“Love ain’t the hands

that fondle our bodies

It’s the blood

we mop up off the floor”

-Max Mundan

OUTGROWING MY MENTOR

I sat at your feet;

metaphorically, of course, only metaphorically;

as I remember it, I sat on the couch,

as you, with your strangely lilting voice,

held my hand and walked me through;

patiently;

meticulously;

the pitiless steps of the reverent ritual.

You were so gentle

as you wrapped the tourniquet around my bicep;

laughed at the expression on my face

pinched the crook of my arm

to bruise and raise a vein.

and as you slid the needle in and we watched the blood

cloud the water inside,

you apologized, profusely,

for the infinitesimal pinprick

that precedes the rapture.

I swore to you,

in that ghastly and gorgeous moment,

this is how it would always be;

that you would be there,

by my side, every time,

to guide me down the path of night.

but like the other oaths that passed between us,

this too, was a hopeful lie.

The day came, as it was

ever

destined to do,

that you were gone;

selling yourself

in the fashion required

for you to get by;

and the pull of oblivion

proved stronger, by far,

than either love or trust or art,

so I took the syringe and

taught myself

not to need you anymore.

My poem, “The Lies We Tell,” set to music by Theo Katman. It’s pretty damn killer.

THIS ACHE

I reach out

but cannot touch

the memory of your face

It is there

tingling at the edges

of my conscience

Are you real

or just a fever?

A phantom

with which to mock

my loneliness?

Did the mosquitoes

slip inside my net

to inject you

into my sleep?

I take step after step

ever forward

never back

embracing the new

shouting epiphany

but no new miracle

no discovery

can shake

this ache

for home

Noblesse Oblige

I’m a man

I’m an American man

I’m a white American man

I’m a straight cis white American man

And because of this

Accident of birth

The world is mine

The wealth of the planet

It’s resources

Are mine

And there is nothing

You can do about it

You woman

You black man, black woman

Asian man, Asian woman

Hispanic man, Hispanic woman

Gay man, gay woman

Trans man, trans woman

You will take it

And not only take it

You will like it

And not only like it

But thank me

The straight cis white American male

For the crumbs I give you

You will be grateful for these crumbs

And keep your greedy hands

Off my massive pile of crumbs

My straight cis white American male

Pile of crumbs

That is mine

Unquestionably mine

By right of conquest

By right of possession

Because possession is 9/10 of the law

Ha, I’m just joshin’ you

Possession is 10/10 of the law

It’s all the law

We all know that

That 9/10 shit was just a funny game

We were playing with you

Isn’t it a lark?

You should be laughing

Why are you not laughing?

And since I’m a straight cis white American male

I possess it all

I am the possessor

You are the possessed

So really I not only own

My massive pile of crumbs

As well as your measly few

I also own you

And can do with you as I please

I can rape you

And kill you

And cut off your hands

If you fail to collect enough rubber

Or coal

Or diamonds

Or whatever the hell else

I decide I want

To eat or hoard or fuck

Because I’m a straight cis white American male

Did I mention Christian?

I forgot to add Christian

Because I’m a Cristian

A straight cis white American male Christian

No, not the turn the other cheek type

Not the give to the poor type

What are you thinking?

Those are the chump Christians

Those are the Jesus Christians

Those guys are dopes

I’m not a Jesus Christian

What, are you nuts?

I’m a God wants me to be rich Christian

I’m a God wants me to take America from the natives Christian

I’m a God wants me to colonize Africa Christian

I’m a God wants me to clear-cut the forest Christian

I’m a God wants me to annex the Sudetenland Christian

I’m a Jim and Tammy Christian

A Swaggert and Robertson Christian

I’m a Donald Trump Christian, damnit

My Christianity doesn’t scold me

For cheating and stealing

For destroying the planet

For raping little Children

My Christianity encourages this

Because I can

And because I can

I should

I should do

Whatever I want

Because it’s God’s will

If God didn’t want me

To cheat and steal

To destroy the planet

To rape little children

Then why won’t he stop me?

You ever think about that?

Why won’t he stop me?

SHEILA TOLD ME

Sheila told me that she wasn’t bound

by any bourgeois, suburban

standard of beauty; that she

could put on as much weight

as she desired and shave her head

and grow the hair out on her legs

and no stuck-up, normie bitches

were going to tell her

that she wasn’t hot.

Sheila told me that she would stay out

till 4 in the morning, every night,

dancing and fucking and laughing

and shooting crystal meth

because those were the only things

that made her feel that she

was really alive and not some

stupid Barbie Doll being

made up and dressed up

and moved around by forces

she could never see or understand.

Sheila told me that sex was power

and if I wanted, she could teach me

to use my dick the way

she used her pussy, as a weapon,

a trap to lure the squares,

the suits and ties and frat boys

who laughed at her and called

her ugly, called her fat,

called her weirdo, but never failed

to come sniffing at her ass

when they thought no one was looking.

Sheila told me that she didn’t

want to live past forty; that

an aging life was an unartful life

and that she wasn’t meant

for wrinkles and eye bags and

sagging tits and regret; that

the saddest dopes were the ones

who just kept going, taking

up space and sucking up air

after everyone they’d ever known

had died or long since ceased

to give a shit.

Sheila told me that she’d call me

if she ever decided to do

anything stupid,

but Sheila never called.

ALL ABOUT YOU

My pen touches paper

and every line

that I begin to draw

becomes a picture

of your face

I pick a direction

I think will lead me away

yet, again and again

I find myself, arriving

at your door

The shopping list I write

and fill with mundane items

becomes a description of you

when I read

between the lines

I think I’m telling a joke

but there is no punch line

and the only sound

that anyone hears

is me, calling your name

I paint a picture

of my pain

of my chaos

yet when I see it

I notice

the only color I’ve used

is the blue

of your eyes

Some right-wing imbecile jumped on my photography Instagram page to call me a bigot for being anti-hunting. I began to type out, “Sure, and murder laws are bigoted towards murderers,” but instead I just erased it and blocked him, because if I’ve learned anything from the Trump era, it’s that these assholes all go to the same troll school and the goal is simply to waste our valuable time and emotional energy. There are no teachable moments for the unteachable.

IT STARTS WITH PARTIES

It starts with parties

with glad hand orgies

cocaine backslaps

backseat blowjobs

Invisiline smiles and Velveeta compliments

It ends in TV static hotel rooms

phone cord cut

hanging over the rafters

should I or shouldn’t I?

Don’t be so pretentious, you fuck

Don’t you want to see

how it ends?

It starts with parties

with Faustian fast cars

machine-gun monologues

commune kisses

love that tastes of Dramamine

It ends in ashtray swimming pools

blinking at the sun

tongues heavy with ghosts

What day is it again?

Do I look like a goddamn calendar?

I’m just a little rough

around the ends

It starts with parties

with cocktail cunning

rubber-stamp flunkies

Janus-faced familiars

open marriage and no-string lovers

It ends in a desert of rehabs

12-step recitals

halfway whorehouses

What the hell you lookin’ at?

You got no right to judge

I said I’d go

to any ends

It starts with parties

with unconscious infidelity

flag planting fiestas

vacant caresses

oleaginous fratboys perpetually nodding assent

It ends in flop sweat mornings

broken mirrors

mea culpas

I’ll change my ways, God

Give me one more day

This can’t be

how it ends

It starts with parties

but it always ends

alone

Be My Wife

This Path

You came to me
In my dream last night
All smile glowing
And silky caress
And now I walk alone
These paths we trod together
Searching for
Your reflection in the water
Your fragrance
Floating on the air

I tell you I love you
Many times a day
But I can’t tell you
How much that weighs
How do you enfold me
Like a blanket
When you’re hundreds of miles away?

This path
This day
This life
They are nothing
Nothing
Without your hand
To hold

Has anything really happened
Until I can share it with you?

SEARCHING FOR LOU

We met when I was just 14

He was running with Iggy and Ziggy

while I danced with Diane and Ed

with Randy and Keefe

Lou fucking Reed

the baddest badass that ever shoved itself

into a tight pair of leather jeans

We were in love

though he never spoke my name

We shared dirty needles and dirty poems

and a cynicism so deep

we couldn’t crawl out

as we held whatever ground we could claim

with fingernails digging in the mud

and bitten to the quick

He never knew me

but he effin knew me

you know what I mean?

Yeah, he was there

holding my hand

wiping my eyes

as we lost Teilhard and Barry

then Jim and Click

He sat on my shoulder

as Jordan left

then Greg and John

There are those who say

that Lou’s also gone now

but if that were true

then why is he always

right where I left him?

HIT ME AGAIN

Hit me

Again

Again

Don’t stop

Until I admit

That you love me too much

To ever hit me

That I must be…

…a terrible person

…a worthless piece of shit

…a total fucking asshole

To ever believe

For even so much as a second

That you could be

The type of person

Who would even think

Of hitting me

There must be something wrong

With me

That I could create

Such a terrible lie

So hit me

Till I know

What I’ve done

Wrong

Till I learn

The injustice I’ve committed

Against you

Who loves me

So much

Hit me

Again

Again

Hit me

HER VALLEY STORY

She had no more friends

who could wipe her brow

and wipe her ass

and chop the crystal meth for her

into tiny, little lines

She had no more friends

who could burn her bacon

and call her pretty

and carry her up and down

the stairs when her legs failed

This was her valley story

because her parents were the mountains

and she was sentenced to exile

in the prison of her body

She had no more friends

who could drive her to the market

and drive her out of her mind

and clean up the blood when she

smashed her face on the nightstand

She had no more friends

she could call “fucker”

and “asshole” and “stupid son of a bitch”

after they’d wiped her clean

when she’d soiled herself in the bathroom

This was her valley story

because she’d been a waterfall

but now she was stale, lonely droplets

disappearing in the unforgiving sun

This was her valley story

because she’s lost on the highway

traveling from peace of mind

to sad and pointless death

alone in a room

alone in a room

alone in a room

about six weeks

after the last of her lovers

had ceased

to give a damn

I’LL ONLY WRITE POEMS FOR YOU

When you and I come together

there is nothing that I want

Everything of value in this world

is held, with calm strength and power

in your deep soulful eyes

glinting, always, with mischief and desire

I could reside forever in your gaze

In my life I will peer

into many sets of eyes

to ferret out the unspoken truth there

This is my calling

I cannot deny

but I will only write poems for you

When you unfold yourself completely

like the solving of an unbearably lovely riddle

and present yourself naked to me

in all your glistening, glorious truth

I am silenced by awe

of all that you are

I know I’ve at last found a home

in your tight, tender care

and I’ll only write poems for you

There’s an electrical circuit connecting

when your delicate skin touches mine

and the perfume of your perspiration

encourages me, feverishly

to mounting, ecstatic sensations

that I barely knew I could feel

but that now seem, suddenly, indispensible

My body’s a temple

My body’s your temple

My body’s a poem to you

That was you

in my dreams

all my life

I see that so clearly now

Yes, I always knew it was you

I have seen you

I’ve known you

I’ve pulled you to me

my triumph, my pain

my longing, my lust

It’s all been a poem to you

I know not what this world will bring

There are mountains of joy and trial

still to come

It may pull us together

It may tear us apart

for a time

but you will always be there

occupying my soul

I’ll protect you

I’ll defend you

with every drop of my blood

till my last

dying

breath

I will always write poems for you

I will only write poems for you

LITTLE DAVE

I never got

to thank you

for the glory

of your name

Little Dave

I was

Little Dave

a sliver

a fraction

a shard

of your magnificence

Little Dave

I was

Little Dave

to the aunts

to the uncles

to the strangers

you called friends

Little Dave

I was

Little Dave

a mascot

a sidekick

a reflection

of your glory

I never got

to thank you

for teaching me

how small I am

MY TWO GREGS

Somewhere, lost

in the frozen fields of time

you are there

my two Gregs

gripping tightly

to your pint glasses of regret

at the Oktoberfest of our youth

Come to me, please

as the pretty, dirty boys you were

not as the walking suicides

you are now

my two Gregs

You were always my friends

almost my lovers

if we were to judge

by the secrets in our hearts

if not the language

of our bodies

I would have kissed you

my two Gregs

had I the opportunity

or the courage

You are lost to me

as in a fog

and I do not care to find you

for you are not

the wild boys you were

exploding with possibility

but seasick sailors

who could not ignore

the siren’s call

until you lay

shattered and forgotten

on the rocks

From my collection, “Five Words That Can Cripple a Man (Underground Voices, 2016)”

WE ARE CONNECTED

We are connected as the sunshine

Tears of recognition

streaming down our grateful faces

Do you see? Do you see?

Of course you see

You see everything

You see it all

Time is a snake consuming it’s own tail

and we are drunk on it’s venom

Your future is my past is our present

Do you see? Do you see?

Of course you see

We are entangled as the rain

Holding each other tight

at the point of climax

Do you feel? Do you feel?

Of course you feel

You feel the life

You feel the space

Space is an egg with no visible cracks

and we are trapped in it’s shell

Your body is my body is our body

Do you feel? Do you feel?

Of course you feel

We are co-mingled as the wind

Breathing in blissful union

to the rhythm of our secrets

Do you hear? Do you hear?

Of course you hear

You hear my voice

You hear my heart

Love is a circuit awaiting a spark

and all we need is the switch

Your breath is my life is our memory

Do you hear? Do you hear?

Of course you hear

We are a wildflower

opening

opening

Do you know? Do you know?

Of course you know

that we are

connected

NOTHING HAS CHANGED

Nothing has changed

for the birds

They still greet

the first rays of sun

with glee and surprise

singing an anchor

to weigh down the night

Nothing has changed

for the birds

Nothing has changed

for the cars

They still clog

the arteries

of the city

building a monument

to all our dashed dreams

Nothing has changed

for the cars

Nothing has changed

for they trees

They still guard

their mysteries

savagely and jealously

keeping quiet sentry

over our calamitous madness

Nothing has changed

for the trees

Nothing has changed

for the stars

They still shimmer

coruscating furiously

from light years away

even though their luster

died eons ago

Much like you

whose breath

once uttered my name

in anger

in violence

in love

and now labors slowly

gasping for air

until that breath

simply stops

Nothing has changed

Nothing has changed

yet

everything

everything

has changed

OUTGROWING MY MENTOR

I sat at your feet;

only metaphorically.

As I remember it,

I sat on the couch,

as you, with your strangely lilting voice,

held my hand and walked me through;

patiently; meticulously;

the pitiless steps of the reverent ritual.

You were so gentle

as you wrapped the sash around my bicep;

laughed at the expression on my face

pinched the crook of my arm

to bruise and raise a vein.

And as you slid the needle in and we watched the blood

cloud the water inside,

you apologized, profusely,

for the infinitesimal pinprick that precedes the rapture.

I swore to you,

in that ghastly and gorgeous moment,

this is how it would always be;

that you would be there, by my side, every time,

to guide me down the path of night.

but like the other oaths that passed between us,

this too, was a hopeful lie.

The day came, as it was

ever

destined to do,

that you were gone;

selling yourself

in the fashion required

for you to get by;

and the pull of oblivion

proved stronger, by far,

than either love or trust or art,

so I took the syringe and

taught myself

not to need

you anymore.

A LETTER TO MY FATHER AS HE PASSES, WEIGHTLESSLY, INTO THE VOID

You lay before me

yet you are gone

far

from my reach

And for that

I am bitter

There were recriminations

hanging heavily

on my tongue

You deserved

to hear them

and of them

I deserved

to be free

Yet, you slipped the chains

of the yesterday’s

with which

I would have bound you

Those days are mine

to shoulder now

Part of me wants

to make you pay

for the shape

you’d twisted me into

and part of me wants

to apologize

for the direction

of the bends

Instead, I lean close

right to your ear

to grant you the boon

of one final untruth

I tell you

not to worry

that you will

always be safe

always be safe

from your own

mistakes

From my first poetry collection, Junkies Die Alone (Thought Catalog Books, 2014)

There is no

mountain

It is an

illusion

It does not

exist

There are only

the steps

One after another

with no thought

of the peak

Inexorably

gaining ground

There is no

race

It is a

chimera

There is no reason

to run

There are only

the strides

Each thrust following

the last

without imagining

the tape

at the finish

There is no

book

The book is a

fiction

It is an

hallucination

There are only

the words

Just the steady progression

of lines

on blank paper

trailing off

into the darkness

There is no

mountain

I am not

climbing

I am

breathing

I am

being

I am

alive