attic events

i was impaled on the iron rod fence of your anger

while your best friend tried to drown me

in a bathtub filled with your tears

cold, hard steel accessorize my wrists

marks from the backseat and a broken bottle

i reek of an old .38

the one from your mother’s purse

while the whole time they were downstairs

watching black and white television

tattoo #6

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throughout the drive from jersey i heard one more time over and over and we timidly changed out of tie dye after entering easy rider country as i recounted the hippie myth of the koa murders the things that happened later in waco are fuzzy in my manic depressive mind lithium or xanax or effexor clouds what little memory survived of being 19?20? in texas with a giggling fairy mother who i once shared a tree with there was a mega wal-mart and a children’s soccer game a dog with diarrhea and a recreation of a nightmare from my youth and on a hot night she quickly sketched an infinity symbol that the lazy inker haphazardly slapped on the both of us

later i can’t remember when i deigned to have it covered in philly by professor ouch at philadelphia eddie’s it was a gift from my parents when anything else would be sold for rent or oxys and i don’t remember why i chose to cover it why i would hide a friendship that has lasted over a decade my solipsistic nature erasing histories of infinite love with drug-fueled narcissism my laughing buddha sister is about to be a mother again in cali and i am childless in amsterdam it’s hidden sammy-o but my everlasting connection is just there under the surface of the misshapen lotus a reminder that i have a friend on the opposite side of the world who every once in a while thinks of me

goodnight, sweet prince

for brian ledoux

we were on top of the world

we were partners in crime

we were young and beautiful

i see you:

24 years old, joint in hand, broken angel

squinting in the sun like jesse james

laughing at the latest irony

quoting j.d. salinger

eight-year increments of space and time

two presidents, another war, a great divide

the ashes of your existence were scattered but

i was not invited so

i baptized myself in the mediterranean

i capsized on the sea of despair

i analyzed the importance of altruism

it does not slowly saw me in two

these images, flashes of life

before the great fire

i will remember your gentle energy

your divine spark

like seymour

like zooey

like buddha, a shaman, the little prince

the myth of sisyphus and the cerebus flanked

by gemini and kaya

i can no longer speak to the stars

in the hopes that you will hear me

i have come to terms that you cannot

we will never smoke

we will never laugh

we will never implode

with each other again

the long walk

the short pier

the short drop

the sudden stop

i must confess i lied when i said

i would never love again

those things we say in grief are too tall an order

now that i can feel again

i want to feel the way i do now

in his arms

in his presence

in my heart

accept my apologies

you were the impetus

you were the nexus

you were the roofbeam carpenter

goodbye

goodbye, atlantic ave.

goodbye, hill st.

goodbye, streets with no names

goodbye, five ladies and one little man

goodbye to the revolutionary street rat rapist

we should have never let in

goodbye camper, tmbg, and gbv

goodbye to the dead and all of our marleys

goodbye midnight runs and 4am phone calls

lavender, candlelight, nag champa, patchouli

i may never forgive myself

but i have forgiven you

for taking my youth

then not taking me with you

we weren’t strangers in the night

we were rimbaud’s ideal

i cannot put flowers in the place where you rest

i’m too far away from that barren forest

in heart

in mind

in miles

instead, i put these words to

the universe

the multiverse

verse

i love you and i always will

like father

like paka

like hunter

i reserve a table for you in

the tavern of my heart

i’ll meet you there for pounders and pizza

whenever you have the time

laters

farewell

goodbye

shout out to our lady

hey lady light a candle because i’m on the road again

i’ve mislaid the pope’s st. chris 3x

but the mojo seems to be working

because i haven’t been arrested yet

i met a guy who reminds me of jesus

so i am recreating the myth of mary

and anointing him with oils

i realized on this day in the year of our lord 2016

that there was a moment you set me down and

never picked me up again

it took an ocean to cut the chord

but i do not want to be a disappointment

as i stumble around a foreign place

thumbing a madman’s mother’s rosary

our lady of perpetual worry

fear not for all the bs i sling in your direction

at least i can do it in three tongues and various media

oh mother

i wanted to ride on a riverboat, touch the statue of liberty, and be an artist

at least i accomplished the latter

the amsterdam parrots

1976

according to legend, the tropical parrots escape and start their own colony in vondelpark though some accounts say they were set free

the version of liberation is perpetuated by the hippies, the ones who started the movement that set san fran ’68 in motion

but don’t call them parrots to people outside of amsterdam because they are actually rose-ringed parakeets

the romantics among us like to say they are monogamous though this author has not verified these claims through a second source

implying that two lovebirds escaped and built an empire

it is also said these birds can mimic the human voice much like the jackalope of the wyoming high desert; they can hear a word once and sing it back it the same intonation

2016

a cowgirl sits in a’dam wishing for a friend

back in the old days, the wild west days, where she was born

the jackalopes would answer her cries of loneliness with the same sad phrases and she was comforted, reassured of her connection to this world

this calamity rose sits on a balcony 3000 miles from her home and hears birds echoing her lamentations

chartreuse wings against the azure sky

not belonging but there nonetheless

what is mythology?  what is reality?  does it matter?

histories intermingle and the book is written by the victor

whether i am a tyrant or an angel

a mata hari level liar or anne frank in my purity

i won

i write the books that define an age

 perceptions of what is important here and now