Extra Extra

I go through fits,
periods where I
hate everything written on
this infernal
screen.

Other times I see it and
I think,
"Why,
I do believe the old boy
might have said a thing
or two."

Here recently
I simply feel like a whining
poor excuse for
a very poor man's
Bukowski.

Ripping off the old man
in style and
subject matter.

Well there you have it,
an update for the Facebook generation.

At this time:
I have two jobs that often amount to
16 hour days,
a final semester of online schooling,
and a ten dollar per day
organic juice habit.

Lightly peppered with:
Once per week Russian tutoring,
trying to spend more time with my family,
hitting the gym regularly and
singing for a buck or two.

All in all
I couldn't be
happier.

I'll remember this one

fondly.

I got a call the other day.

She phoned me screaming about
her power bill.

It was too high and
I had to answer
for it.

I had told her that
I was cold
one night in late Jan,
and my villainous ways
apparently cost her
the world.

I listened and
took a bite of a banana.

Outside gas went up
4 cents and
The pope resigned as
the heavens ignited
over
Russia.

One hundred and forty dollars
were charged and
one selfish woman
made me
laugh.


In other news,
I dialed up Stephanie
just now.
I haven't heard her voice in
months,
maybe almost a year,
but when she said that first hello I
felt ok.

I remembered the F train and
47-50th streets
Rockefeller Center.

Family isn't always blood.

That kid saved me once.
Gentle hands and an ear
can bring you back
from the edge
sometimes.

I love you too Steph.

Goodnight.

It is difficult...

I suppose that I could stop there,

but I've grown to understand.

As years wear on I watch my
roots grow older as
time passes and
I see reflections of who
I will be and
am.

I am a sensitive soul
and often very intense and
easy to
offend.

I get unreasonably angry
and unfathomably
sad.

Don't be surprised if I
take things too personally
but,
my apologies,
I feel it all hard
in a cumbersome
soul.

I never stop caring,
far past expiration,
because with some people I
literally fall
hopelessly in
love.
(In more ways than one
not all love is
flesh
pressed on
flesh.)

This is what causes solitude,
and distance
and periods of
hiding
misunderstanding
and unfounded
shame.

The smell of a summer night is
something I wish that
I could write down and
send express post paid
to people who
have seen me
cry.

But you see,
most people don't think like this.

They are ducks and
time is water on their backs
and we don't understand each other
at all.

If smoke brought not cancer
and wine mayhem,
then you would find me somewhere
years in the past
sitting at a table
outside a tiny, shed of a two-bed
with a dreamlike company
and
wide-eyed wonder
at what tomorrow
might
bring.




For the ghosts

I can hear them upstairs.
I can hear them
moan
scream
ohdaddyyes!

Men at work.
Passion in action.
Caution:
wet
floor.

We pair up eventually.

"I can't take it anymore,
walk with me.
I have a space
fill it
up.

I want to roll off
and walk naked toward
the fridge.
I need a turkey sandwich.
I work up a hunger
after putting in
some pumps and
thrusts.

I am all
that is
man."

They're up there
working away.

The joy of roommates
and
neighbors.

I have mixed emotions.
Good for them and
what they've
found.

I've been there too,
I've made this
noise.

Yet somehow,
sitting at my keyboard it all seems
just the slightest bit
profane.