Sunday, July 31, 2016


Saturday, July 30, 2016

Subject of a Song

There might be a way out,
I conclude. My shirt is still damp
from New York's soupy streets.
The Fedex man and me
are both at work, so there's that.
On 10th Avenue
a Great Dane slobbers
on a little girl's arm.
Rain falls, or doesn't.
The sun shines, or makes
a beeline to the exit,
which is only a form
of revolution. You can bank
on change, loosen your boots,
strain for the plug, but you'll always
and only be a dumb nugget of woes
making plans you may not see through.

Thursday, July 28, 2016

To Name a Thing

I play Germs in the store
before anyone shows up.
The air is so thick that when
I walk through it
it ripples like a pool of jello.
A body does work, gets
rest, props itself
up on the bed, walks
by putting one foot
in front of the other,
stands around, mopes
with hunched shoulders,
feels too warm, and then too cold.
Generally a body acts
like a pain in the ass.
Go to work to pay the rent
so the body has somewhere
to sleep and put all its stuff.
When you break it down like that
why not sit by the river all day
with a bag of ginger biscuits?

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

How to Hike

A certain lack of civility
matched the day perfectly. I was most funny
when I wasn't trying to be. Sometimes I think
I'm dying and I am. 143 likes.
In many cases I don't know anything.
Meanwhile a heat dome is the beginning
of the end of something good.
A hollow reverb sound is coming from
the air conditioner. Caving in
is better than being above reproach.
The darkest, saddest, hottest summer
is halfway over. The sun dips
behind the High Line at a new angle.
More coffee solves nothing. A corpse
flower blooms once every 9 years.
Free sunlight. Free water. Fresh orange
paint on the side of that hulk
of a building. Deep into a sold out day.

Monday, July 25, 2016


Tuesday, July 19, 2016

July Poem

I cannot get over
what I cannot get done.
All the little leaves
make a big pile
on the tiny curbs
of 10th Avenue.
Even the squirrels
have a certain sass.
"Don't give me none
of your your sass,"
I say to no one but you.
Still, the sun creeps over
the radiant High Line.
My sweat tastes
like a sports drink
on your forearm. I know
a thing or two about
things like drawing lines,
not even sort of, but
like 100% Sol Lewitt.
In the quiet
of an afternoon
in July in New York City
I think I see everyone
enjoying the fairly
pleasant weather
while war rages on
nearly everywhere.
Catch your breath.

Thursday, July 14, 2016


This swirl has sidewalks,
flattened gum, and stink puddles.
I'll be back when the crowd
makes a slow machine hum
to the tune of spastic insults
and dumpy trains.
Clears throat, sees light
come shining, does a jig,
and rolls away.
I don't have time
to pass the time.
Here, have some
chunks of it, glittering
and unstoppable, the momentum
gathering like a yellow sports car
that costs more than I'll make
in a decade of retail work.
Up I go into oblivion.

Saturday, July 09, 2016

James Baldwin