I am with the moon,

And will continue to stroll up midnight staircases until my

Death.

Burlington, VT

Rocky & The Pressers Show in the Bronx

I Erected a Castle Around the Girl I Loved

I erected a Castle around the Girl I loved.

At first,

To shelter her

From Me

And the Pandemonium from where I dwell

(For I am fecundating with self-destructive compulsions strapped to my conscience).

At the very foundations, I sheltered her from my voice.

And with each stone, it grew

—as an addiction—

From passages of underground channels

Into a fortified monstrosity of lifeless pillars, and cast-iron bars. 

The higher the turrets, the more I sunk.

By now,

The girl I love is long dead,

Beautifully pale and fermenting,

And outside of its walls,

I rock back and forth in a louse-ridden shantee,

Fighting gruesome tirades

That I could only overcome

By mustering the courage to confide my love to her.

Baby Monkey Bars

Street-lit Trashcans

This isn't the dirty South remix. We're working on the original. Sometimes I'd just like to sit back and try to ignore the decline of ol' famous Western Civilization. Children leaning on the side of a dirty church spilling their filth. It happened tonight....kid leaning on St Anthony's church talking about splurging on a clit in front of the true family. I held my tongue and walked the other way.

Woke up, terrible heat at work. The winds changed and the storm swept us all inside. We stayed for a while then left. That is what we will always be doing.

The only thing that my aunt left me is a guitar and old Christmas memories. She was my Godmother.

Yeah Rimbaud was so young when he died. 19 and he stopped writing to travel, then took to the grave with what some may argue as Syphilis. Though I'm sure he was having a fun time when he got Syphilis. Vampire mirrors.

No idea what the hell to do. It's terrible. We graduate and now have no purpose. A constant lack of unsettling that bursts in layers of summer.

There restoring the museum outside. But leaving the inside--as usual. Though there is a new planetarium. Space gets us all lost with hope but then we wake up sick on some escalator drowning in unmeasurable vertigo.

Revised poem: Going Home

Going Home

Dismantled from the Highlands,
Loveless and failing the trials of men,
I left to go home.
At Six AM, to the Train Station,
Lurking through lowlands of
Plastic mops and glass and glaring
Tiles.

After kicking me out,
My old flame nestled high in a wooden frame—
With a pumpkin moon.
So,
I tumbled
Underneath,
My companions: A sprained ankle
A sausage, egg & cheese with a medium coffee,
And a skyline crescendo of blue patchwork and fluorescent pigeons.


But by Three AM, the trains stopped
The conductors all went home
To those Brownstones in Brooklyn—Can’t blame them,
There’s a mattress involved.

I laid down
On the station’s knotted bench,
Nestled in a fold of stubble and flannel.
My stringencies pulsed
And lips fermented to raisins—
Hearing voices juggle
Tides and teasing,
A drone from the doorway.


Once a French girl told me,
“Any person I love, I’m gonna call home.”

Apollo must be perched above her now,
While I am here
Curled on a bench,
Eaten from the inside by African dreams.