Freedom from Expectation
"<p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal;">I want the world to crawl back out from its intricate caves</p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style=""> &nbs . . ."
What We Need to Hear on the Subway
January 20th - Goshen, NY
"<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:/// . . ."
How to Write a Song
"Occasionally,<br>I'll look in the mirror and<br>wonder how I would look in that red shirt.<br>So I take off what I was<br>already wearing,<br>put on that red shirt,<br>stand in front of the mirror<br>and find out what I look like<br>when I wear that . . ."
Working in Progress
"<font class="Apple-style-span" face="'Courier New'">Sitting in silence with </font><div><font class="Apple-style-span" face="'Courier New'">no cigarette to hold me. </font></div><div><font class="Apple-style-span" face="'Courier New'">In th . . ."
"Winter has rejected us. <br>We slept one long, last time<br>and woke up<br>to still grey<br>went to the bathroom <br>and seeing our faces for the first time,<br>we blinked our eyes, nervous in the new<br>sunlight,<br>collected our letters from<br>cre . . ."
2005, Closed For Storm
"The lights were blinding<br>I writhed in them<br><br>you all<br>gathered around to watch.<br><br>Even now,<br>Matilda, the psychic in Dallas, Texas<br><br>Dallas<br>Texas<br><br>reads those outstretched palms<br>so close to prayer,<br>and us silent < . . ."
"<b>Sleep Well</b><div>(For Julian)</div><div><br></div><div>Falling, towards</div><div>No one knows what is next,</div><div>Like a backwards</div><div>Christ, who they say rose</div><div>Some thousand years ago today,</div><div>Ninety feet or</div><d . . ."
"Those places left their mark on us,<br>For sure--<br><br>I turned to you in the meadow;<br>you held out your arm for me to feel.<br>Even my fingers felt scarred, as the ridges<br>of the mountains were the same<br>as the contour of the hammock<br>as t . . ."
"I know some guy<br>Who knew some people<br>Who died,<br>once.<br><br>They were climbing a rotting place<br>Filled with names<br>and glass<br>and bolts<br>and the oxidized steel<br>sure was beautiful,<br><br>and the lights<br>from that height.<br><br> . . ."
"<br>Which train<br>carried <br>how far?<br><br>Maybe in questions, you found<br><br>your compass <br>somehow always looking <br>in the direction in which you<br>were already facing--<br><br>your toes<br>one step ahead of <br>your feet.<br><br>I was s . . ."
"Later on sleeping<br>in some far off bed,<br><br>cotton summer<br>with easy wind and some<br><br>breathing<br><br>I turned to kiss your mouth,<br>(like what we do)<br>and saw the light on your lips.<br>It was diffuse in your throat,<br>and highlighte . . ."
"<div>Pine Away</div><div><br></div><div>Her teeth are all fucked up,</div><div>endearingly. Disordered </div><div>like a mirror displaying</div><div>all history at once.</div><div><br></div><div>The coffee drank</div><div>mornings under the hang . . ."
The Revolution will be in Three-Four
Rocks Are Unaware of Everything, Criminals Included.
"<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: small; ">The clock cracked and</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><font class="Apple-style-span" face="'Courier New'"><span class="Apple-style-span" sty . . ."
My Son, the Sword Swallower
Liza Esposito was never happy with her son’s choice of occupation. He’d been a plumber for a while now, while she guessed was better than his previous choices. He’d been quite a skilled barista at Starbucks, but was fired after he was caught jacking off into the bags of coffee beans. He’d shined shoes for a while at the airport. He’d tried designing children’s toys and candies, but none of his clever inventions ever took off. Fish shaped lollipops didn’t sell when they actually tasted like fish. He’d tried painting too, but was just like every other “painter” before him, who though Polluck a God and thought that by trying to recreate his emotional splatters he’d become the next famed abstract emotional painter. He didn’t. But Liza’s least favorite time of her son’s life was when he’d taken up sword swallowing and other such horrific endeavors to join a group of mediocre traveling circus performers. She remembered the day she’d walked into his room to find him hammering a nail in his nose. Her scream made him strike the nail extra hard and he pulled the nail out quickly and started gushing blood out of his right nostril. “But mom! It’s an ancient art, dating back to 2000 BC.” But why? She could never understand what would drive someone to learn an art so horrifying.