare not move past my vantage point, up the spiral staircase

past the dogs and cats, and laundry and water bowls for the dogs and cats

and art, always art, spinning up and down in a whirlwind of expression

and dogs and cats, and there was only one cat but there were so many

walls

and at the top, Andy Dreads might be clicking away at his computer,

or just laying calm on his high-legged bed

I can only see glimpses of it, projecting my mind step by step

towards open doors and familiar adjustments

drawing my fingers across dark brown wooden banisters

the voices that linger and waft out of the walls and door frames speak in many tongues

worldly accents crinkle and slip through high-ceilinged rooms

and I am among them, in this foreign land, hiding from the reality of rent and stable living

and I, who came out of the rain, soaked and tired, smelling of cigarettes and tension

was let through the threshold and given a bed

About San Francisco

1.

we are all little slips of it just

rough ends of unfinished sentences

rough beads of rolling beads of

bean fed little birds off set by

setting suns in the fog of their

repossessed nothingnesses

and expressions of poetic

miss-thoughts

this is not how it should start

in the park, overlooking the

steep edges of oakland

and I'm fucking up before I even start

I'm just overwhelmed by

the sun and the grass,

and the size of this page it

could go on for days

and it's clear now but

night time brings cold fog

and haze

If I was thinking right I'd

have beautiful thoughts

but I'm shrunk into a

place of unwanted smallness

of mind and of sight

if I could see further,

if I could think with a calm mind

2.

What if we were all as free as she

without the ceremonial flowers of remembrance

pounding the earth beneath her with

cosmic energy, drawn down from the

cos

mos

from

the the open open the

back edge of the sharp hill she dances on

toes on green

heels in the air

body twisting to the will of the breeze and

beat

lungs full of a wail of pleasure

and

cos

mic

will power

Dolores park is a spinning gypsy

hair cut and the smell of

ancient acceptance

and she

is falling off the edge

with the wind in her

hair, and she

is with the others just

3.

green is green in instances of green when green is brown and can be glances of blue too and green can be black when up against brown leading to green which is green when green is just green which is blue jeans on green in sections of patches it seems to be green and the patterns of feet which after the green are the patterns of blue which can be red and then green as the eye passes over and repeats the green which instantly seems just as green, just as green.

4.

I can imagine it, all full of hope and

the innocence of not knowing

and I guess that's what it is now

pastoral drumming and the freedom

of dance

breathing in the memory of 67

and probably 76 too

tanned bodies bobbing to

terrestrial beats while their

disregard for spiritual gravity

floats above them

balanced kicks laden with a

southern vibration that shakes

these northern hills of California

the exalted freedom of

expressed excess, coursing through

the blood that rushes

to my head and through my eyes

and my fingers

and there's a ringing

like sleigh bells that

reminds me of the portable

refrigerator reality of 2011

and it's really here

at the end of a long

tired nap

in the sun

under a palm tree in San Francisco

5.

Number 4 oh 50 on the side edge

of the easy street

sipping deep from the air around

with a nicotine straw

and you can hear the music

even when his breathing stops

and the beat is drawn with

the steady, slow clicking of

empty keys on brass and

stainless soul

as his grin-less smile taps the

edges of reed,

and what he's learned from

the universe slips through

the cracks in his teeth

6.

all the other dogs

are jealous of his quick,

long legs

especially the ones who are

too wound up to use their own

enough

It won't ever be enough to just see your thoughts spelled out

shaped into jagged sigils of assumed meaning, loaded with

ions

from the stars and your finger tips

it won't ever be enough to hear your voice

cautious and quick, even sometimes a whisper

and oh when you whisper

and the pointed lines of your personal gasp

slips

through

your lips

but when I can feel your skin between the lines

of my finger tips

and see the star dust left over

from our arrogance at skipping over fumbling

and fucking

when I can feel golden and safe

sheltered from the lack of importance

of our beeps and clicks

and find that deep, crackling hum

it will be enough

it will be enough

and I will carry it

wrapped in flowers and linen

in a glass bottle

with a rubber top

so when hear your voice

I can wring it's edges

and breath in our frayed,

fourth dimensional

meeting

and it will be enough

it will be enough

so when I see your thoughts spelled out

bent around gullys in the cosmic river of

the visions before me

I can rub my fingers across the letters,

coating them with ions from

the star stuff you're made of