not drunk enough to write

sip sip shot shot

every corner hides a memory

a laugh, a regret

line ‘em up, keep ‘em coming

i have a lot to remember this evening

all the drunks are teasing me

this sober hobo writing in this crowded man-bar

not sure what kind of mission you are on

she says as she seductively suggests

straight slams of dark amber agave

can’t seem to get this heart off my sleeve

as my intention is to go forward, every moment

with inexhaustible passion

until I run myself clear away from existence…

the only way I know how to live

af

(written with pen on paper)

There is a sign on the beach that prohibits camping

and a thought enters my mind about how much sand and coast

this country has and how we

the people born here, who labor here, die here

in order to sleep on this tranquility

either:

need permission, usually at a cost

must purchase the land (at a cost and prohibition to others)

are outright banned from doing so altogether

A person, a human being

needs to ask permission to sleep on the earth…

that is the society we have established

that is the world you seem perfectly content to live with

the rules you are willing to follow

So disconnected

So sadly, sadly disconnected

that we praise ourselves for

visiting occasionally

acknowledging seldomly

and generally betray what gives us this life

So spoiled are we by our narcissism

I do not fear too much for what inevitably is to happen

but I think that it is unfortunate

because we accept that we are prohibited

from sleeping in the sand

af

(written with pen on paper)

The red room

built by hand

ten years prior to my existence

fathered now same as then

warm rich with the blood

of his sweat for my

little portal of Bohemia

The red room

upstairs in the cow’s end

past the dreamers and hustlers

through the silk, satin and salted sea musk

where I first felt the earth shake

and my perspective re-examined

The red room

four walls breathing curiosity

eager to help; willing to compromise

a quiet solace for us romantics

who have no home, no family

but an insatiable stubbornness

to never give up hope for love

af

(written with pen on paper)

Two People

strangers

sharing the same

same

same thought

Eyes connect

and they understand

only to go

back inside

to believe

the first thing they hear

and turn away

from each other

Two complete strangers

always remaining that way

af

(written with pen on paper)

How will I hear myself scream

if I keep burying myself in the dirt of

what I have believed my life has become

I wish so hard at times

that I had another moment with my memories

so as to replace the anguish of the past

and the horrible decisions

choices

that have created this tainted perspective

and have licked away my briny tears.

» Read the rest of this entry «

Such a weird feeling

realizing I have everything I have ever wanted

for my life

Right at this moment

it is seven fifty seven in the am and

I awoke an hour ago to the sound of the sunrise

and the crash of waves, high tide

on the beach that I now live on

for this moment in my life

At this moment

I am sitting in a faded-red leather corner chair

whose arms are giving me my first hug of the morning

(first of eight)

staring out the window as the

blue sky slips itself over the clouds;

two lovers about to part

so the sun can come out and recharge us all;

the mountains holding an armful of water

ready to clean me, echoing the morning calls of serenity

and rock metal music

At this moment

I live in old Coney Island

I live at the Mardi Gras

I am a piece of the freak show…

everything I’ve ever wanted

af

(written with pen on paper)

Everyone’s in the game

smooth talking the elderly and homeless alike

knowing less than they should

but selling the creamy bullshit better than most

It is the secret of the business

flash and grin with the charm

to alleviate the odor from an insignificant waste

of Pan-given resources

Wood to wood, stoop to steaming stoop in

the melting summers of the American institution

a little too loud, slightly too proud

masked in marshmallow sweetness

to conceal the sour intention of a lost belief in the

muses and nymphs who once brought truth to

a Bohemian humanity from which the

cells of the redundant have evolved

One bite, teeth sinking deep into the sweetness of lust

powdered sugary coating the hours that seem to always

hide the insecurity of never quite knowing a place of existence

The salesman trudges door to door

peddling dreams of the lost highways that once hitched

clear across a once great country while believing in the simplicity of

the fantasy of one delicious marshmallow man

af

(written drunk with pen on paper)