A guap of bubble hash in this cone,
Hoping by the time this paper plane lands,
I’ll be back home,
We’ll see how the poem goes,
But I might just move in:
The ghost in the guest room –
Where I go get stoned,
And visit my demons –
S’wear I wrote a version of this three months ago,
When, in self-exile,
I wanted you to go,
And I sat and got sad,
Beneath the Van Gogh,
Where tonight, I look to it and know,
Vincent was as I, no doubt,
Stoned and alone
For only artists, those irrational and naive enough to believe in this stuff,
Really ever love –
But I came here to be happy,
So I am,
Because a room is just a room

Culture Snap 2K17

Realize the core fear in life is terror,
Know thyself and build security from there;
Some people catch vibes from the air
Fox News has my neighbors scared
They pray to Jesus to keep Jesus (hey-zus) outta here,
They don’t realize real-lies 
Call it “fake news” – it’s tele-vised (Orwell!)
That’s the pot calling the kettle;
That’s how people became chattel,
Fascist playbook 101
Control their values and you’ve won:
So insecure we voted a chump ,
Who hates Mexicans and women –
Telling-lies-to-your-vision (ON TV!)
How did they vote for this machine?
Half of em on SSDI 
Thinking the dems weren’t on their side,
Because we don’t see Muslims and hide;
This zeitgeist isn’t normal;
This work life it’ll own you –
This youth – they’ll control you
(instagram!)
Most people worship the ruling classes;
How do you be a person and like the masses?
All loving pics of the fattest asses 
Biased and blind to their own assets –
This shit is insane: it’s insecure
Judging ourselves in how others appear;
Forgetting we all once came here,
Hoping to find freedom from fear
And now we’re just like, let’s get a beer;
Come on bro, there’s no sluts here 
Using each other and loving things;
Most people are not very human beings, 
But I believe, there is a plan 
So I’ll be me be-cause I can 
I am not here to conform;
I don’t fuck with the norm –
I am here to do art;
Get high and pull it apart 
(Culture!)

Little Thing, Whom I Love

Tonight, I found the door down,
Which leans against the deck,
Where a gate ought go –
And so, bent to lift it,
Dragging the wooden thing up across the deck – wait – the mouse!
He’s –
This little waif under the door,
He’s on his side, writhing slow
I’ve hurt him – no!!
He must have been sleeping, hiding
I’ve hurt him – dragging the door
He is laying there, on his little gray side, a tiny mouse
I turn to Sarah,
She sees –
“What do we do?”
“I can kill him with a large rock,” I say,
But I can’t, I only say I can;
Though, I decide I will if I must..
He is writhing – not a minute has passed
He is on his little gray side,
Breaking my heart, dying –
And so, I grab the door and sweep him gently with it,
Off the deck,
Onto the wild forest floor
The door returned to its post,
The mouse, somewhere in the dark
Waiting for the circle of life –
We go inside, quiet, sullen
I grab my phone and write this poem,
Until the words: “…on his little gray side”, when I just can’t anymore;
I must:
‘Sarah leash the dogs’
“They call me skull crusher,” I quip in a Randy Savage voice to the anxiety inside me
Flannel on,
Light on,
I round the house –
Sarah near, dogs sniffing for a place to go
I shine my light there – I see,
He is as peacefully dead as dead is –
“He’s dead,” I call to Sarah,
Letting out a sigh 20 minutes old,
Staring at this little thing, whom I love.

The Cassette Tape

When I was young, I had a cassette tape of harbor and ocean sounds:
25 years later and I remembered it tonight

Also, memories of my father,
From eyes I had not seen through in as many years;
And I miss him:
Charasmatic animal / child he was.

Warm and safe at 32,
Tonight,
I see him with a love I have never felt
And I know that I have subtracted the hate I bore when I wanted to kill him, at 13.

No, I do not hate my father;
My Father, who carried these genes –
And not just mine, but something rawer and closer to the bone:
Generations, poverty
Alchoholics; sad stories;
Humans, people, hoping things
And me at thirteen,
Wishing I could blast a shotgun through the wall –
My reasons were manifold.

And now, my temple, my cathedral,
My spiritual homeland and my bedrock,
Is a bedroom in an apartment, one room from where my father slept,
When he was not passed out,
On the couch,
Snoring like a goddamned bear –
The sound coming through the wall,
How it disturbed me…

And so I played the cassette tape
Of the harbor and the ocean and the fog-horn,
And I fell asleep to the sounds my father taught me to love.

And now, tonight, I remember this all,
And I see my life like a movie,
And I rewind the tape, play it back in my head,
And from that bedroom,
When I go back there,
Everything makes sense,
And I’m sad my father’s dead

But back then, it wasn’t just a tape in my head,
“My whole youth was sharper than cleats”
But now, I made it
And I see my own Moonlight,
Play in my head,
And I’m a good man,
And I’m not scared.