I'm a lot of things. But for the time you read this, you can call me yours :)

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

There is an ocean inside you.

My goodness. I am a terrible blogger. Honestly, I only post this because I'm on google+ now, meaning my family can see what I write. Even now, I'm prattling on a bit, so I guess for those who can see this I'll give some insight into my life.

I've become, through a combination of emotional diversion and boredom, a passable street fighter IV player. For those of you who care, I main Dee Jay (because how often is your namesake a video game character (even though he's the bottomest of bottom tier)). That's really all I got to say about that. If you're on PSN add me (fatbuu8990).

Ahem. Anyway. . .

I'm in the editing phase of my manuscript, "The Time of the Mousetrap". I am in the planning phases of my full-length work, "Strangle". Both deal with aspects of depression and what it's like. "Mousetrap" I'm hoping speaks to the feelings you get when you're up all night just thinking and that thinking is tinted with what it means to be going through the early phases of the disease. "Strangle", so far, deals with the later phases, the point past sadness and anger where it's complete and profound nothingness. In that nothing I found so much that I want to share now.

I am come
from the seafoam
with hands full of conch and coral
to tell you

there is an ocean inside you.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012


Tonight, the DJ’s got us falling in love again. . .
I ushered your noise into existence.
My basket-woven flesh tingled at your presence
my wooden legs stood tall as stone towers and my fingertip
rode along ridges and valleys of vinyl until both hummed your heartbeat.
You made me fingerpaint with the colors of the wind in the corner of the family room.
Somewhere, beyond the sea
your hands found my memoirs stacked like a stairway to Heaven in the basement.
They lay on the plastic rack that sagged until its two backs arched in ecstacy
and you talked to me in croons and songs about low-tide.
Every night, I sang you lullabies,
cradled you until the dust danced for a room empty save for your breaths
and in those days, the biggest worry was if you finally wore that Raffi record straight down to the bone.
I shone, in the corner of the family room
Stevie Wonder tickling my ivories
Charlie Daniels caressing my skin
Jam Master Jay playing with my mind until I spoke in tongues
but time will seal all things
and the popping faded
the dust settled
and I stood as a queen’s guard.
I guess
you weren’t my prince any more.
Middle school
Prom. . .
Somewhere over the rainbow. . .
You brought her down here. Hand on hip, firm grip and gaze to your shoes.
Clicked the Stacy Adams heels together 3 times
There’s no place like home there’s no place like home there’s no place like home
and then you look up to her face and realize there never was
setting the floor on fire, cutting rug until my grooves became grooves
and my life had purpose again.
Can we get much higher?
Do not ask questions to which you do not want the answer.
Shots of whiskey
Shots of friendly fire
The shared syringe
The unemployment line
Seasons don’t fear the reaper, nor do the wind, the sun or the rain. . .
What is it about you that makes you break so many silences and never heal them?
A child never forgets his first toy and we played
and talked
and wept
and slept
and now the room is empty save for your breaths,
fast and ragged on the front porch.
Home is the place
where if you have to go there they have to let you in.
This isn’t home anymore.
I watched you crying in the rain
would break to make the cacophony to blow out a window
I’m sorry
my volume knob does not go to 11
I’m sorry
I can only speak in others’ inspirations.
Strumming my pain with his fingers. . .
One time, you got your hair fixed. Beard trimmed. She told you
she found a new dance partner and you imagined her
clutching his back like a B-side bearing all his back-masking.
Singing my life with his words. . .
2 times the dosage, swallowing pills and swan songs until hope floats and you capsize it.
Killing me softly with his song, killing me softly, with his song. . .
I never asked to be somebody’s funeral march.
For 38 years, I taught you needles should scratch the surface
like the fingertips of a safecracker,
not break through vinyl
or crack through barriers
sending brains into overdrive, neurotransmitters skipping like a broken record
fight fuck flee
fight fight fufuckfuck flee
fleeeeee fight fuck flee
Skip, I was collecting these discs to make another backbone
in case you ever needed it.
But there is some brokenness even angel song cannot fix,
some beasts that music cannot soothe.
Carry on my wayward son,
There’ll be peace when you are done.
Lay your weary head to rest,
Don’t you cry no more.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

It will work this time. It has to.

It’s enough to make you wonder if it’s better to be a perfect physical specimen than it is to be bright. If all the time you’ve spent lost in thought has been a waste, when all along it’s been easier to just -run-.
Shane Hawley

I've got a lot of work to do.

Sunday, January 8, 2012

52nd Street

Davis places a nickel into the meter.

He says nothing. He walks to the corner and watches the sun set,

the ocean of light receding to a beach the color of graves

saves his voice for a woman he knew his whole life would be waiting there.


refracts through the air like a lighthouse beacon through fog.

Belle says nothing. She is waiting for a man she doesn't even know

to look her way and say


did you know a fault line lies under New York City?

When she answers correctly,

as she's never sure she will with hard questions about geology,

she will notice him there, making echoes on the earth in tribute

to her tectonic skin

her smile, causing her brow and her mouth to move like mountains.

He is only a player in the most literal sense.

Never much for big band, just steel strings in hand and her,

his muse, hallowed be her harp-string of a heart,

thumping to the rhythm of black-and-blue ruckus,

prayers to gods of memory loss and escape.

Fate finds Davis miles away from himself -

kind of blue, or kind of silent. Tonight,

he is a million sacrifices of soundwaves

not knowing true love's real name,

gambling like the lord is coming tomorrow

so he must sin well tonight...

Safety safely secured me a seat at a feast

when all I want is a sandwich with you.

Belle smiles bashfully,

feeling bold in a sleepless city

roused from half-real reveries.

Name the time and place,

she says, feet shaking and tapping to the rhythm of rolling rocks.

Belle begins moving, dancing like she forgot what year it is

what block she was on

who she was waiting for.


His hand glides up and down the neck of the instrument

like a lover just returned blind from the war

as its case lies discarded as last night's mistakes on the sidewalk.

He holds it firm, praying this is the day an upright bass becomes a love poem


Wow, if pretty could kill, you'd be the Manhattan Project.

And he'd be the last survivor.

And she'd be the last thing he'd be alive for.

As Davis plucks strings like he is a puppetmaster

and Belle dances like a liquid Pinocchio

but she only wants to lie with him

as the quake hits crescendo

and the notes

become notes, strips of papyrus carved with quartz saying

You are the rhythm playing inside me

and I lose the beat enough without throwing it away.

My body is sheet music

and you sight read me flawlessly.

Courtlan did not get arrested that night.

He did not get one too many traffic tickets

and was not told to give up his car

or his jazz spot.

He gave the renaissance lovers a place to go,

didn't attract the police to Davis and Belle's loitering love poem.

On the other side of the street,

Belle dares God to snatch the papyrus from her palms,

her paper skin turning stone, glistening as she falls into

his arms like a suicide, back-first...

his hand moves up and down her neck

his instrument

his lover

his instrument

his lover...

His fingers explore her skin.

52nd street

lays scattered like a deck of cards waiting to be picked up.

All that jazz...

but what's a handful of clubs to a royal flush?

Love, Davis says

did you know a fault line lies under New York City?

Under 125th,

Belle says back.

Davis packs up his past just in time to feel the rumble of downbeat.

He takes Belle's hand, walks to the wreckage they created and says

See? It took God six days to create the Earth.

In one night, I opened it just for you.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

A swingset on Homestead Road

June 8, 2011, 10:38 PM.

Up and down, I listen to T.I. and look at the

fifteen stars that are visible like teeth I hope to still smile with when I'm old

and gray. In the bushes I hear footsteps. I jump, half-cocked, from my seat

burying my knees into sod and sand.

I remember:

the skyline, the night, love, beauty,

these are not things that belong to me.

My frame is too monstrous to catch butterflies so I crush cocoons

and hold on to the technicolor wings

taking what I can get, I remember

people like me don't unfold, we burst.

I am not a star but the pile of dust it leaves when it implodes.

Rewind: dinner.

We are talking around the table about classes and theology

and the subject shifts to the subjects of my writing,

my love of superheroes and love stories without proper endings

I explain I write what I know.

The subject shifts to the reason why one of the guests

had been avoiding me for sixth months

and she explains she was just busy.

She was the fifth to say this;

I wonder which of my inadequacies did it this time.

The beatings I received at 6 years old

turn into a furrowed brow at 22.

The raised voices that played the violin strings of my childhood homes

turn to hushed tones on stage and in places where I can let go of my roar.

The jeers from when I was in grade school

are the weights that hunch my back quasimodo even now.

But that night, fifteen random stars smiled as my feet and the corners of my mouth

turned skyward.

I wanted to hold each one,

feel its warmth before it supernovas into memories

like I know we are wont to do at the most selfish moment

and name them,

stick them into a bottle like water and play them with my fingertips.

23. The issue of X-men where Beast's mutations furthers and he turns blue.

119. the first time I said "I hate you."

840. The night my best friend told me I'd always just be second to her.

912. 5 shots of tequila and a broken jaw.

17. God just makes some people different.

263. When you can calculate prime numbers over 100 in your head you're a nerd.

777. The ugly boy you could never love but who always rang the bell on time.

323. My last fight 8 years ago.

324. Bloods broke into my house. There was gunfire and I couldn't walk anymore.

613. You want to know how I got these scars? I weighed my mistakes in an iron maiden.

540. On one knee, hands pop-locked into prayer position; the last time I say "I hate you."

400. I loved you enough to let you go.

13. I'm diabetic and starve myself.

04. The shattered violet lantern ring and the empty bottle of gin beside it.

1,209 is so distant I'm afraid I'm making up its name.

It sounds like Daddy, are you proud of me now?

Did you see how high I swung?

How dark it was?

I promise I wasn't afraid.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Parthenon (original; not to be confused with the poem on my Tumblr)

From the highway,
the city always looks smaller.
At night all the comers and goers flying
down the street
look like fireflies waiting to burst
into a thousand rainbows and these
these are my first memories of holding your hand.
I want all nights to end this way,
watching the cars crash into pillow cases full of rose petals,
the light shining just so.
"Picturesque" should have met us before it defined itself.
I'm sure it would have had something to say about our feet,
bare and dangling over the infinite catwalk
that seduced us.
It would complain of our pulse being too loud,
too syncopated.
It would ask why we were a symphony of lips parting
then meeting
then parting
then ask why it must be just a word
dribbling off of a third grader's chin.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

And I know nothing of either.