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of course i know the glass is half full.
i just filled it.
i'm on my last beer of the morning,
falling on the toes of the mourn,
the birds at work, the cars unpaused
by the great big traffic god in the sky.
this month has been a cup half full,
cuz i drank the top half
and i'm working on finishing it,
the substance spiraling downward,
counter-clockwise, chasing its own tail
like i walk in circles around myself.
i'm waiting for the downer to kick in
so i can go to sleep,
not perchance to dream - no, not a chance,
but at least to rest these weary bones,
to stretch out this hunching back.
i can't wait to flee this city.
i should embrace it if i can,
see the symptoms of this funk
from outside of myself -
then, maybe i can move around it.
i don't know which disgusts me more now -
filled with no food, only fluid
(two cups of coffee and eight beers)
or the rancid, acrid smell of stale smoke
in my apartment, on my clothes and skin.
my organs are tapped, the well is dry,
and some crazy fuck is already
biking across the williamsburg bridge,
humming "hey man, well this is babylon".
i babble on. i shall babble on in babylon.
two all-nighters to bookend a brief trip
to the ill der ness wilds of montana.
the pigeon poops in time or
maybe it's just fucking with me.
telling me that dwelling on the past
and romanticizing it are the same thing,
that having fear for the future
and fantasizing about it verdant vibrance
are too.
too
are means of escape from the realization
of real i ty
are too coping mechanisms
i must learn to live without
like drugs and alcohol
like coffee&cigarettes
i must cease all pointless lamentations
about the passage(ing)
and focus on that which i can do, be
and make of the time i have left (right?)
starting with breathing.

US TRUST

stuck a pin in yer back.
stuck in this pinback
funk, stunk and sunk.
blue mind, blue clothes, blue notes
yuk, a sin in yer saxophone.

THE DAY AFTER NIGHT AFTER THE 26 FELL

i never was a poet
to begin with (so long ago)

i sighed "oh baby"
as i slipped into bed
but on with the light
so's to clear my head.

where to begin?
last night?

i lay there
cursing myself
for getting
all jacked up
in a jam again.
for feeling too much
and saying too little.
you thought and spoke,
you slept, i thought
but kept it to myself.
why ask questions with stinging answers?

but i couldn't find peace
and couldn't fool myself no more
and what the fuck was i there for
in the first place and
in the second place
who was i kidding?
so i upped and up and left.
but your hand felt so good on me,
on my knee, i wanted
to forget it all and just
hold you so fucking tight.
but i left and left foot right foot
through grey banks and icy puddles
jumped it to atlantic for a blue car.
home again, and still no sleep would come.

why?

cuz as you'd been playing tricks on me
i'd been playing tricks on my
self, the same tricks
you shone a light through last time,
the same wanting, feeling, chasing.
but now it was so ever fucking clear.
no fog, smoke, mirrors, mist.

you and i together
but separate.
both there but
for different reasons.
i (was) there for love,
you for some com-pany.
and you again explaining the trick,
the fooling of myself by my self,
the 15 hour days together bound
to do something,
to spawn illusions of desire.
can you still claim this?
or have you moved on to other excuses?
you with your excuses.
your fear, your false sense of
security blankets.
your clearly thought out,
wholly rational spotlight
sending a swath of shit through my haze,
shattering my reason to spend the daze.

and all the while me not believing
a word that you say, not wanting
to believe, believing other lies
that will leave me bereft in grief.
me wishing, fucking praying
that it's not that way,
that you'll change your mind
come april or may,
that you'd finally get a clue
and stop pushing me away,
realizing that it could be so
fucking good this way, or
that your notion of a boyfriend
would discover he's gay.

ha!

because i didn't couldn't
wouldn't let myself
get tired of you -
of seeing you, of talking to you,
always wanting more and more and more,
thinking of you always.
even now i think of you almost always.
you were with me at the start and end of each day,
as i clutched tight to my pillow, dreaming,
make-believing my loneliness away,
fantastically slipping into a state
where we played in the same league
and you were always but an arm's reach away.

i dreamt of a world where you'd kiss me
and tell me you'd missed me
more than you dissed me
for pissing you off.

i should start all over
but i'm already off to some start,
so from pro-em to prose.


WHEN THE SUN IS SHINING
and i can step back and see clearly
i can see that it's all groovy, or
gravy, as some might say, that
i enjoy kicking it with you any which
way.
and for grace and patience and perspective
i pray.
and sometimes i can see it in your eyes,
that you love me
more than you know
or more than you
can say.
even though you never could write me a love letter.

so i step back and rack
focus
to the billion and one other things to set sights on.

because i can understand detachment
or, at the least, the concept.
and i know in my heart, if not in my mind,
that everything that is meant to be will be,
that that meant to pass will come to pass,
that fate will manifest in different shapes
than those for which i ask.
that love is boundless, like future and past,
that my love for you is bigger than that
and that if
i really try harder i can complete my task,
if i can swallow my pride and das-
tardly, bastardly ways.

BUT

i cannot be a dirty little secret -
that forsakes my soul as much
as it stings my heart
and socks it to my spirit,
shattering all sense of self worth.

and where would that lead?
to a sudden cliff's drop -
where once again i am the only one
falling
but this time it's a falling out
of the love i alone fell into.