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How amazing:
To really know
What you want.

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There's a word
For this
Sort of
Thing.

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In all
The confusion
I nearly forgot
This.

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Old lady,
Swallower of flies—
Perhaps she's dead.

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I wonder
If / When
I'll ever
Feel worthy.

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Hour-plus commute,
Television always on,
Close eyes.

Repeat.

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Forgive and forget,
Especially when
It's too hard.

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And another thing:
Stop making me
Feel wrong.

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If you want
Something
Bad enough,
It's bad.

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All I want is
One hour's peace
Daily.

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Speculation is pointless:
You're sure
And I'm not.

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Will you even notice
If I'm not around?

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When the smoke clears
Will you be here?

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It couldn't be
Clearer:
What you say,
Goes.

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Next time
Don't give me
A choice,
Okay?

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You really know
How to make
An exit.

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I know what
A broken heart
Looks like.

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Another
Crazy go nuts
Attempt
To live
Life.

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I've tried,
But the past
Won't stay put.

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I won't speak
In negative absolutes
Ever again.

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We've got to stop
Bullshitting ourselves
Like this.

iTuneage - recent baker's dozen

1. "Overture" from Tommy - The Who
2. "Cowboy Song" - Thin Lizzy
3. "High as Hell" - Nashville Pussy
4. "One Step Forward" - Desert Rose Band
5. "Let it Go, Let it Flow" - Dave Mason
6. "Feel Good Inc." - Gorillaz
7. "The Big Stick" - The Minutemen
8. "Fire" - Jimi Hendrix
9. "Vaka" - Sigur Rós
10. "I Was a Prisoner in Your Skull" - Swans
11. "We're an American Band" - Grand Funk Railroad
12. "Make Your Own Kind of Music" - Cass Elliot
13. "Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes" - Paul Simon

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Just when
You think
You've won,
Think again.

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When the going
Gets tough
You're really living.

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The Four Horsemen
Don't bring me
Flowers anymore.

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You can't break
Something that is
Already broken.

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Work is work.
Life is life.
Don't confuse.

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What went right,
What went wrong,
Lessons learned.

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Let my tombstone read:
He died with benefits.

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Words could never
Sufficiently describe
My limitless
Self-loathing.

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Why didn't I
Just kill myself
Long ago?

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Only a
Publicly
Humiliating
Shit-canning
Can save me.

Coming up for air (before I go down for the third time).

As some of you know, I began a new job in late July - the first full-time job with benefits I have had in quite a long time. While this is a welcome development, the job has required extremely long hours and has been quite stressful. If you are one of the numerous people who have tried to get my attention via phone or email, only to be met with silence, please accept my sincere apologies. It has been a rough time of constant 10- to 12-hour days, but I intend to get my personal life in order once my professional life (there's a construction I never thought I'd use) evens out a bit.

I recently participated in two readings, each of which was simultaneously rewarding and bizarre. Last Thursday I read at Freebird Books & Goods, a very cool bookstore in an area of Brooklyn known as the Gowanus Waterfront (they carry both of my chapbooks, how cool is that?). Joining me for the reading was co-editor of the tiny, Gina Myers.

Gina is the real deal: she's well-read, sensitive, intuitive and connected to a wide range of poets, journals, and the like. She is also quite simply one of the nicest people I've ever met (we were classmates at the New School). In attendance at our reading at Freebird was Sam, co-proprietor of the establishment, and poet Daniel Magers (another of our New School classmates, and a very nice guy himself, though I couldn't say I know him well).

And that was it; two readers, and two audience members (it's on occasions such as this that I am reminded that there really is no shame in shameless self-promotion). But what was destined to become a truly depressing situation was brilliantly transformed into an intimate community affair. Gina and I took turns reading poems, essentially to each other, developing a unique call-and-response poetic conversation that I have never before experienced. I always enjoy hearing Gina read her work, and her recent poems (some of them still works in progress) were all moving and carefully rendered.

Then on Saturday, I read with Justin Marks (another talented New School MFA alum, who graduated a year ahead of me) at The Ear Inn Reading Series (poet Chris Tonelli had to bow out due to a family emergency). This is a very cool reading series co-curated by poets Michael Broder and Jason Schneiderman. Readings are held in a supposedly haunted Irish bar (where the ghost is known to pinch women's posteriors) way west on Spring Street.

The crowd at this event, including host Michael Broder and each reader's significant other, totaled 8 persons. I read from both of my chapbooks, plus some random older and newer pieces. Despite the occasional titter, there seemed to be a dreaded silence enveloping the place during my time at the microphone (but at least I, unlike Justin, was spared the performance art-esque intrusion of the Inn's cook mashing potatoes in plain site of the audience members).

All of which, coupled with The Job That Stole My Life, has me wondering: Is my poetry nothing but crap? Hey, I know that an artist creates and puts his art into the world, where it's up to the audience to decide the merits of said art. And I know that not every reading goes according to plan. And I have always known that my poetry is not for everyone. But still, after reading with poets like Gina and Justin - both of whom draw upon their past with a sense of empathy - I have to admit I felt a bit like a failed stand-up comic by comparison.

Snide humor + poetry =
Valid art form?

Discuss.

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My poetry:
It's just,
Essentially,
One long
Bitch.

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I have always
Found great
Comfort in
Regret.

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This much
Is true:
I make
Everything worse.

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What can
I say?
I need
More cowbell.

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I don't
Go postal—
I steal
Your shit.

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How depressed?
Wish I'd gone
To law school.

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Whenever
I think
I'm over
The hump:
Disaster.

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Forward to a friend—
And make an enemy.

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Zero redemption
For the old
And used up.

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What is the sound
Of one soul dying?

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One step
Forward
And two steps
Back.

Repeat.

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Wouldn't it be
Ironic
If I died
__________?

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Wish you were there;
Wish I was here.

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Sometimes
A chalk outline
Is but
A formality.

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You don't
Even know
This is
About you.

Against my better judgment, I just took the John Cusack quiz.

Which John Cusack Are You?

It's all true, particularly the tuxedo part. I should probably see the movie sometime, though.

Thanks to the gals over at The Point of Babette for digging this up.

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Now I
Lay me
Down to
Pass out.

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Utterly lacking
In social graces?
No, just young.

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Your bothered mind
And its great
Philosophical implications.

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It's enough
To dream
When dreams
Come true.

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I pray the world
Will cooperate
Long enough.

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Restraint of tongue
And pen:
The only way.

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I want
To build
A life
With you.

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Just because
You're defensive
Doesn't mean
You're right.

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Having misplaced
My cat's ashes,
I wept, openly.

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The next time—
There is no
Next time.

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I have learned
What not
To say,
Ever.

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Stockboy syndrome:
Lord deliver me
From cling peaches.

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Can a bitter man
Become a better man?

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It's a sad
Life,
Have you not
Noticed?

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I am
Doing time
In the
Apology line.

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If I only
Had more
Time,
I could.

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I think
I know
Where we
Went wrong.

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I wanted to see
The bright lights
Tonight.

* * *

After Richard and Linda Thompson.

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Please and
Thank you
Are the
Magic words.