38 Rejected Poems
You probably don’t know this about me. But I like to write poetry. I also like beer and Mozart.
I’ve busied myself with hiding from the world as a ghostwriter, and I usually put face paint on my cheeks and forehead to wait in the trenches and bushes, armed with a bow and seven arrows. Seven’s my lucky number.
I hurl arrows into the sky and stare at them. When they hit the ground, I make explosion sounds with my mouth. That’s how I fund my estate.
The arrows are quite useless otherwise. They just sit around in an ammunition stockpile, waiting for worldwide communist uprisings. Then, when the time comes—I send them to foreign governments to receive cash flow via contracts. For more face paint and arrows, of course.
I also write lots of shit for myself, which began in Da Nang, Vietnam, along the coastline. In a small room overlooking the sea, I typed poems while drinking bottles of cheap Vietnamese beer and watching Quentin Tarantino movies. I kept the movies silent except when the violent scenes erupted into my purview.
In those moments, I turned the volume up as loud as it could go. And I splattered my face paint across my body and the walls and clapped for more violence. (That meant a more profitable quarter.) And the best part about it all—nobody even gave a fuck.
It took me a while to realize I confused fiction with reality, blurring my understanding of the world. It must’ve been the face paint. It cost $1.50 from the art store, watercolors.
I collected myself into the workaday world, a spendthrift with a tenacious temper, like a wolverine in a footloose golf cart. I caught spiders in my mouth and studied the stars.
For one client this year, I’ve written 70 articles. I even wrote two about my hometown city—The Impact of Casinos on Philadelphia's Economy and Philadelphia's Casino Resorts: Where to Stay and Play.
In Bogota, Colombia, in July 2022, I began writing for another client (I’ve had the other one since August 2019). For my first assignment, I covered casino laws in every U.S. state. A 31-year-old Colombian painter in a navy blue leotard came out of my (rented) bathroom, leaped onto my bed, and started rubbing her crotch, saying, “I’m a cat!” It was quite a distraction. She even messaged me from the bed a few feet away as I began writing. “You look so handsome in your glasses.”
Well, I’ve exchanged my arrows for somebody else (a better woman) in a place far away from the Andes. I get rejections constantly, and that’s probably changed me somewhat into one of those dudes who says things aloud that you probably shouldn’t say, almost like walking into the Bali Sea while wearing whitey tighties and not giving a fuck who sees, listens, or cares. Isn’t that nice?
Here are 38 rejected poems I wrote this year from Bangkok, Thailand, Bali, Indonesia, and here in Phnom Penh, Cambodia.
I also have a story upcoming in a lit mag issue on TABOOS, and I edited a novella I wrote from Da Nang in 2021—about a homeless black dude with an interdimensional material in his hand—submitting it to many places. And the other day I found a 90,000-word novel I wrote in 2016-17 that I shit-plumb forgot about, the longest manuscript I ever wrote (apparently) called The Worst Feminist in the World.
Then, there’s The Basement (novel) and other novellas and chapbooks I’m looking to publish. And other shit to write.
Maybe it’ll never happen. That’s fine, too.
Cool.
***
5-29-23 - 2 Poems (written from Bangkok, Thailand - rejected by untethered magazine on Nov. 14)
NOTHING EVER COMES EASY
except me, I said
after she glistened somewhat in the dark of the morning
when the palms reached for the sun and Bangkok got drenched
with sweat
the tourists pointed at the streets
and the motorbikes waited
for rides
for Baht, the local currency, like most, a currency that will one day
surrender
to debt and dysfunction, but
not us
I don’t care if your hair covers my floor
every
morning, you are lovely
as
you
are, and the poets must’ve never noticed you
because
you’re the needle
that makes
the record
go
round
while babies cry and cats moan and ducks go SQUAWK
you giggle, barely covering your
mouth
you’re not afraid
to laugh
from your belly, and that’s what makes you
so beautiful
to me, like Romeo with carrot juice on a Monday
afternoon, working
like a sucker, and in between those moments—remembering in my mind
to maybe
write about you
later, when you’re
not
around.
***
POETRY DOESN’T NEED TO RHYME
it’s about feeling
it’s not about fanfare
it’s about describing something that means a lot to you
even if you’re writing in a dark room on the outskirts of Rome, nobody cares either
that’s fine—get the word down
and it’s like dropping French fries in a frier filled with boiling oil
get those crispy sentences, just right
and they’ll come running with ketchup and mayonnaise
(even if they’re lactose intolerant) they’ll swallow your words
like maple syrup
and the flutes of Mozart
resound from headphones that keep you entranced in your own world
w
r
i
t
i
n
g
for yourself, not for them
and where did everybody go? Bob Dylan wondered
when he got famous, and he lost all his
friends
he worried that maybe those surrounding him
just wanted to be around him
because he was famous for
being a poet
the poets don’t need to rhyme
and I read Dylan’s only book, Tarantula
and you know what? it tasted like
dogshit
so be kind to the poets, they need to fix leaky faucets
and wash their dirty laundry, they need
coffee in the morning, and if they talk too much—remind them to shut
up, go write
and come back
when your mind gets emptied
of its contents
to scramble an egg
put it in your shoe
and beat it.
***
5-30-23 - 3 Poems (written from Bangkok - rejected by petrichor mag on July 9)
THE BEST OF BEETHOVEN
writers can’t climb trees, they’re stuck
at
desks
withering away
for
dollars
it all makes sense, Noam
Chomsky was right—there are disillusioned masses
of people checking their phones
75 hours a day
and the best of Beethoven, for me
is
magic
as I keep a spray can by my mouse
these little mosquitoes keep hounding me
for
blood
I lean at this machine
as a copywriter
for a marketing agency
in Florida where some kids shot at other kids along Hollywood Beach
Philip K. Dick ate mayonnaise sandwiches
and Paulie Walnuts had it on his chin when Tony Soprano and Bobby B.
rescued him and Chrissie from the Pine Barrens, the Russian KGB agent
ran off
with his head
blown
to
bits
Beethoven hits a crescendo like nobody’s business
and he became forever known
as
a rebel
in
the arts, oversensitive—and
strong.
***
WHAT DO THE POETS MEAN?
Nietzsche said the poets lie too much
before he went
insane
and I just want to take a moment to thank Google for helping me spell his name correctly
I think the gray matter in my brain is increasing because my spell check blues continue to grow like flowers in an abandoned parking lot
there are girls all across the planet looking for
love
and they want it easily or they desire it
from
everyone, and can you blame them?
gray hairs
on a woman riding a bicycle
down a street
in Bangkok reminds me of them
it’s almost June, and I’d forgotten them somewhat
in Ecuador and Colombia and Indonesia too
Vietnam is still strict, and so is China
where are their poets?
the bookstores are lined with daffodils and chrysanthemums
(thank you spell check)
and the poets of Latin America seemed to be secret agents
because American-backed dictators reigned to keep artists and intellectuals
out
of the public
domain
so generals could catwalk across cobblestones
with machine-guns squawking
and some high-ranking American officialdom saying what a great job
those bastards
were
doing—the people suffered as an experiment for the rest of the world
the poets, where
did
they
go?
have they huddled around fire
and brimstone?
have they disappeared in between lame ducks?
are they hiding out in alleys and bending down while the heroin and fentanyl destroys their brainstems?
pages of a poetry book could be Narcan
to those wilting
toward
death, but once it’s too late—it’s too late
the poets dreamed, Don McLean said that
and maybe he was right—but lemme tell you this:
I went to a party one time, and there was this old guy
with a guitar
and a harmonica
and he played that entire damn song
while
most of the kids around him hardly listened, and I thought that was strange
we just wanted to drink
and
get fucked up
the poets lost themselves in absolution, a final decree:
poetry is
dead
and I held this secret
inside
my heart, typing away after parties in a back room in my parents’ basement
tit-tit-tit-tit-tit-tit-tit
like a Beatles harmony
you really had to listen
for that sound
that surprised you, and when poetry got bland—I discovered that
it’s best to be a growing flower
with snakes and claws coming out of nowhere
the poets
maybe they need to toughen up
a bit.
***
I HEAR REVOLUTION
in a kitchen on the third-floor of an apartment building in South Philadelphia
I danced
while drinking coffee
and listening
to music
on big headphones
I took big steps and pissed off my downstairs neighbor
I drank at night and accidently knocked over my acoustic guitar
I painted the Philadelphia skyline after going out to the bar with my brother’s friends
they went home to their lives, their girlfriends, while I splattered paint
in an abstract fashion
I made dozens of paintings, and I left them all in a storage space
when I escaped from America—to Italy, and then to Thailand
I paid for that storage space each month for a year, about 80 bucks
until finally, I said, fuck it
and somebody got those paintings
I couldn’t have stored them at my parents’ house because I have an insane
twin brother who would have destroyed each one
out of utter disdain and sadistic eroticism since he could never
get laid
I guess all the painters of the world have known something similar, it’s not like everybody is going to enjoy your work, and I never thought of it as
work
I only wanted to let it
go.
***
5-31-23 - 5 Poems (written from Bangkok - rejected by The Bombay Literary Magazine on July 15)
YOU’LL PROBABLY NEVER REMEMBER ME
you’ll probably never remember the way I tasted
you, and you’ll probably forget my
name
you’ll wander back to Indonesia from Beijing, and it’ll be too late
for
us
as it was
in San Juan, and Bangkok, and Kuala Lumpur
you’ll probably forget I made you laugh
when you couldn’t stop
thinking
or
crying, and you’ll forget we almost spent the
rest of
our
lives
together, swinging through the trees like apes—searching for a banana
and a place to hide out from the world, now I know
you lied
about not having any
money, you wore those dresses though
from H&M
and you bought dinner for yourself one night and went straight upstairs without saying anything to me, and I didn’t find out until later—that you were planning
your escape
to
Bosnia, before you saw the mass graves
and I drank Serbian beer the next morning after you kissed me goodbye
I breathed in the fresh air and sunlight in your wake, a tale of two hearts:
I missed you, and
I wanted you
gone—we saw each other again, and I hate the way I change
tenses in my writing, so just forget me, and let me sleep in the waking life
of pretending to be a writer, and you can do
the
same.
***
SEEING SOMEBODY NEW
yes, I’m from America
no, I don’t speak Spanish
yes, I like to drink beer
what do I do? I’m a writer, I write
things
what about you? how long have you been in Montañita or Bogotá? are you from
here? where do you see yourself in six months when we’re no longer talking?
do you like Beethoven? what about anchovies covered in
chicken stock?
does your mother wear socks on Tuesdays?
I have to go, excuse me, I need to go
to the
bath-
room, no, it’s okay—buy another round, on me
there’s flair
in her style
curly brown locks
and a big grin when I say something
just to be funny, liveliness
in her art
somewhere, some guy
fucked things up with her, and now I have to listen to it and deal with it
too
I move on like thunder
the waves sweeping across the Pacific Ocean
crash
against my feet
sometimes I think it’s best to eat a weed brownie from a stranger
and go for a
swim—
alone.
***
DON’T EDIT, JUST WRITE
typing away at poems like a dog running in circles and chasing its own tail
there’s no way to get better except to keep doing it
over
and
over
and
over
again—which is something I despise
about the real world
yet
I keep doing it
over
and
over
and
over
again
it’s like a lucky charm around my wrist
or a girl I left behind
it’s a pallet of paints frozen in a freezer and a bottle of sparkling water that
EXPLODES
the nights blushing across expanses of territorial melancholy, Americans
left behind so many nightmares
and now there are Christmas lights in San Juan
and bugs chirping at sanguine clouds
rolling along, not bothering anybody
Shakespeare might’ve claimed, “I’ve lost the plot!”
and Van Gogh could’ve missed his target—just like Hemingway—but you see
they didn’t
they just wrote, no edits
and their tears were like bespoke Mai Tais
sipped through a straw
on a rooftop pool, floating
in Cambodia, I dreamed
of being a famous writer and thought, to hell with it, I’d rather say
what I feel
and the rest
of it
be damned, like me
hair turning gray
and a sly smile on my face
in the mirror
because I know
better than anybody
what lies
in store
for
me
that skeleton
with a frozen
grin, seraphic
and final
type, type
type
type
typing
my life
away.
***
LYING IN BED WITH MY LOVER
lying in bed with my lover whose hair is long and black
lying bed with her
and her naked skin is almost translucent from making love
she reaches her hands and arms above her when I turn her over
and
I feel
like
stopping
and
saying
baby
you
are
so
beautiful
lying in bed with my lover and holding her hand
lying in bed with her and ignoring all the bad times we spent arguing
we’ve now
developed
a connection
almost
like
what
might’ve
happened
if
Romeo
and
Juliet
had stayed
alive
lying in bed with my lover and feeling her warmth
she sleeps better than me, while I snore and toss and turn
and even terrible dreams come to me
but
not
when
I’m
holding
her
does love really go
like
this?
so easy, simple, and true
I fought off the Visigoths, and the Barbarians went back to their nomad showers in the coldest streams and lakes, I now envision days and weeks and months and years
of
holding
her
at peace
even if the power went out
forever
she’d still be
in
my
arms
lying in bed with my lover at the end of the world
lying in bed with her and feeling our lives
just
beginning
days at cafes and bookstores and exploring Bangkok
she wants to win
the lottery, and maybe I already have—
lying in bed with my lover and forgetting the time
lying in bed with her, and that’s
everything
to
me.
***
MY HAIR GETS WILD
poets dream in the grass while skipping school
fuck college, he thought
I’ll just write
poetry—and he
thought
wrong
lying in the grass is cool and smoking it is too, and I don’t know if you realize this
but
reading helps
and finding inspiration in women who paint does too
or listening to a genius like Arundhati Roy reminds me
of the importance
of style and art and dissent and eloquence, I nearly drooled
while seeing her in thick-rimmed glass, talking like a modern-day
philosopher
intelligence
is something to be
admired
especially in a poet, a good one—no
a great poet dreams in the grass and stares at the white puffy clouds passing by overhead
the grass feels good, green
prickly
like beets on the end of a stick
me and my friends tripped on mushrooms and ran around a lake, is that
not poetic?
I wasn’t an educated man, my father drove a truck, and my mother
bounced around as a project manager in the pharmaceutical industry, so
she made all the money
poets
don’t make any money, they’re
the
dreamers—
poets behave badly too
in the material realm, they reach for love
and
find themselves
poets bring the page alive with words, and if you can do that for multiple pages, then, yeah
I’d say
you might be
a poet
lovers unite through poetic acts
and acting poetic isn’t always necessary
reading
the sky
is cool, and smoking some invisible cigarette
as your lover touches her cell phone, that’s cool too, because she doesn’t know you’ve been staring at her
new
red lipstick, her hair’s dark and wild
just like mine.
***
6-2-23 - 3 Poems (written from Bangkok - rejected by JAKE, The Anti-Literary Magazine, on June 7)
GIMME MOZART
gimme Mozart and a glass of water
make it sparkling
coz
my digestive system
is
shit
gimme cups of sugar and toss out the spoon to junkies in the alleyway
let the roaches simmer in the pipes
as the flies
eat
furiously
in the air
waiting to be
loved
I can hear clovers
and daffodils,
I know something’s coming—a change
like Kerouac writing about Maggie
his first love
in New England, or Stephen King writing about
horror shitshows, one after
the
other
and there are Nigerian poets too
just hoping for
a chance
at stardom
or
to be recognized for something
other than
being
black
I see stars and Filipino women smiling
I’m waiting on my Thai girlfriend
I keep my
visions
to myself.
***
LOVE TO TELL YOU
the Beatles
sang it, and their
melodies
got soft
in the afterglow
of silence
we were warming a bench for so many years
now
the writers
get tired
and there’s nothing left of journalists, everything is so mainstream
but we
are
not
we are barely there
standing in the southwest sun
or
we are lurking in the shadows
of a day that’s just too fucking hot, all I want is a plastic cup and some ice,
an Americano—and where are you taking me?
we sit in a corner, and there are books, “that’s my
guy!” she says
who, me?
and it’s Anthony Bourdain’s first book
he’s got a knife in his belt, and he’s smiling
and I like to see and know and understand
that
before
he got
famous, he had bad teeth
and even in front of the camera, they were ugly
and that makes me smile, there’s hope
for all of us
and don’t worry if Barack Obama left an opus
wilting
like a harried author, like Dostoevsky
who needed to sell a book
to pay off his gambling debts
it doesn’t take a genius to understand that everything might be
fucked, and it doesn’t take a smarty pants douche virtual signaler
to tell us
that Donald Trump is
a criminal—a six-year-old with colored paper and crayons could
tell us that, could take him to court
that way, but the Democrats are also corrupt, and they don’t want
us together, they want us apart
so that is why I love you, and that
is why I smile when I come across Romeo and Juliet
in the bookstore, I’m smiling about love
behind
your back
your buttocks in the morning
and you in the middle of the night
look
so fucking beautiful
I can’t help but
smile
and fall
back asleep—of course
my dreams
are something else, when I dream wide awake—you are beside me
and if life is a dream, and my dreams are nightmares, then
I can’t wait
to see
you
again.
***
WHO MAKES MONEY?
money is not poetic
money is made by people who get tired, upset, fragile, and ignored
money is created by criminals
money leaves us in debt
money takes credit and turns it into bonds
which
become
useless
paper
or
digits
on
a
screen
money is meaningless
money is everything
big dudes with muscles talk about Bitcoin at conferences
and they wear their hats backwards
and they give each other high fives
while
the rest of the world
groans
they think Bitcoin
is
going to save the planet, when the rest of the world
will probably never say the word, it’s money they want
and it’s money they don’t get
they beg, plead, and sit, and wait, and die
money is human trafficking
money is monstrous
money is an anti-tank weapon sent to Ukraine that ends up in Mexico
money is the root of my dirty socks, so I stopped wearing them
I have plastered sandals to my feet
money is a hostel in Budapest filled with bed bugs
money is the Danube River in July—maybe that will be
our drinking
source
when the world turns
to
shit, and hasn’t it already?
money is important
money is how kids get educated in America
money is how kids get re-educated in the United States
money is a beer bottle with the words: BUDWEISER
printed
on it
money is the Joe Rogan podcast
money is Spotify eradicating indie artists
money is a skull and bones creation
money is the Illuminati
money is a dragon or an alien species
money is an elixir
money is a signal of doom
money will get you high
low
and everything
in between
and money will get you the girl
money will take care of everything
money will pay for your newborn
and also your grandmother’s funeral
money goes all the way
money goes round
the whole world should’ve listened to Pink Floyd
that long-haired kid
who
doesn’t give a fuck
about
money, maybe
he
really knows something, and what is it?
the rest of the world understands—money is fake, money is magic, money is a bullet
and money is a gravestone
goodbye, Earth—money
is god, and good riddance—I was so much better off without you.
***
6-18-23 - 6 Poems (written from Bangkok - rejected by Anti-Heroic Chic on June 26)
WE WILL WRITE POEMS
I’ll make loud noises and wake up
my neighbors
just like they do
to me, and in the interim, I’ll forget
they
exist
patches of clouds roll by my window, eight floors
up
in
Bangkok
we’ll write poems in the sky
we’ll continue to bitch about things that are bothering us
it’s
better
and
best
to
let it
go
and there will be smiles in the aftermath
as the rain pours down like dogs and pigs and parrots and daffodils torn to shreds
here’s
a
black sky, with the sun sleeping and snoozing
to a jazz radio station,
as
I
type
this
poem,
alone.
***
YOU POUR THE BEER
you pour the beer, and I pour it too
you laugh about stuff when you’re drunk
and you laugh at me when you’re sober
you pour the beer, and I’ll buy it too
you’ll look pretty
and
cute
and smile and give me
that
look
when
there’s a moment of nothing
to
say at
all
it’s like launching rockets across the Atlantic Ocean
but instead—we’re in love
and I play the piano again just to pass the time
while
you skip
down
the street
and say my name
backwards
you pour the beer, and life starts again
I’m just waiting for
the next
song
t o
be - gin.
***
HE’LL EDIT AND SING LIKE SCOTT FITZGERALD WHEN HE WAS YOUNG
how many
24-year-olds
man
do you think
have got it
going
on?
how many
man?
listen, I’ve got these lightning bolts tied like armies to my fingertips
and there are yellow
flowers
bursting out of my desk
reminding me
that I once was young
and I could love
like
no
other, my little Romeo mustache
came in
like a fu-man
chu
whispering in the dust of my lachrymose
lover
lying in wait
for the end of her cycle
around the moon
I’ll just keep tapping these keys, thinking of
becoming a famous novelist
even when my love is still in the room
on the couch
doing
nada
I’m trying, and I’m creating a world
that belongs to
us
love is like
a young
flower
and you are truly unique,
smiling
under
thick
hair
shards
of
flickering
gray
stems
you have beautiful
skin
that’s damaged
and lovely
I’ll write about it in a thousand-page novel
like wasted dental floss
your breath
is like a dream
and when you’re sleeping next
to me
nothing
else
matters
other than
the sound
of
your
breathing.
***
HOLD YOU HERE
hold you here against my heart
she’s wearing a little black top I bought her in Cambodia
her small boobs look artistic in the tight shirt, and she reaches for me
to hug
me and sleep
in my arms
that’s poetic
it’s not strange
like holding my hand in the morning
affectionate as her period approaches
sensitive
she scratches my legs with her BTS card
she’s inspecting every
inch of my body, touches my nipples and licks them too
she wore a long pink skirt
that matched her Hello Kitty bag
I almost loved a girl in Bogota
but now I feel like a poet with a fulfillment
that leaves words like leopards
pacing
in the
back
of
my mind, my heart
takes control
now, and I stare at these little yellow flowers
which
remind me
of
you.
***
MOZART SINGS
we make things up, as writers
and the poets are dreamers, they are dreaming, dreaming of a better world
like John Lennon
in the dirt
arms akimbo
or Kerouac
drinking up his royalties—the Great American Novel went up in flames
and all the Beatniks grew old
even Dylan kept putting out music, and nobody noticed
so he bought a whiskey company
and became a distiller, while also melting and molding ironworks
into sculptures like Picasso
except
not as
good
and Mozart plays ping pong like golfing in May among automatons, or tennis
in June
when the girls go AH!
AH!
AH!
AH!
and the Australian Open gives birth to new beginnings
and the writer dead on the cross is just a metaphor
for
transformation
you’ll see sullen grandpas snoozing at noon
here in Bangkok
just like you’ll see monkeys in Bali—hissing at tourists
or rainstorms blazing across the open expanses of Kuala Lumpur
and over in Jakarta, they are mesmerizing the cityscape with Muslim prayers
as the sun reaches for the stars
and the witnesses of Earth claim they’ve seen aliens
shooting
through
the nighttime
sky
there’s a poet
with grass stains
and wheat sticking out from between his teeth
they’ll name a beer
after him and a bridge too—between Philadelphia and Camden
where drug addicts regurgitate homilies, and that was also where
a friend and I walked out
drunk
from a restaurant
after leaving a concert—we could hardly see, as the cops chased
us
holding balloons, they made us
let them go
as they fizzled into nothingness, one cop said, “why do you
do that
stuff? it kills
all your
brain
cells”
which
was
kind
of
the
point.
***
NOBODY TALKS LIKE THAT
you talk too much
you never stop
all that talking, you’d think—it would maybe get you somewhere
but no
you keep on talking, to your dad, your sisters, your friends, your family members down south
and it’s always the same damn thing: talk
talk
talk
and the end result remains: nothing happens
but talk, talking, and more talk, until it becomes bullshit that sticks to the roof of my
brain, and I can’t escape
fast enough
to breathe in again the air, the light, the space of resplendent majesty
now
that
I don’t have to listen
to you
talk, talk, talk-
ing non-stop
who talks like that?
well, I guess
everyone, and I want nothing to do with endless chatter that leads
nowhere, unto
alcoholic nights, and strange sadomasochistic fits of
doom
destruction
and doubt
I was writing about football, and I didn’t even like football
anymore—did you hear me complain? living on your couch
wasn’t my first choice, my family
is
insane, and I keep it inside
while you talk, talk, talk
about how you’ve made your life the way it is
it’s been the same refrain since we were 18, 19, or 20—the world is a French fry
blistered with the over-analysis of somebody
who
refuses
to
grow, change, and enliven the world
with better spirits—no, he’ll drink
them
down
instead
all that whiskey, a bottle or two
a day, and what else do you have to show for it
except that gut?
all those
empty
bottles, and hot air like 10,000 balloons
so pointless, they scatter with the wind, as you sleep, fart, and lie
about me to make yourself look better—fine
I’ll write about it later
when I’m in the mood
as I take
a few sips of a cold can of beer
on a white-sand beach of San Juan—where I am free, and you are
gone.
***
7-17-23 - 3 Poems (written from Bali, Indonesia - rejected by Crab Apple Literary on ?)
I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’D DO WITHOUT
I don’t know what I’d do without you
don’t know what I’d do without Mozart
it has to hurt
a
little bit
and the dogs barking in the night
keep me sane
because
like butterflies in the wind
I need sound
to escape myself
and if there’s noise
beyond my control
then I’m a spark-plug
and if you’re far away
I feel this ancient sadness
that’s like melodrama
in a cartoon
I don’t know what I’d do without you, books, love, art
sophistication? I’m not sophisticated
I’ve got a bad idea brewing, and it’s probably
wrong
I’m not heartless
you just stole mine, and if I’m far away
by
my own whim
then shouldn’t I be happy, ecstatic, and
gloating
like an animal
in a green pasture with sunshine
breaking my back
into beady sweat?
no, things move too slow—and then I’m upset
and when they go too fast
everything
is gravy
and I feel
time
slipping
away.
***
I’M LUCKY
I’m luckier than a saint
when I capsize
I swim to the surface
and float
I’m lucky with bad breath because then I can fly to Thailand for cheap dental
from an angelic woman, and when she makes fun of me—it’s in another language
I’m lucky because I can read books, or I used to, and now it’s work, work, work
I’m lucky to be working so much, and I’m lucky to know that if I use an exclamation point, it’d be like laughing at my own joke—
F. Scott Fitzgerald
told me that
I read it in a book somewhere long ago, but not forgotten
I told my girlfriend about him, how he used to drink 30 cans of beer a day alone in a room, poor, sad Scott
and Zelda wrote a book too, she had those pretty fingers
we’re all so sad staring at the world, expecting it to give us something (when it already has)
life in abundance means no barking souls and life in absentia means a Dostoevsky novel
I’ve got a few beers
here in Bali, there are kites soaring above Canggu, and I’m
lucky, luckier than most
this little light bulb burning above my head, I ignore it daily, but tonight it’s okay
the beer tastes delicious when I really notice it—but I’m focused on myself, missing a girl
the world turns on its axis
ready, waiting, wilting toward sleep
and upon awakening
to another day of luck
lucky
luckier than most
I’ll think about getting a tattoo and eating some peanuts in a bag
while the world burns—I don’t care
I’m realizing I’m only here for a short time
I’m wizened and lachrymose
I like things that are simple, and I know I’ll never be a suit-wearing pimp
give me a room and silence
and I’ll turn it into gold (my own)
I’m my own currency
redundant, invisible
on the spectrum
and sometimes I talk too much
or
not
at
all.
***
WORDLESS
sometimes I have no words to depict a feeling
just thoughts
it’s like tapping at a piano but never touching the keys
and there are times when my words freeze me to the spot
(in my mind)
time is a blanket above the Earth
we’re seeing something
surreal
the aliens peek through holes
in time
and space, wondering
where they might get their nearest snack
some wily
guy
on a talk show
said that they (the aliens) went for cows
as a form of protein
they smeared
on their arms
whenever somebody says something totally weird
nobody believes
said person
until about a hundred years later
and then maybe
that person
might be right
but who knows now?
the sky blankets itself
with darkness
but there’s light in the sky too
each day it passes by overhead
in a white
puffy
cloud
I mean, that’s not sinister
I love the silence of my mind, I love the heartache of my past because it taught me something, and the present moment is a cold reminder
that I won’t
be here
forever
and neither will you
as the trees bend
and laugh
in silence
the world turns, tosses,
yawns
and goes
back
to sleep.
***
9-29-23 - 4 Poems (written from Bangkok - rejected by The London Magazine on Nov. 27)
OKAY POEMS
the world winding down on a Friday night in Bangkok
with cool AC breezes
without influenza
I drank my way to the other side of the world
and waited
like a hungry tiger
for
love
it’s like throwing a touchdown pass with everybody looking
spotlights though
were never my
thing
so I wait still
like a solo nomad in retreat
the sky train brings you to me
and somewhere
we
shall feast, and I’ll tuck in my shirt (if only invisibly)
and think, okay
poems
again
living life
inside my head, and with you
in it
too.
***
THE MARKETS ARE BAD: ALWAYS A CALAMITY
at the beginning of any decent novel,
the protagonist makes fun of his or her friends (behind their backs)
writing is for feeling alive
in a dead world
with sick, sad ghosts
reaching for life in a can or a bottle or maybe they’re medicated now
with pulsing blood
and irises that see the world differently
I’ve met cleaning ladies who couldn’t care less
about worldwide economies
and I’ve studied retail workers in Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, and Vietnam
they stick together with their families
and being alone for them is weird
if the markets tank, there’s always somewhere in the world
that serves as a vehicle for suicide—we’ll look back in a decade and wonder, what
did it all really mean? and those worries at the time seemed so large
and
grandiose, but when the calendars progress—all that’s left is
change.
***
CHINESE DANCE
the Chinese dance is something I learned before the pandemic
there’s a gross assumption about people we don’t know
that’s totally American—and when the waves of our forefathers come bursting out
in air quotes
I often wonder if bald wigs and powdered nuts
meant
lifting each other up through the duress
akin to a pocketknife
or a semi-automatic weapon
the Chinese dance
went something like this: luxurious, elegant, unique, dainty, and kind
and the American dance goes like this: bang!
everybody dies in the end
of the American century
but in the new 100-year war, there’s something else growing inside of me, and it isn’t false hope or gravity or bad apples, instead
a new light
of forgiveness for the past is over, and I’m interested now
more than ever
about what
comes
next.
***
SHAKE MY HAND
tell me something about yourself that you wouldn’t tell anybody else but me
tell me about the large window in the back of your mind that you nailed shut
when your mother died
show me the inside of your heart after the fireball of 25,000 drunken days
leaves you wilted and ashamed
teach me something that my parents left out when they were busy working themselves into doormats and then I’ll twist it around my middle finger and show them who’s really the boss of this simulation
shake my hand and don’t let go
let me pull on your heartstrings a little while
I wanna see what you say when I’m not around
pretend I’m not here
my grandmother the ghost let down her hair
and I saw it right before I woke up
it’s like they’re always testing me and us
and we don’t see what we block out from ourselves and our lives
I wish I’d known that before I left for my big dream—she was going to die
coz then I woulda told her or asked, rather
grandma, where does the spaghetti go when the world dies?
and she would’ve given me one simple answer:
when are you going
to cut
your
hair?
10-1-23 - 3 Poems (written from Bangkok - rejected by The Belfast Review on Nov. 10)
AROUND THE WORLD
from America I flew to Rome, Italy
where I got robbed by a taxi driver in the rain
I rode buses in Europe, also in Berlin—and I never paid
I wasn’t a socialist
or a communist
and I didn’t fall into the libertarian camp either
I wanted to leave America to escape the drowning of everything
and everyone
as a writer, there’s no escape—except maybe to Asia
not that it’s conducive to artistry
but it’s cheaper to live here with dollar bills coming out of my pockets and ears
I thought, maybe I’ll get an agent—and focus on writing
and now that it’s five years later, I’m still listening to Brahms whenever I can (which isn’t as often as I’d like) because I am chasing the dream of
m
o
n
e
y
and I thought about it in the shower, now that I have friends who think
I’m “successful”
I remember the poetry days when I was building my science
nobody gave a shit what I had to say because I wasn’t making any
m
o
n
e
y
they told me to get a job
and now that I’ve held jobs for a steady period
even through terrible economics—I don’t feel successful, just that I can buy things
without terror or too much restraint
and if my teeth fall out
in my dream, doesn’t that signify
lots of luck?
the poets are destined for dysfunction
and loud electronic music
we don’t rain or shine
we simply
exist
and I remember thinking on the outskirts of Rome: some people scam
tourists, while
others teach English to strangers online
and I write words uncontrollably
in my head
until they come out onto the page
and then it becomes a sort of frisbee or paper airplane
that I throw out
the window
at the cloudy
polluted stars—
in New Zealand, they were everywhere
here in Bangkok
the moon hides
behind
the blank blackness of space, that empty void
and here I am
listening to Brahms
typing to no one
wondering
is the future good or bad or replete with mistakes and misgivings
from previous centuries? can I write a book that others will want to read?
or am I doomed to solace?
“Mona Lisa musta had the highway blues, you can tell by the way she smiles”
Bob Dylan
sang that, and he’s still crooning
like 67 years of whiskey and cigs meant nothing
and
I’m still invisible in Asia, but maybe
I prefer it this way and why?
I like parking lots
in empty space
I like telling the truth to myself
with no one else around
and I like long poems that I write rather than staring at the walls
or regretting
another day just for the sake of money
when I could’ve done something creative, but instead—said
ah, to tell with it
let them doubt me
until the end of time
but then I wake up
and I get these urges
to write, like a sonnet
on the wall for the cleaning lady—she’ll think, “he must be
insane…”
***
POETS GATHER IN BLOOD CLOTS
when your favorite city wins the big game
everybody bangs on pots and pans to signal happiness to the neighborhood
a shooting star doesn’t mean shit on nights like those
but if that final score favors your hometown
the entire community erupts
into an uproar
where climbing a street light is akin to the Romans taking over another client state
in antiquity
where the poets swam to islands
to write
naked
and
free
today the poets gather in blood clots on social media websites
to tell the non-initiated that writing is hard and difficult and strange
and it’s the thankless jobs that seem to become like chasing a white whale in the deepest blues of the rancorous ocean wishing it had somebody else to blame
the poets throw their debris into the garbage can
just like anybody else
and if Allen Ginsberg kept a diary, it was only because he knew
one day
he’d be famous
and that diary would fetch a lot of money
for the Beats became a cultural phenomenon
and they ate all the glorification of their egos for buckets of blood they donated with sacrilegious wine-drinking at daytime entreaties of educated sassafras clinging to window panes, tasting of syrup and mint
I don’t have a cottage in the hills of California or New England
I’ve been living out of a hotel in downtown Bangkok, in a Japanese area
with lots of ramen and dank-smelling sewers
that belch with brimstone during the daylight hours
all the people here want something more, like tourists in a dying world among destruction—elsewhere the world groans, and thankfully
I’m the only poet around—at least the only one who speaks
English, and I find that
to be somewhat sacrosanct
I truly enjoy
my orange flip flops—these are the new colors of Earth, bright, reticent, catchy, and
ebullient
with
screams
from inside
and a smile
that says, “moo”
milk me like a cow
and I’ll write bad things about you behind your back
if you treat me like treasure
I’ll wonder why
and if you ignore me
I’ll feel
right
at
home.
***
DRINK
when I returned to America after three straight years abroad I found that my former best friend did nothing but drink
he’d taken to drinking
a bottle of whiskey per day, and it wasn’t good
whiskey either
it was that cheap kind in a glass bottle that rang at his insides much like a church bell in a dark corner or alleyway where nobody goes anymore
he hid the drinking or he made a joke out of it at first
and then when his woes controlled his demeanor, emotions, and moods—he yanked the bottle out of a brown paper bag and took big gulps in front of me at 10 or 11 in the morning
and then he went to work
he’d started working at a nearby restaurant in a suburb of Philadelphia
far away from where he’d once been a sous chef at one of the busiest restaurants along the East Coast
now
he was working in a strip mall
in our hometown
he hated it
nobody wanted to work back then, in 2021
I guess they were drunk too off crypto profits
but he was broke and broken, couldn’t find a son who’d disappeared with his previous girlfriend, and this isn’t too poetic but it’s nevertheless true
and you have to write about truth as a writer, otherwise you’re
dead in the water
and nobody wants to swim with the tide—as a good writer, and my friend wasn’t a writer
he was merely trying to survive
in a world that asked him of things he didn’t agree with
his car was filled with black masks
and I almost grinned somewhat at the sight of them because for once maybe it made him shut up—which he hated to do
the workers of America were biting bullets
and I was a freelancer who’d offshored himself from the dead and dying malaise of the dream that had turned into a nightmare for one-third of an entire continent
I didn’t see my parents or my family, I ran out on them and everyone, flying to
San Juan, Puerto Rico—where the sunshine lifted my spirits
and my friend had upped his intake
to two bottles of whiskey a day, and he hated me
it seemed
because
I was
free
and he wasn’t—as anybody knows
drinking a bottle of whiskey a day is its own prison
and some of us
want
to
stay
that
way
enchained
to the past
it’s more comfortable
than swimming
for a goal
it’s easier to stare at the walls at night
and wonder
where you
went wrong
silently
surrounded
by the empty bottles
of
nowhere
at
all.
***
10-17-23 - 3 Poems (written from Bangkok - rejected by The Cincinnati Review on Nov. 15)
I’LL KEEP THIS SHORT
we don’t need explosions
we need
love
as corny as it sounds, she’s
always
waiting
for me, and I want her
to
thrive
love means sleeping in
to forget the world
is
one of life’s greatest joys—or pretending like she’s still alive
and lucky me
she is
taking
a hot shower
while I write this poem, like a daffodil in the wind—she’ll open the door
and all the words in my brain will get scattered into pieces of nothingness
for
her rubbing my skin
so softly and delicately, it’s almost as if she’s standing behind me and watching me type
with a bright smile
of liveliness
so transformative and
kind.
***
TO THE GREENER PASTURES
no pollution choking the lungs of students
no bombs decking the sidewalks into smithereens
no shaking glasses of impending doom
destruction
is like the Eiffel Tower leaning into the wind
reclusive artists in the north wander aimlessly
because they’ve just found out everything they were ever taught in life
is
a lie
the greener pastures mean my mother baking a cake in July
with me stepping into the kitchen, rubbing
my eyes, saying, “what the fuck
is
this mom? you don’t
know
how
to
bake”
and she’d smile, pulling out the hot dish
smoking with candles and waiting to be frosted with white dressing so endless and opaque
“heaven,” she’d tell me, “is nothing
like
you
imagined”
and there’d be napkins everywhere, in some other dimension, dangling
from the necks
of wily green aliens, grinning—because it
was their first time eating cake.
***
LIVING
stay ahead of the race, let the rats surround the garbage on a hot night in October
listen to Shostakovich and remember not to rhyme
there are deserts everywhere waiting to surround the earth
and somebody is using a semicolon when like Vonnegut said you should just keep writing—or wait
it was F. Scott Fitzgerald who said that, “it’s like showing you’ve been educated”
and Vonnegut didn’t write poetry because it didn’t pay and he wasn’t surrounded by deserts but kids instead
with hungry mouths
yelling
not out of triumph
but just for fun
to piss him off
he lived in the shadows while typing words to feed his family
and the writers of the world forget that earning a living with words is truly glorious and certainly hell
but it’s better than being dead while alive
it’s really living man
this life
on the outskirts—grinding away with nobody looking
social media be damned, I’ve got the hook out from my cheek, laughing, smiling, finishing this can of beer—living a life I never thought possible but always dreamed about—who knows?
maybe the dreamers will win the world and the smoking cesspool pile of shit
doesn’t belong to the rats but me living my heart out, not waiting to
die.
***
11-8-23 - 6 Poems (written from Phnom Penh, Cambodia - rejected by Anti-Heroin Chic on Nov. 15)
I DON’T NEED TO KNOW THE WORLD’S ON FIRE
“do you believe in destiny?” she asked me
“I do when we’re
having
sex,” I replied
and I said that I believed in destiny when we got beers together
in
7-11
and I also said that
I believed in destiny
when I placed my head
in
her
lap
which
to be
honest, felt
quite vulnerable—and the admixture of sex and love
makes me forget
the world’s
on
fire, like a dulcet
dreamworld
in the aftermath
of a
flash-bang, she is
everything
to me.
***
SHE LIVES INSIDE OF A GHOST (AND HE DOES TOO)
one time I got really stoned in front of my friend’s parents’ house
we used to chill and hang out there, and I distinctly remember us gathering around the TV in the garage—watching the impending doom, awestruck
at Hurricane Katrina
he used to roll big fat blunts and we smoked them at the end of the street
near the Walmart parking lot
or
right in front of the house (not his)
whenever it was late and his parents were asleep, they must’ve slept in the back room of the house because the weed stank and we coughed
and
started
to laugh
hysterically, and on one night—I couldn’t control my laughter
it got stuck inside my belly
right in my guts
from somewhere
else
and I knew it was him
laughing
like a ghost, a dead friend
who’d overdosed at barely 21 or not even there yet—and that shocked
everyone
in hindsight, it was only the beginning
so I laughed
and laughed
and
laughed
and laughed
and instead of tears
it all came out that way—I felt his laughter inside of me
and his ghost never
returned.
***
HEAR THE CLANG OF THE PIANO THAT JUST WON’T STOP
Mozart toured the European countryside as a teenager
and he wrote his mother and sister constantly in adoring tones
he was the breadwinner—that fucking rebel
with
a
profound
cause
to change the world
and in spite of everything, he continued to write and proselytize
and he kept his composure, he studied everything with his ears and eyes
and maybe he even wrote little rhyming poems that nobody ever saw or read
then I think of Beethoven, who played the piano before he reached double digits
and he made his way via protection from better family dynamics, since his father
was an
alcoholic, he grew despondent—but Beethoven never stopped
he flourished
through strong headwinds and with feverish apoplexy
he knew
he was destined
to be
great
and so
the never-ending pounding of those keys
reminds me
to just
keep going, like peeling a banana
and
staring
at
the stars.
***
ON AN EMPTY STOMACH
on an empty stomach the artist creates magic
full of beer and sausage and steak and bread and corn on the cob, the artist sticks like mud to the surface of nothingness—but with a contented smile
and
the
crescendo
of that starving vagabond with greasy hair and smelly armpits
becomes a stray dog walking himself to the outskirts of
nowhere
at all
until he reminds himself that being a human is cool
and there’s nothing to strive for but that—happiness on the cusp of a dream
so
he turns around and heads for downtown with a cup in his hand, looking
for
change
and the audience stares at him, befuddled
the audience doesn’t notice him either—he might as well be invisible, and he is
until one day a guy notices him and offers him a few
bucks, then the artist grins in his solace of kindness from a stranger
just a few bucks gets him a simple meal, like a hot dog with ketchup and relish
and for most people, that’s just a weiner
waiting
in the refrigerator
on the door as it swings open—you see all that surplus
which for most
is
just a
dream, and the artist sings with a simple, glorified sadness
and a belly so full, thinking, hey
maybe things
will
turn
around.
***
SHE’S TIRED, LEAVE HER ALONE
alone in the bastion of hope
dead in the gutter of doom
longing for forgiveness from her mother, she knows nothing of the
stock market
or Bitcoin
or savings
she doesn’t want a loan, and she’d be lost
if the only thing left to do
was play
the harp
in front of a crowd of passers-by
who seem to be getting somewhere
when she’s tired, don’t prick her with a soldering iron
if she’s tired, don’t go slipping your fingers along her belly or back, giving her goose pimples
let her indulge
in the mundane application
of a video game filled with pink diamonds and neon blue kites
and you can swallow your pride, letting her live
her dream
is a rose petal
carved with the initials: EGTBOK (everything’s
going
to
be
okay).
***
ROMEO CUTTING HIS TEETH
Romeo cut his teeth while biting on the handle of his dagger
he flew like a slingshot across time and space on a zip line heading straight for
his love
and when he got there
he saw
she was
dead
Romeo cried helplessly in the throes of despair, a farcical scene because Juliet kept snickering at her lover’s heartfelt tears
she rolled on her side and suddenly
these peals of laughter exposed her for being a fisher of men
and Romeo held onto the dagger, thinking of cutting his flesh
Juliet rose, stopping him
“no,” she said, gently removing the dagger from his grasp, “it’s just
a
play”
later, Romeo grew up to become a man
but somewhere inside of him, he was still just a boy
with flowing strands of silky smooth hair
and Juliet got dandruff each time right before
her period
until one day
she didn’t get it—late by about three or four days—and then a week—and then
Romeo
died.
***
