Brunch in Manhattan

New York, New York is one big, complex, endless dance that is completely improvised. The streets and avenues run the dance floor bustling with juking taxis and jiving pedestrians. Every traffic signal, every car horn, every flashing billboard, every neon sign, every jaywalker, every “fuck you” and “fuck me” and “I love you, you goddamn cheating son of a bitch” move to the rhythm of this city’s beating heart. There is a tourist for every New Yorker, and a New Yorker for every pigeon. Well, more like every 12 pigeons. Those fuckers are everywhere– I mean seriously, if an alien were to observe the dominant organisms of NYC, it would put them in this hierarchy: 1. Cars

2. Pigeons

3. Jews

4. Everyone Else

It’s a marvel that everyone hasn’t murdered each other with all this shoulder to shoulder, bumpin’ and grindin’, humpin’ and kissin’, cryin’ and sweatin’, laughin’ and scootin’, slappin’ and pickpocketin’ and dancin’ madness. It could make a grown man cry. And it does. Seriously, find the nearest homeless man and hand him your whole wallet and see the waterworks. Either he cries or he’ll shank you with a sharpened spoon he used to smoke crack. Either way it’s a win-win, for him at least– he gets a shitload of money to buy more crack in either outcome.

So bring all your weary and your merry men and women and other genders that are haphazardly slapped onto half the bathrooms here, for this city has a place for everyone, from the Wall Street Execs to the Struggling Actress/Waitress to the Hand Holding Annoying Couple to the Wheelchair Bound Cerebral Palsy Man Just Trying to Get a Few Bucks By Playing a Broken Fiddle So He Can Make It to the Other Side of Town Where He Sleep Under A Different Bridge Tonight. Either way, every one in New York, New York is a New Yorker.

And so the dance goes on.



You make me manic

So manic that I panic

And my mind races like Sanic

Into a twister twisting colors coloring my emotions

While I toss my toys up and cause commotions

Cuz I’m a kid

Especially next to you

I hope I don’t blow my lid

And spill everything that is true

To me and what’s inside my spleen–

Heart I mean.

Call me Velveeta cuz I’m cheesy


Short like Sneezy

Make me dizzy

Like why’s champagne so fizzy?

Well, carbonation is carbon dioxide and carbonic acid in a liquid

Which makes my love that’s stuck in this sick kid

The chemicals that bubble to the surface before they’re devoured by you.

So please

Let the chemicals go down with ease

And don’t spit them out

Cuz love has keys

To new worlds, which is what I’m all about.

We all have a route

We pave it as we go,

Brick and mortar walls on the sides for show.

Every once in a while my route dives into a valley,

A depression, if you will (that’s honesty, start a tally)

Which is the opposite of my mania

So pay attention to the attention I’m payin ya

Cuz in this manic state

At the peak of a mountain

I can change fate

And blossom a fountain

Not of youth, but of beauty

Cuz they’re not the same

I can tell age doesn’t control this cutie

And I, a lame,

Realized she– you will age with grace

With the way laughter changes your face

From beautiful, to stunning, to motherfucking gorgeous.

So now that my mania fades,

And the depressions will continue their raids,

I realize that I don’t need to dream anymore,

Cuz you’ve already made my dreams into a reality– so let’s soar.


I was actually happy when it snowed. Feeling the liquor. I was laying on your jacket. Mine too. You always come, but never stay. I haven’t had time to shower because of you. Fuck.

These words I just told you are the clearest memories I can retain from the days before I wrote this poem. Clarity is something precious. It is also something people take for granted. Like clothes– I slept naked for the past few days. And fuck it, it felt great. It’s seems like I learned the most from you while I was naked, first lesson being the importance of cuddlingus. Second one being to not bring up my depression around you cuz it’s a turn off. Third one being that a suicide letter is in no way a love letter. So I am Counting the freckles like the stars that guide me as I capsize my heart in an ocean of me. Me in a storm of pills, with antidepressant antichrists ending my humanity. No feeling is better than pain, cuz the pain you gave me was too much to handle. So I turned to sedation. That night I walked into the woods swearing I would finish myself off with an overdose of sedation sensation that has relation to my melodramatic realization. I was going to drown myself that night. Until I called you, and said every pill I was going take that night was a symbol, and as a poet you know how I love symbols. Each pill represented every promise you made me swallow– every pill a contract we wrote in pizza grease and diner breakfast. These symbols we made for each other in the hope that they would represent something greater than us– that we would stitch our words into wings and ascend to our greater beings. But you said you had commitment issues. You see, the only issue you had was that you saw commitment as an issue. You spent too much time looking at your hicky scars to realize the loving kisses that put them there. Besides that, you were imperfectly perfect. You gave into fear like Anakin gave into hate. You caved cuz the faces of others clouded your perspective like drops of kool-aid in water. Too long I’ve waited for someone like you, and obviously you still want to wait. Well I guess I have to wait with you, cuz if I can’t have those swing dancing ugly hats you threw at me, I don’t know if I can resist walking into those woods again.
But I digress, what I’ve said about you so far is the shriveled gremlin of my heart that still clings to your memory. The better part of me has moved on to the present day, where only your lessons live on like flowers in my garden of bruises. You planted the seed of a man where my child self lives, bloodied my face so I can feel the reality dripping down my cheeks. I was a cartoon that you made real again. And all the thoughts that ought to stop buzzing and fuzzing my brain like insane in the membrane making me bite into fruits that shoot me full of lies that tantalize the sadness of a boy who just wants to be heard! …Clarity is something precious. So when I speak of you, i speak clearly. I think not of how you hurt me, but of what you taught me: to first remember the importance of cuddlingus, to second always bring up my depression around you cuz you’ll be turned off enough to help me defeat my depression, and to third let my suicide letters be merely fuel for the fire that burns the relentless compassion we share together. And that’s all I have left for you– love.


And so the men of wood, stone, and steel, after a day in the rain, return to their homes made of plastic.

But my home, O, my home, is made of wax, dripping golden hands down wooded floors, fragrant with the power of Pine-Sol, baby. The floor’s boughs way heavy with the scars of wolves at play, joy bleeding from their wounds like paper cuts from an old spell book. Spells of dancing, spells of laughter; spells of worry, spells of despair. So much doubt… But despair no more, child, for we have scriptures ripe to replace yours! Vibrate through the echoes of our fathers, and swear upon the oak mantle that you are descendant. Soak your tongue on the ashes of our stone heroes, burned to a crisp by the dragons they sought to slay. Join their side on that oak mantle as you chase your very own damsel in distress and don’t stress the distress you press against the corridor walls of your heart and please in part ignore the stars that dart through your eyelids cuz those celestial masterpieces were not made for you. Do not love the dragon that stole your damsel; that love is not made for you. Burn your wick on the oak mantle here in your home of wax, made just for you.

burn bright

burn bright



Long story: I wrote this while listening to Bon Iver’s “Holocene,” of which provoked an overwhelming sense of fear. My heart raced out of my mouth and something flashed before my eyes that appeared to be a road coated in the vibrancy of night. This isn’t a new thing for me, simply a symptom of my self-obsession. Or just obsession; the subject doesn’t matter. {the following statements may contain each of the following: incoherence, confusion, redundancy, hypocrisy, redundancy, redundancy, overuse of punctuation/parentheses/slashes, and/or pitiful attempts at comedy. You have been warned} The point is that I have no point; I’m tired of saying “I” all the time; I need something more than “I.” It’s these kinds of thoughts that haunt me in a vicious cycle, 24/7 (well, my vivid dreams give me a break… I think). I’m losing focus (again) for this visceral moment as I descend back down into the clouds around my toes, so I (again… Maybe?) will say that my confusion may be confusing, but this moment of clarity (of which is clearing out like a man who accidentally walked into a dyke bar due to the purposely wrong directions given by his cheeky bugger of a friend) is true. So what’s true to you?

Short story: fuck.




You think your heart is safe dangling in front of your face like a fresh apple stabbed by an icicle that is infested with termites that dance to un-heard music of which is just a spell cast by the chameleons surrounding us who are now leeching onto our faces like ticks a tic-toc we gonna be dried raisins by the time these vampire lizards get their fill but I forget that it is your heart I speak of, so let me speak of it:  BLEED BLOOD BLED let the ambrosia of your legs coat the back of my mind like ice cream stuck in my throat CLAW CLAWS CLAWED let my fingers slip under that umbrella that shield your feet from tears BITE BITES BITTEN let my fangs sink into the stem of your blooming face—aka lets fuck.