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Asbury Park Grand Arcade between Paramount Theatre and Convention Hall.

 

 

slouching,

staggered by the slightness of my sleep and

your stark fuckery.

so much so

I can’t even scrap together a shrewd sentence to

slay you in true poetic structure or

slander you sub-rosa in idioms

nor serve you with that same fucking nerve

you been struttin’ around with lately.

this is just a sad silhouette of a slant

you should take a stab at my notebook

it’s storming.

As the song goes,

                       I wish I knew.

as well as I wish you knew

that being alone has been

both grim and yet so fucking

prophetic for me

 Have you been able to leash the hounds in your head yet?

Lately,

I find peace

underneath the route 78 overpass
Continue reading “Ask me what it’s like to have myself so figured out*”

I’m going to buy myself the tiniest typewriter
and print you tiny fortunes
on rose petals
scatter them through your heart
and the bedroom
lay one out with your morning tea
since you don’t drink coffee
or punch a few lines on some joint
paper and let it steep into your bloodstream.