People are like cities here
But you’ve always only been yourself, haven’t you
Rooftops in Brooklyn got
Nothing on your sneer
Or twinkle of eye you don’t yet know you’ve got.
At least this time around.
Hipsters have their babies now,
‘Manhattan on Safari’
That’s what we’ll call it
Yves Saint Laruarnt
Cut offs tucked into running shorts
Fanny packs are back
You’d think they’d run out of ideas by now
Lorimer, though I counted them all
Scattered and flying through like stars, or
Streets I used to stumble
Or like there in our L.A.,
The houses that belonged to Simon Cowell.
They say he’s drinking beer,
You never liked the taste
You prefer a whiskey Erasure.
There’s still magic here I’d forgotten, you know.
Mothers pressing hands on baby’s ears,
Smiles down under on the platform,
As their C to High Street’s rolling in
The baby keeps on sleeping.
Poet Fathers with Picasso sons
‘Love and care our Earth’
I want to see you hold a child’s hand.
I ride a train towards another person’s home,
Another man I’ll fuck for the view.
Where are you now?
I’m somewhere under still,
Someplace between 14th and up.
You’d hate the heat,
At least the way it’s been
Swamp dick, a musty ass
The desert suits us more.
Here there’s other men.
Water always never tastes the same
Depending on the hangover
And or the avenue
These island boroughs have stayed the same
There’s now a Starbucks on Allen and something or other
God this heat
Beads of sweat that taste of tears
I know you don’t like those
I’m beginning to think I need them
If not to love song
Then to plea for you
For you to hold me in your arms
For me to know you mean it tight
It’s not an errand
But something that you want
Or for us
Or for you so I’ll keep
The train’s a station away
It’s getting hotter by the second
Breeze of the underground
Break this Earth I stand on for a living
That’s a living
Living to want to Live
I beg of you
Submit my fever dreaming heart into
Knowing that you’ll want me back
So that this home I wish to
Show and brag with you
Will simmer from Hudson river aqua into rat-trash fumes
Into yesteryear until it’s finally gone.
Even if you only say it I’ll think of it as true,
I’ll hold off that demon air in corner number four
And tell my aches
I’ll still be wanted after Christmas Season
When Winter People are no longer wanted
And tossed with flipsides of high life
‘At least we had prosecco.’
There was something about cities, here,
I was working hoping leading towards concluding with,
Something like the other shoe.
I wish you were parked outside my house like that one time,
The time I pretended I wasn’t home.
I wish I were home and looking out the window
There was something to you hoping
Embodiment of something
Let’s just meet at the Grove?
Valet in the parking garage
There’s a gin bar I’ve been meaning to try,
They say Constance Wu is fantastic in Hustlers.
Maybe cities are the people you do things with.
I don’t know what that makes people.
It’s too easy calling you L.A.
Re other men,
I’ll swallow all explanation for later
Please trust me,
For I will no less and inevitably self-destruct
The way you know I can
The way that irritates
Yet makes you think you’ve done it right,
Your stronghold my frailty
Kamikaze dreams of arms
Plastic cup cupboards
And overcooked falafel.
I wish they had Mamoun’s in Chelsea.
I’d love to watch you act as if it’s something you’ve had better somewhere else.
Now come with trigger warnings
Right of way to shark boy and his three-wheeled scooter
Mommy’s on the Gram
Pleasantries her traffic light
Right Fake on Go
Daddy’s pushing stroller for the akita
Your Uniqlo’s swapped floors
Women take the stairs now
Must be the patriarchy.
Your men no longer navigate the elevator
In fact they think it’s theirs
Pizza parties fifteenth floor
This hotel is for them too.
You’ll no less bring back cargo pants
Guy Harvey tees to follow
And then froyo
But like pus I love watching you
seethe under pressure, this island your pore.
Neighbor nestled nooks
For retweets and spritzes
And avocado toast that doesn’t fucking belong.
You’re growing soft, you old fart
Soft and pudgy
Pop-up shops for drove-in Four-Wheeler Photo booths
Chino shorts on your mother’s credit card
Self-fulfillment you’re all Trumps.
You’re working on your trash
Your notice taken with the rats
Your bins overflowing still
You keep digging yourself into a maze.
I hope you’re proud and loud
No Grace filter for your Selfie?
That’s really at the marrow, isn’t it
You think you’re hyper cool and
I was roofied once in a ghost building now a Gelateria
You walk now with your head facing the opposite direction Slower now
No jaywalking now
And yet you’ve become indignant
Dare I say boring
Good job my Prince
You’ve turned yourself into Vegas.
I dream of you in daze
Into nights when I see you
And I’m reminded of the
Familiar fear of never worrying –
I’m used to worry:
It’s a pocket pet I’ve fed over the years
A Bracketed lapse in living
Where I see the known ways I could hurt
You, possible even
End us Tear away the familiarity and turn it
There’s many ways I’ve gone about it
Many ways repeated
Many more ready for another run.
I could sleep with another man.
Perhaps a friend
Or worse a foe
Get you to worry our one on one’s got us
Turned on you, Us
Knowing more now of the more of you
You chose to give us
I’ve done that.
I could do ayahuasca in a suite in New Orleans
Northernmost city of the Caribbean
Seeing all the alien Gods
Or the insides of my coffin
Both the box I’m in but also the body that I am
And see what needs feeding then
‘Not you’ ‘No you don’t supply’
I’ll return to Beachwood and sit in my chair
And ghost you into phantom yesteryear
Yeah, I’ve done that too.
I could love you only when I’m pistol-
Ready, Bulleit made, foggy-brained
And say it till it’s obvious and
And text you after that I’m gonna
And drunken-drive to you with
Twenty dollars worth of dollar Del Taco
And make you watch
Or Stevie and pass out and half cum in the Morning
slowly over time
Mistaken hangover for you and loving you the most and
Decide that I need re-centering and
Distance (but never from the bottle)
And worse! –
That all of it was only what had ‘happened in the night’
That’s been me.
I could touch you.
Shit that was the other one, no
You like it when I’m holding onto us –
I could hit you.
Worse, I could say the things a person isn’t allowed to say
The dagger proclamation
Of my silver-tongued knife
Wielded by this Monkey on my back I’ve
Forgotten about otherwise
And once it’s in you I’ll twist
That’s all been me, too.
I could be an executive at a studio
Sign on your mortal enemy
In spite of you –
Get him two seasons
About how he’s misunderstood but
Still molests at Akbar or the Dome
Going buddy-buddy with him to dinners
Or at your favorite spots
Karaoke singsong, songs about paninis
Or Pre-teen demigods who think
They’re bad guys.
And I’ll play nice with you
Because it gets you going
Gets me ahead
Nice nice nice
You hate nice
‘boy, can’t that betray a soul?’ you say
Yes sir, I agree –
Edit: No, I probably wouldn’t go that far.
I don’t know that I’m even capable
Keep it, as they say.
I could keep believing what I fear is true
The spring of all my doubts that
Particularly at being good which is
Different than just good enough for you
There’s a lot of things I wouldn’t do
A lot of things I’m incapable of
Tired of trying?
Getting away with.
Weak-kneed but in the stomach with dry eyes
And the schmoozing
I just want home already I worry.
Maybe there’s also something there?
You know me better sometimes
You’re the one who reads me
Has to see me I’m just living ‘me’
Think it, will you
West elm sofas. A loveseat.
Something local for a coffee table.
Dinner in general
Memberships to Wagville
The movies you’ve wanted to show me.
The words I’ve wanted you to know.
Maybe the place has a bathtub.
Patio parties and proud soirees and
Top shelf liquor with that CVS discount
Cluttered glove compartment stuffed with receipt scarves.
A little less drinking
Maybe at the start at least until doors
And I’m working when you’re watching
Or I’m watching while you’re gone
And it all goes back to what it used to be
Before we promised something new
For when it’s done and the dog is
passed and stuffed
makes a doorstop and you’re
Thinking Hancock Park or Paris and I’m thinking New York, Brooklyn or dead
A love is a lifetime I worry.
What if something happens
Something different dare I say
Something weird that could happen
I don’t see
But just me I haven’t thought of us that way –
What if we grow old together?
There go promised memories of your
Hand holding mine
Scratching the back of your head
But now –
A forever-adding flipbook –
Our same hands
But with new spots Thinner skin.
Closer every day towards our Wither Away
The chances of who will fade from us
For to die alone is to go in peace
But in the arms of a lover, their forever agony.
Is all of that worse?
Is to love to know what will be lost?
Is it to hold it regardless of these
Boundaries in time,
And drown our lungs in the vapor of now?
Of-fucking-course it is.
Noise of the wood
A clink with a spoon
Skies in its colors
Mahogany to quartz
And into it too
Like pillars of salt yet
Rested on sand
Bark cut-ted to glass
Shard-ing jewels, city towers
Their speckled roofs of different heights
Grooves and floor to ceiling heights
Helicopter pads, too.
Jurassic tenacity with teeth mazes, maps needed
With Latitudes and Longitudes
Now that’s the hemisphere
For these crystals of a crystal of time
Now polished and chromed over
Drilled into bits for a hose
Then gutted and fitted
And set in a corner
A sheltered space
Protected from the meteors that first
Turned this tree to rock
Left forever to be ignored
Or set next to the garden gnome
Last night you told me you were going to be married
That you’d found your choice
That you’d known fear and
found the means of which to live with it
A chosen partner for the shadows
Except for the ones deepest in your skull
A willing commitment
towards the fires
except the ones you light with your feet
A tangible hold on purpose, apparently.
A determination towards happiness, never mind to ride of grace Your sincerity lacks subtly.
Scythe to my scalp
Rebar to my veins
Napalm your wax of Paris
The holes you’re trying to fill in were dug with your very fingernails
Tears in your styrofoam cup, let it settle let it muddle a
molotov cocktail of sympathy and of drastic proportions
I’ve never trusted what you call reliant.
Thrown towards your subject of protest
I think that’s me
The me in you
Or rather the you in me in the back of me
the me in you you only know for certain –
How you’ve hurt and betrayed
and laid it all on
me and with your sincerity you hope
for alleviation of your character
You think to tell me is to bury you, to command the pyre
to hold in what we were
what you are, once again, what I am
I am the ghost and
you can’t dream the weight of these shackles that hold in all that is long and of knowing you, your fists to my cheek one thing
the way you told me my days were limited, the same
But how I was New York
Your sorrow and earnest degradation
of what’s left of my heart
And lately what that’s been
A yearning for more
The desire for cliffs and empty oceans of Moab
Looking at mountains as the reefs
they once were or islands belonging to a Jurassic sea
On my last night in heaven you spew me your words of Hell
That it is with him you’ve decided happiness
Though it’s with memories of us you’ve preserved freedom.
Though how I envision it.
A southern barbeque.
Rooftop in Red Hook.
We had dancing pandas
You’d rapture me
Sans shirt or contentment though I fetishize a tux
Probably off of an AirBnB.
Edison bulb lights and mason jar tartars.
The songs we used to dance with brood
Now caricatures of our adolescence and not what either of us have remained.
That’s as far as I usually get.
There’s a city in the cliffs
Where at night I know you wish to hear
Yourself as silence.
There are the birds in the cracks that swarm
With kamikaze formation during
Singsongs of war and territory,
Fights for nests in holes
Once Sprouted springs
Of sandstone rain.
There are the crickets of the setting sun
Layered chirps sounding like a river’s near,
Sonic bowings on their wings,
As Earth as mulch or air,
Constant and assured.
Down go fallen rock
Scraping ground far above on heaven’s ground
Pebbles drop and they flee
Cascade towards the bed of their canyon,
Pounces of desire,
Like you, they want them known.
The shivering leaves in the dead of Sun —
Too tired for the siren glow of the rising moon.
They’ve all calmed.
The crimson of our setting star,
Its reprise of mauve and marigold,
All has calmed and settled for you,
Standing in the city in the cliffs
Back turned from the shadows of these relic tales
The ruins of the Anasazi –
Not a breed of man but neither the translation of ancient man,
Its definition, the term, the term’s definition
But you don’t know that do you?
The Hopi neé Anasazi,
Neé Ancient man,
They too knew that cities become tombs.
Present day LA
Mausoleums of traded resource,
The emboldened passion for survival and luxury,
Dried corn and roasted yucca,
IG stories, DSLR,
They’re all the same to you.
Your phone is your kiva,
Your veiled pleasantries desiring affection and attention,
The need to be seen your mortar.
You hear yourself in silence,
Amongst an orchestra of ghosts
Your eyes scream towards your Black-mirrored ally,
It’s not enough to be alone
No, you need them all to see you alone.
You take pictures of your feet at the
Then face your back towards its Sunset
To ensure the colors you want other
To know you’ve
Seen came out the way you wished to have truly experienced it.
You edit to form,
Edit towards expectation,
Never mind the reality you’re given.