Poetic Intent

1000 Miles Away

To Josh at 2:13 a.m., July 7th

Transferring past poems

from pulverized trees

to glowing synapses,

keeping me from sleep.

Or was it the coffee?

lots of sky

Death of Antiquity

Grandpa died like an antique

taking 25 years to leave.

I remember him only broken.


I don’t know why

I bother collecting the pieces.

if I had them all

I wouldn’t know how they fit.


I assemble a misshapen puzzle

the ever-expanding picture priceless to me

and refuse to appraise it

for fear it’s as worthless as fear can be.

Chain linked no more candy

Filthy Rich

I took a shit

in a summer mansion

made for the Vanderbilts.

It was a surprise

to find the toilet paper

was single ply.

Light Pyramid

It was then

It was 2007,

or eight,

when I sold my car

with high expectations of public transportation.

Fat-bellied, silver, subway locomotives,

vomiting suits, cooks, baristas, hipsters, gangsters, grandmothers, dresses for any occasion, baby carriages, slicked hair, loose clothing, no underwear with legs showing, face dismantled by a cruel deity, hasn’t even glimpsed the doorway labeled puberty let alone wandered in, empty pack of cigarettes kicked across the threshold.

The spittle of bile dripping from a two-dollar Monday’s trembling chin.

‘I just want it to stop,’

The train screeched at every platform and station,

‘goddamn people won’t stay off.’

A well lit hallway

Sunny-day, Telephone call

You are the sunny-day, telephone call

that leaves every insult sunburnt and brittle

on the back of my tongue.

I won’t be the one to start the rain,

and you wouldn’t know a cloud

if it fell to earth in a final thanatic thrill,

and screamed, “LOOK AT ME!”

when it hit the ground at your feet.


Starbucks, Americano

Sitting behind the tall windows,

staring at moving pictures of people

walking back and forth down Harvard Sq

waiting for my Americano to cool down.

A chinaman argues with an Iraqi

over parking validation a block away.

A homeless, negro woman long over due in death

asks to borrow my phone to call a shelter

for a place to sleep the night away.

“I’m not good with numbers,”

she says to me.

“I’ll dial,” I respond,

“you just talk.”

“I can do that,” she says, “I can do that.”

30 busy signals in seven minutes

before it finally rings.

“It’s a competition,” she says.

“You’ll win,” I respond.

I hand her the phone.

She huddles in her chair

like a guinea pig in a cage

as I sip an Americano.

“It’s validated!” the chinaman screams,

“I want to speak to your manager.”

“I am the manager,” the Iraqi replies.

The negro woman hands me my phone.

She doesn’t talk.

Not one word.

“Is everything set?” I ask.

She smiled a nearly toothless smile.

“I ain’t never won a thing in my life.”

She picks up a grocery bag of her life’s belongings

and walks slowly out of the Starbucks.

“I’m goddamn glad we’re bombing your country,”

I hear the chinaman say.

“Tell it to your child slaves,” the Iraqi responds.

Neither one watching the old lady

as she passes them by.

I just sit and stare from behind the tall Starbucks glass

before throwing out my Americano

for being too cold.



“Jesus Saves”

hung horizontal

on a telephone pole

60 feet off of I-93 North.

I wondered if that telephone poll

took someone’s life away.

The World on a Block

Chinese fragments

tripped up on verbose usage

of verbs.

With taxi screaming Indians

fighting the good fight

for tired tourists.

Estonian giggle

Left me jonezin’

For an American Spirit,

But 7-11 only speaks Haitian

and I don’t know any fucking French.

The Guardian of the Street

Saving the Children

Saving the Children swam Her way through the crowd

with perky breasts bouncing happy as Her smile.

Pink flip-flopped feet on tip-toe

She scans businessheads

hoping to catch their eyes.

“Hello,” She says

arching Her back for sales.

“I like your tie.  Buy a child?

Only ten cents,

and who doesn’t have ten cents these days?”

I’m sure She’ll succeed.

Suckling on Her perky Tits

Saving the Children will keep

the world’s HaveNots well fed.

Standing alone at 100 feet


It hit me

like an asthma attack.

I couldn’t breathe

not a single breath.

Deprived of oxygen

it was only natural

I lost my reason.


I’m sorry I said it.

The after life

Dead Dream

It lay unmoving on a paved street

in Boston’s Downtown Crossing.

Its neck snapped by debt,

roped around the throat like a noose.

Pink Canopy

A Blessed Man

A Blessed Man walked up to me

a ragged backpack slung over his left shoulder

a handrolled cigarette between his remaining eleven teeth


letting out pathetic wisps of smoke.

“Let me cut the bullshit,”

he said.

“There is a Peter Pan bus coming around in an hour

and I need to hook a ride.

You look like a good kid and I got $10 in my pocket

But I need 9 more to get where I’m heading.”

I refused the initial impulse

to ignore the Blessed Man,

maybe it was something he had said.

“All I got is change,” I replied.

Then reached deep in my pocket to give him what I would.

“Do you want the pennies?”

screaming love

Faults and Weaknesses, pick-up lines


I have trouble talking

with those I want

 to see naked.

My mouth,

a time machine,

speaking as if we’re the elderly

who never shied away

from youthful orgies.

Thus destroying the life in between

until my teeth are gnawing

on my thigh

and my foot is shat

onto the floor.

Indecisive and vulgar

I have trouble realizing a beginning

when I’ve already penned

the end.


A proud man I am,

yet I feel inferior

for disbelieving this modesty.

I become what I’m not

to fight a hubric enemy

I decline to say

“Damn, I’m good,”

even though my thoughts reassure me

of this truth.

Self deprecating

I shut up

when I have words to speak


You are talking.

bon apetit

Cake of Shit

the minor things

become the candles

on a cake of shit.

and you gotta blow ’em out.

Squirrel away your love

Roadkill along the Way

Dead domesticated dogs,

and firestone flattened felines.


it wasn’t that bad,

was it?


White night

I like the Flower

I like the flower

that Kim Dupee drew.


smiling on the T’s wall

in full view.

It don’t remind me of nothing

so, I’m thinking

of everything.

It is a bit more of a bite

than I can chew.

I like the mural

that Ms. Kinsington’s preschool painted.

It was filled with red

and green

though it was done

months after Christmas.

It tickled my eye

like a peacock’s feather

and made me want to be

a little bit better.

I like the picture

of you,

naked and sleeping.

A solitary nipple peaking

from under the covers

and a little pool of drool

on your pillow.

I swore I’d never

show anyone the photo,

but I know others

have seen this scene.

Was I the only one

with a camera?

I believe

it’s just like the flower

that Kim Dupee drew.



not only for me

to view.

Union of lights

Drunk Bricks and Sober Bums

Drunk bricks

staggered up and down the street,

bumping into passing pedestrians,

begging tourists for a trip.

The sober bums

laughed like older brothers

who knew better.

They poured handle after handle of port

onto the inebriated path before them.

“Now you see,”

They sang together,

“Better you than me.”

A coffee cup

The Blind Man of Back Bay Station

checked his coffee cup

for change

that’s never there

as the bulk of Boston

blew by

with nothing to give,

not even time.

Flowers on the dirt on the sidewalk


Every second of your life

is your entire life,

passing second by second.

before now

Late Night Pizza Line after the Bar

“Leave it alone, or I’ll fuck you like a bitch.”

“I don’t know why she says his dick’s small.”

“Youda man!”

“You’re a cunt.”



“Get away from me! I’m gonna puke.”

“Best sales on drunk shopping every week.”

“Can I get a slice of cheese?”

“We only have pepperoni.”

“but I’m vegan.”

“What are you writing?”

Absolutely nothing.


A colorful oblivion


Business has gotten the better of me.

The practical strangling the dream.

I’m afraid I’ve gone insane.

Chatting with the invisible on the phone.

Disembodied voices annoyed by my banter.

One of them owns a dog.

door after door after

Yellowed Scrap Paper

I remember,

when I was a little girl.

It was such a beautiful place.

The 1880’s

people ran a different human race.

Oh wait.

Smoky street

I think she’s still sad

I was in love with a girl

who used to slice her wrists.


she drinks chardonnay

and watches nothing but slasher flicks.

I think she’s still sad.

Don't Walk

Peter Pan

We stood in the light of possibilities,

but didn’t know which way to choose.

We happened across sensuality

              to let go this shadow.

to take your hand and flee.

A block of boulevard behind our backs,

two marionettes stumbling,

under the street lights woe.

With time they dimmed in slow anticipation,

under layers of trivialities,

and benign troubles soon to grow.

I held you with a maniac’s glare,

You whispered back with a playwrite’s flare.

And we kissed for bliss and times long ago.

Days of the Week

Monday lay in bed with Tuesday,

tears streaming down her flush hours,

sobs hiccupping the minutes,

Sunday’s spit still clinging to her cheek.

Tuesday waited until Monday left the next morning

and decided to change his ways.

No more, enough, never again,

He informed Wednesday of these decisions.

Wednesday held back for fear of the consequences,

leaving Tuesday to fend for himself.

Tuesday didn’t make it.

He left for Monday,

cursing himself for being so blind.

Wednesday bit his tongue,

and avoided saying goodbye.

He shut himself in his study instead,

to count moments gone by.

He lost track of the evening,

Nearly not noticing Thursday’s knock on his door.

It took half an hour before Wednesday stood from his seat.

‘3,654,’ he said to himself,

then opened the door,

and promptly died.

Thursday felt she was to blame.

Friday wouldn’t argee,

She was sure of that,

But Friday was an opinionated bitch,

Desperately trying to swim in Thursday’s pubic hair.

She didn’t swing that way,

Friday never gave up the chase.

Enough is enough, thought Thursday,

Wednesday was dead,

Monday gone with Tuesday,

and all Friday talked about was sixty-nining.

Thursday said, ‘Fuck it,’

and wrote a bullshit book.

She called it fiction.

It sold three million copies in the first week.

Friday read it twenty-eight times

enthralled with its straight talking text,

lacking beautiful imagery.

It was a downer,

but Friday was down.

The book became a repulsing magnet,

shooting Friday’s mood into giddy meaninglessness with roller coaster wheels.

After her fourth reading,

she decided to give up Thursday.

It was over now,

The book made that clear.

Saturday thought it was over-hyped.

‘A pointless plot coupled with childish dialogue.

Not too mention, the narration reeked of shit.

Why would Friday care so much?

It makes no sense,’ Saturday said to Sunday over cocktails.

‘Some things don’t,’ Sunday replied,

‘I just wish Wednesday was still alive.’

‘You don’t care about Monday leaving?’

‘No,’ Sunday said later that night with Saturday’s snoring head on his chest,

‘I don’t care about Monday in the slightest.’

He spat at the quiet world.

Then fell asleep,

never seeing Monday’s face pressed against the window.

Towering spire

A bad joke to tell at a party when the beer is running low.

There was once a man named Greg who wanted a perfect wife.

He put a five-karat diamond on a platinum band,

Then shoved it to base of his penis.

‘The first girl,’ he said, ‘to retrieve it completely hands-off,

keeps the prize.’

I saw him two years later in Portland,

the five-karat diamond gleaming spectacularly

on the right hand of his companion.

‘I’m Tom,’ his spouse said as he shook my hand

the platinum band pushed to the base of his ring finger,

‘Gregory speaks so highly of you.’

“And of you too.”

Darkened Crypts

A thought on a bus

I want them

to turn off the lights

on the bus.

I want to see

where I’m going,

without seeing

where I am.

The view from my front door

An Ode to No Emotions

The sky was blue.

The street was gray,

or is it spelled grey?

I was on the sidewalk.

A car drove by,

but I didn’t wave.

Portside view from the back of a bike


At 8:25 p.m.

on a Wednesday in March,

it can be hard to find

something to do

when you’re avoiding your apartment

so your roommate can fuck.

Sex can be inconvenient,

when you’re not having it.

The Death of TV


Someday soon,

entertainment will die.

It’ll be buried

with a dollar bill

and the spit

of a generation of artists.

They’ll say,

“About goddamn time,”

with pictures,

and paintings,

and poems,

and books,

and songs,

and silence only boredom could kill,

and the world will shout,


and pay dollar after dollar

to agree.


How’re the chicken kabobs? asked the customer.

The chicken kabobs? The waitress responded.

Why, they’re simply amazing.

The best I’ve ever tasted.

Slow roasted in an ancestral, tin kettle

over a wood fire stoked by hand for ten hours -at least.

The choice of seasoning’s secret

a recipe handed down from one generation to the next,

since the fall of the Greco empire.

I’m a vegetarian myself

and I eat the chicken kabobs.

I would kill the chicken for these kabobs -strangle it myself.

Truly, the best choice on the menu, the waitress concluded.

I’ll have the steak, the customer decided.

Parking Lot Ocean

There is a parking lot behind my apartment building.  It is expansive and sliced with 2083 yellow lines.

One winter, it turned to ice and the moon’s reflection reflected an ocean to my eyes.  I smoked a cigarette –shivering- and watched Cadillac tides roll onto Toyota beaches.

‘Hmm,’ I thought, ‘doesn’t look good for swimming.’

I Pray

A black man on the train

cleaned a tarnished, golden Crucifix

hanging around his neck.

He peeled Jesus from His cross.

giving the back a good scrub.

“Thanks,” Jesus said.

“Can I get you a drink?”

the man offered.  “Whiskey or gin?”

“Better I didn’t,” Jesus replied

climbing back onto his cross.

“I have enough trouble staying on as is.”

Abe Force

Modern Colonial

Near the heart of a city

-closer to the lung-

I stood smoking an American Spirit

between three towers

taller than Babel.

A colonial blacksmith

-in a tri-corner cap-

commuted by.

“I’m off to the Freedom Trail,”

he said into his cell phone,

before taking a sip of a Starbucks Coffee

held in his moisturized hand.


Your words were sugar to my ears,

but you talked and talked,

until I convulsed in diabetic shock

with each honey suckled syllable,

you spoke.


I told you to think of the happiest moment in your life.

To remember every detail

Not the color

Not the companion

Forget the portrait

Focus on the landscape

Every blade of grass

Every pine needle

Then you rolled over and apologized for showing me this side of you.

Van in the rain and pink

Crossing Exchange

A Japanese exchange student in Portland, Maine crossed the street.

He waited for the lights to give him the go ahead,

then carried six packs of corona, miller, and budweiser-King of beers.

Halfway across,

the corona fucked itself over with a muffled crack.

– a light-up caricature merrily blinked white against black frame-

4 bottles dead,

2 mortally wounded.

The Japanese exchange student in Portland, Maine glanced at the carnage.

Sudsy blood flowed away with the rain’s reflection thrown off Exchange street.

“Kotaru,” I think he said, then ran the hell away like a poem written in the dark.

Scary house

2 Apartment Trilogy

Infant Antichrist cries

born to a bastard’s mom,

as always it should be.

Drunken Devil sings

“Fuck child support,

let the beast find his own home.”

“Shut Up!”

I yell through the ceiling.

“I’m trying to sleep.”


Land-locked Directions

A white-tip, reef shark pulled up in a maroon, Chrysler mini-van.

“Is this Nevada?” he asked leaning out the driver-side window.

“It’s New Hampshire,” I replied.  “Nevada’s about 2000 miles that way.”

“Goddamned land,” the reef shark barked.

He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled out his gills.

“Don’t smoke in front of the guppies,” his wife reprimanded.

“I want to go to Disneyland!”

“Me too!”

“Me Three!”

“Shut Up, Everyone!” Papa shark scolded,

“Or I’m driving this thing back into the Ocean!”

“You should buy a map,” I suggested.

“Fuck it,” Papa shark replied.

He backed up,

then drove his maroon, Chrsyler mini-van away from me.

His fin hung from the driver’s side window

clutching a near-extinguished cigarette,

lost on goddamned land.


I once met the most forgotten boy,

in all the world.

He paid seventy dollars a month,

for a cellular telephone.

“No one has called it,”

He said to me.

I asked for his number.

He gave it freely.

“I’ll call tomorrow,

we’ll go feed ducks.”

He just laughed.

When I phoned the next day,

a woman answered

with an annoyed tone.

“Goddamn Telemarketers,”

she stormed.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“Fuck you,”

was the return.

“I’m looking for the most forgotten boy,

in all the world.,”

I explained.

“Never heard of him,” she replied

then hung up on her end.


“I’m a Greek god,

a Cuban pimp,

and a drunk Irishman,”

He said to me.

“I’m an American.”

Staring at a Fish, art

A podium stage in Harvard Sq.

I wondered,

if I got on

would the university ask me

to get off?

How surprised they’d be

when I did

get off.

An Accord

If you offer,

it’s yours.

If you don’t want it,

don’t offer.


Going up

In the End

I’m leaving

the way I came in

some may joke

there is not

a vagina that big,


I believe

Mother Nature

will arrange it.


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