P & S

occasional empty cabs
splash their way through the streets
the weary red, yellow, green
patrolmen are drooping from their posts

the bars have closed
no sign of the sun

at a diner, I sit down,
ask for a menu,
give it back without opening it,

just coffee, please

sure thing, sweetie

it’s warm,
I notice I can hear the viscosity
of the liquid as she pours it from the pot,
a universal skill I’d recently been informed of
us humans can hear temperature
we can hear all kinds of things, the Stirring
of dreams, the silence of god, the cabs outside


no thank you. did you know we can hear temperature?

I’ve never heard that before; rain’s cold, huh?

yeah; better in here

she puts her hands into her apron pockets and pulls
out a pack of cigarettes
I nod,

go for it

be right back in

she puts on a green windbreaker with field hockey patches
on the arms, heads for the door
I watch her walk out
I’m alone
I spin the bottles of salt and pepper around
a few times, fidgeting
they have nine holes on top each
P & S
P.S. I can’t sleep thinking about you
P.S. have you heard about the rain here?
P.S. do you think it’s all going to be okay?
P.S. the coffee is shit, but there’s no sign of the sun
P.S. write back, I’m at: 72 sw rd. apt A3 — not home
P.S. the ocean’s too far, I’ve been putting the bottled letters in the storm drain instead, are you getting them?

a rush of cold air through the door

you okay, sweetie, how’s the coffee?

yeah, I’m good; it’s good, thank you



Taken from my verses in collaboration with Alex Zarek, Feb 2014.
no you don’t have to be alone to feel alone
and we all know more about it than the farthest star
could learn over all its eons of existence
the difference between the connections of constellations

can’t compare to the constant separations we put ourselves through
the way we push and pull one another
the way we let ourselves be enveloped by the expanses of our loneliness
how we stretch out

like the empty space between stars
and how we’re all dying for gravity to pull us back together
but I can remember days where I wanted to be alone
and I would walk for miles out into the dark

searching for a solitude that matched that of my heart
now I don’t have to try so hard to be distant anymore
I can drift as easily into my thoughts in a crowded bar
as easily as I can on an open road and the


is just the same
it’s not made any weaker for any friend I claim
so it must be one of friendship’s quandaries
that it’s not a cure for this disease

we’re just

to solve these mysteries
and I end up watching like a ghost as it happens all around
sometimes loneliness is not an absence, but rather
much to much of me


like how we are completely and utterly different
and yet loneliness proves its irony
tapping each of us on the shoulder to turn to it
as generations come and go

we still find ourselves here
surrounded by a crowd of lonely faces
still in the same places
walking the same roads, past the same houses

where we hope to erase the memories flooding the basements
where the attics are still holding the same dreams
of the fires we wish we had the guts to set


for what it’s worth
you can count my matchstick embraces
as ember hopes we’ll be pulled back together
I promise I won’t walk out now if you don’t walk out now
and we won’t be alone forever


a thousand thousand windows

what a view it must have been
from up there

her apartment in the city like another

traffic sounds far below you,
machines driven by ants
a thousand thousand windows

I wonder, did you wonder how long you
could stay there and miss me?
did the planet feel different with
so far away

did you hope that it would get easier
with time or distance?

I know the answer, and it’s okay to be honest,
who could blame you for honesty?

after all, the city is
they’re all so busy and alive, aren’t
they—look at the bastards living
down there

I’d want to be an ant too

still, someone ought to give warnings:

on a trip to Mars, bring a good book
because, my god, there’s nothing
out there



Wander In

how many others are reading 20140427_153512
this same book as me?
at the same time, even

how many are likely to be on
the same exact page?
reading the same line, perhaps

coming to a pause at a semicolon
simultaneously as I do

and as I think about this
I realize I’ll have to reread this page

starting at the top
or up a few paragraphs,
repeating a few lines of clever dialogue

one character says to the other:
“I haven’t seen you here before.”
“Oh, sure. I wander in from time to time, when I’m lonely.”