The Funny One

The rush that comes

When the palms hit the table—

When quick wit

Works faster than you’re able

To discern. The turn it took,

On the way to the tongue.

You become—

Euphorious.

It’s a glorious feeling

To be

At the head end

When the butt’s stuck

Between rebuttal

And the scuttle of laughing limbs.

It begins

As an accident

And quickly grows.

It knows

How to work the room.

And soon

It shows.

Each smirk received—

Answers recede.

I think I peed my pants

Is the tango,

Is the dance,

Is the number.

One rule.

There is but one.

Despite the fun,

Don’t fumble.

Come to a close

When it knows

There’s

Not much more to say.

You’re funny, doll.

Let’s keep it that way.

Ireland / Fall 2013

The Woman Who Sold Her Soul

The Woman Who Sold Her Soul

Here is a story of a woman, maladjusted

Her lifestyle deemed qualities

For which she felt no just was

Given to her in her flowery form

Of daisies and lilies and

Keeping meals warm.

Unable to cope, succumb, or exist

In a world where her feminine whiles persist

In pursuit of a king guised as pauper or peasant 

In pursuit of the duty to make ones live pleasant

She summoned the powers, darkly cloaked

Deep inside. She wished for the devil

To possess her mind’s eye

And conjure the wicked, the powers that be

Sell her soul for the privilege to stand up and pee.

It’s more than a method

It’s more than that—no

The privilege to pen ones name in the snow

Without using ink, and without using hands

A pleasure from which adorned ladies

Are banned.

There once was a woman struck down by woe

Amidst a long journey—she just had to go

She had been here before, but the pain

Not as tragic. She scowled, closed her eyes

And summoned the magic.

Of a thousand years banished

And a thousand times scorned

She drew darkness from a place

She had been forewarned

Would harden with darkness the world she did see

Forever for the privilege to stand up and pee

It’s more than a method

It’s more than a dream.

The ability to produce a near perfect stream

Without bending the knees, without wrinkling clothes

Not allowed of those who

Take the shape of a rose.

A pleasure from which gents inherit their stance

A hassle for those at the end of their glance

Across a crowded room

There were locked eyes.

Between the two, a spark, it flies

And in an instant, he blinked

No longer he could see

His beauty. Because she had stepped out to pee

It’s more than a method

It’s more than that—no

The privilege to pen ones name in the snow

Without using ink, and without using hands

A pleasure from which adorned ladies

Are banned.

It’s not much to grant,

And we’re offering our souls

We’re exchanging in blood

Our time growing old

It’s not much to ask

Just a simple decree

Grant us the privilege

To stand up and pee.

Ireland / Fall 2013

Inspired by Bob Dylan's Tarantula

Ignorance and Fear, 

as a matter of fact 

Everyone is listening and there isn’t any show on the overarching add-clad silently screaming radio. Everyone is listening for the beep of an outreached thumb at the end of a line that only exists in the mind. The tune of the tone forgot where he left his keys & they’re sitting somewhere along his generic inherent inherited possession trail. The Holy Grail was 4Loko and the membrane-numbing veil of chumming and thumbing through books you’ve barely begun and know you won’t see the end of. Pretend does apply to the existing actuality of a different time…reflected in the bouncing of the mirrors of the mind before it falls asleep. Today’s type of poets in the public’s mind, their words have the music to lean on & so, the kids situated in seats, plug into a present that struggles even to keep up with its own train of thought, with itself. We try not to melt as, with purpose, we swarm towards the lamplight emitting the heat. Beseech the common word—haven’t you heard? Is it so much fun once you’ve fully begun to melt into the floorboards & spit a sharp thanks to the shark tank that solidifies churning desires…those of those who will never bore nor accept the chore of patiently pondering Nevermore.  We try not to melt as we flick the tips of our fingers over the slick Bics that light our cancer sticks & we try not to melt as we delve into deeper tumultuous waters where the core emits its force & we try not to melt under the scorching wet heat of the faucet stream & we scream with delight into a night that promised response but rescinded at the last moment. Instead, the wind whispers Pinocchio knows best & the unrest is killing our killing power. The reeling force of remorse rings out in the wee hours of the morning, without warning, waking one from sleep prior to the beep of alarm. The clock strikes fifteen minutes late as your eyes open up for the day’s first time. You’ve born the burden of a wretched disguise you picked out from an assembly line carefully & with an exquisite amount of ease. Open the blinds enough to stretch your eyes but not enough to meet a stranger’s guise. As day breaks, chains take the form of status update terrors and the next race of the debased tragically beautifully over-sharers takes its place atop the corner of a stone placed in a very important person’s garden, ironically. It’s a chronic sleeplessness & there’s so much to be done & the idea of what is yet to come ascends the ladder laden with a smattering of differing notions of become. Yet, what’s done is done & planted, grown, where left is left but not alone.

Bronx / 1/17/14