[Certain]

Open Mic (solo)

Thrilla
Posted on June 19, 2016

This fucking pugnacious pugilist. Stalking the ring like
he owns the damn place, walking with swinging grace
and moving with fluid nuance. Shaking up the world,
one combo at a time, one dishonorable decline.
Evasive — duck and curl. Tuck and hurl punches
like they’re nothing. Striking something deeper in the fabric
of our emaciated nation. We needed his madness.
We needed his graceful degradations, steeped in a tragic
figure of an unforgettable age. Shaking with rage, to
shaking with the creeping lens of sadness.
The pagan, he waits. Sold his visions to false prophets.
Sold his image to cold profits. Sold his limits to our audience.
Kept us engaged. What more can we ask for?
Our Louisville Slugger, The Greatest, one vainglorious bastard.



Amtrak Depot, Penn Station, New York.
Posted on March 24, 2015

Crusted corners of eyes sweeping the room,
strained by the fluorescent lights' deepening gloom.
We're fucking glowing in sadness.
Track delay, explosive reactions,
with coffee and body odor corroding the transit.
And we're bundled.
It's cold outside. We're stuck in the sweat pit.
Funneling frustrations through each thrust at the exits.
The mad scramble. It's love at first neck twist.
She wore leather boots and kept her head down as she texted.
Avoid eye contact, part of the (dys)functional checklist,
along with keeping track of belonging,
but none of us should be here. We're passing along.
Vagabonds of the moment. Glum cast of despondents.
She wore a winter hat, revealing a flash of her blond head.
Amanda. Might be her name. Looks like an Amanda.
The scrum reduces us to ticket numbers, turnstiles and bar scanners.
Book readers. Nook readers. Newspaper glancers.
With the turn of each page, no escape and no answers.
The seats are padded, yet the backs jettison any attempt at rest.
Still Amanda coils her boots under her leggings to stretch.
We're two hours late, discussing the weather but stuck inside,
refreshing devices in hopes of finding another ride.
Security points. Don't pet the dogs. Please step up and right.

"Now boarding":

Amanda, my love,

good-bye.



(You are all nothing but) CHATTEL RAP 1
Posted on Nov. 4, 2014

Welcome to my showcase, my masterpiece.
Insurrection? Your whole race tastes mass defeat.
My heart is from a cold place, a lab complete with the coding for retractive teeth.
Your souls are left exploding at the pastor's knees if I even get a notion of your blasphemy.
I'll mold your thoughts with codeine and gaseous speed so that you overdose and nosebleed as you gasp to breathe.
I'm an overload of proteins, amino assassin's creed,
Styx swimmer, devoted heathen with a dash of Jesus,
and if you provoke a ghost or demon, you'll face the wrath of me.
I was first seen in the groves of Eden, with a grasp on Eve.
That's Certain Serpent. Shotguns kick back at the sight.
I read the future in patterns of light.
Like roaches, they scatter and hide,
but I'm tactless, a savage defined by my most massive of minds
and followed by a hungry horde of ugly whores and scavenger-types.
They shall know me by the trail of blood,
there's no period. I fill ovaries with a pail of come,
while most of you are lonely and will fail at love.
Holding close to rosaries won't derail my run, as I send shots through broken screams that never sail. They hum.
I am the shadow reason for your pessimism.
When the cattle bleed, it's time for exorcism.
Talking back would seem to have your head go missing,
and the last to laugh and tease found their anal cavities were beset by fists and the cast-iron release of a Texas Christmas.
So to battle me wasn't your best decision.



No cream, no sugar.
Posted on July 30, 2014

There's a moment when the barista calls my order (a large coffee — no cream, no sugar) that gives me this pleasurable sense of superiority over my fellow man. In that instant, as that midlife crisis asshat unsheathes a straw for his caramel-hazelnut frappuccino with a chocolate drizzle over the whipped cream topping, I think to myself, "What a faggot."

The following moment is when I hate myself most. So the man enjoys a sweet treat on his way to work. He's probably making more than me. He probably goes home to a couple kids and a wife who, though past her prime, still smiles when she sees his minivan pull into the driveway. Maybe he has a sense of purpose. Maybe I could be more like that guy if I drank a caramel-hazelnut frappuccino with a chocolate drizzle over the whipped cream topping and retreated to my dad-mobile with a Steely Dan album cranked to level 8 out of 20.

Maybe I could quit with the self-loathing and Joy Division knockoffs for a second. Am I better for listening to Echo & the Bunnymen? Can you impress someone when you're too aloof even to talk to them? The bags under my eyes suggest that coffee is more for getting energy than because I enjoy the bitterness. But don't I? What am I even going to expend that 365 milligrams of caffeine on, anyway? Another day of listlessly writing for no one in particular and trying to make it through a career that seems short on cash and long on insecurity.

Besides, it's an iced coffee.



Let fig baby down.
Posted on July 15, 2014

Tabulate everything I owe. It still wouldn't equate. Couldn't we shake and bring the rope back to this frozen corridor that we've existed in. Missing witnesses to everything we envisioned then. Stood as we ate the fruit of the poison apple tree. Passively. Retroactively. Grasping me. Is this still happening? Falling back into old habits'll make you die slow. We're better off with separate time zones. We're better off with nothing left but sudden death. Overtime goals. And we're working overtime. Separate. It never meant anything. Except everything. Except settling for nothing. Evergreen. That's boring. Meddling past torments. What could we be? Except a couple of fools, stumbling around, breaking the rules on rap forums.

I never meant to hurt you. But I never regretted it. Settled for messages. Private. Evidenced testosterone and prevalent gloss cologne. Sentiments. Overtones. I'm sober. My mouth is dry. Knocked over an ounce of rye. Shot glass but it never shattered. Severed matters with bare hands. But you were the empty cup. I was the puddle. Surprisingly muddled.



Stakes.
Posted on June 11, 2014

I'm a broken record, skipping pebbles across the pond.
A rebel who lost his cause, stubble accosts the jaw.
Debonair? Probably not. Neckless turtle conforming to shell.
Dormant; swore it was hell but cursively mourned it myself
in letters that never meant anything until they served as a portrait befell.
Blazing arrow, regifted but misguided, tortured, repelled.
You pulled that excuse out of your ass. Of course it would smell.
I enter to a coroner's knell. But this isn't about death.
I promise, this isn't about death. I promise.
I've written my bounced checks.
This isn't about death.
I promise.
Did I mention I'm a consummate liar conquering rhythms without depth?
Feel that bass drop. That's a fish. It wriggled from our nets.
Now we're all going to starve. But this isn't about death.
We're turning over in comfortable linens in our beds,
trying to get the tuck right as we fidget and count threads.
But maybe there's more to this than digits and loud sex.
No, that can't be right. Let's revisit the crowd's bets.
They want exquisitely loud sex, with gymnastic contortions,
and gold-wire coat-hangers for more-dapper abortions.
Let's recast our extortions as the economy forces a trickle-down,
but when I ride with the chrome, there's no horses or triple crowns.



Transatlanticism.
Posted on April 7, 2014

Nervous fidget. I'm here. You're here. We're here.
And as worst fears evaporate
I calculate turns near.
Do we run?
Run together. Run away. Run forever.
Come December, we'll hibernate in the tundra desert.
We'll snuggle under sweaters.
Something. Nothing. Hunger sets in.
The apple of my eye or the gum I stepped in?
We're moving fast. We come in sessions.
Love as weapon.
Bellicose.
Your smell of rose aroused.
We tumble, breathless.
We.
We waited and
yet still seem so young and restless.
The buzz of a hundred texts.
Selfie and emoji are in Webster's now,
but I just figured out how to relate to you.
But I just figured out how to escape into your graceful hue
as we chase rainbows.
Reach out and touch.

Me. You. Us.



SOCIO-ECONOMIC RAMIFICATION: CHAMPAGNE IN A PAPER CUP
Posted on April 3, 2014

Jerry woke at 6:10 a.m. day by day
and made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth and shave his grays.
Jerry moved at snail's pace at first but soon found speed with shower's help
and kissed Sue and powered out to work where he would drown himself.
The paper-pushing passed the time, he'd say, and Jerry didn't mind the laze
of every stitch of dry malaise if he could head off by 5 most days.

It's 3:42 p.m. Friday, and Doris stops by Jerry's cubicle.
"Jerry, Mr. Roosevelt would like to discuss some news with you.
Please go to his office as soon as possible. Thank you, though, hun."
Doris had a Midwestern perkiness and breasts to hang your coat on.
So Jerry stopped on his latest report and made the trek to Office 6,
the biggest on the floor, but still three down from top execs.
Mr. Roosevelt was on the phone but hung it up when Jerry arrived,
and ushered Jerry in with a silent sweep of his arm from left to his right.
"Jerry, thank you for coming, and so promptly, I might add."
With the gaudy office light, Mr. Roosevelt's eyes were coffee in a wine glass.
"You've been with us for 16 years and know this company back and forth,
and in that time, you've handled business with a certain tactful course.
But now, in last resort, I have to do what — crap, ol' sport —
I don't want to have to do this, but it's time you pack up fort."
No laugh. No snort.

Jerry stared at the floor for minutes, contemplating mortgage payments
and Terrence's tuition. And that new roof. And, of course, his parents.
They would need support and caring soon. Instead, defaults would come.
Jerry stared at the 12-foot window and imagined a vaulting jump.

Instead, Jerry put his pictures in boxes and gave away his stash of pens.
Jerry said good-bye to Nancy and George but mostly lacked the head
to offer fake farewells to people Jerry didn't really like or dislike.
So he stacked his books and bobble heads and hiked to his ride.
The Camry felt cramped as Jerry jammed his stuff in the back.
There's that muffler again. There's that sputter on gas.

Jerry pulled into his driveway and sat in the car for a few.
trying to pull together the words to explain this garbage to Sue.
When he walked in, the lights flickered on. "SURPRISE!" in a great erupt.
The banner said, "HERE'S TO THE NEXT 50!" in colorful display above.
And Susan came to him first, with a kiss and champagne in a paper cup.



Dinghy.
Posted on March 29, 2014

The lake is made of crystals.
It shimmers to the touch but mostly
goes undisturbed. Too often
left to its own depths and the contents that consume it.
That it consumes.
The lake stares back
some nights
with the moonlight and the chirps of crickets
and a thousand tears filling its oversized puddle.
It's reaching out. It's flat. It's drowning,
and there's no one there to
throw that life preserver from the abandoned pier.
There's only the lake.
And me.



Paragraph style.
Posted on Dec. 16, 2013

Obnoxioucrat. Literarary litterer.
I glittered when I wrote this. Unfocused.
Would you like socks with that? Red or White?
I've got you dead to writes.
Spray bottles of insecticide to infect the hive,
but pests survive.
She came with the crescent thighs. Hurry up with my damn crescent rolls.
She came undressed with eyes. Uglitoris with the scent of mold.
I'm sentient. Subterfuge centerfold
in this week's edition of Playpenthustlajuggs.
Pitch a tent.
It's cold, so don't forget to start a fire.
Unlike Truman, Day, China, Ray or DiMaggio.
Laced in Versace, though I just learned what's a Bugatti.
Ghost.
Lugging a saké toast. Rugby or hockey pose?
Smile for the proof that I'm not morose.
Known to lock and load, so don't get cocky, bro.
The block is hot, better call the fireman.
Got brews? I'll swallow entire cans.
I'd shake on it, but you didn't wash and dry your hands,
you fucking animal.



Scrambled.
Posted on Dec. 11, 2013

I've cracked a few
eggs
in my time.
They were about the size of
your eyes.
And they never really meant much to me.
And they never meant much to me.
And they never meant much.
And they never.
I never.
We weren't more than that, those bubbling eggs
on the griddle's surface,
popping and sizzling beneath the bacon's
fat.
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,
but it's dinnertime.
And the toast is burnt.



We're all dying, anyway.
Posted on Aug. 14, 2013

I'm a machete-wound tourniquet with the petty, rude earnestness
of heavy-boobed surrogates who envy dudes' perkiness.
Close my clip out. Steady, true, murderous. Frozen pin bout.
Heavens' blue firmaments holding Poland Spring's spout.
Exploded ink fount. Called to write my passages over rig towns
Walter White nefarious. Sober wig out in coffin-sized chariots.
Close my clip out. Altar rites. Marry us. Halter-bride fairy dust.
Broken-wing angels often fly clear of us. Joker ring, mangled.
Votive Spring candle. Only thing handled was hoping she'd cancel.

I'm a faceless shadow of death. Escape the cattle call.
Vexed, strafe with paddles. Incest. Change the battle log.
Crescent-moon habitual. Death and gloom, the visual.
Press it smooth. Best refuse metal tools for victuals.
Urbane elitist tested through the rituals but remained a deist.
Strange completeness strained the preachers, Cobain and Seacrest.
Cannon-fodder byproducts spray the bleachers. God'll try profit
but stain his T-shirt with the logo of ample-bodied sly foxes.
Trample hotties. Rhinoc'ros. Sands. Mogavi. Time Cop.
Cigarette-burnt fingertips. Lift the dead bird, Icharus.
Bigger heads burn quicker. Slip the sick their meds. Turn into us.



Disengaged.
Posted on Aug. 10, 2013

My friends are happier than me. So fucking magically complete.
We're on the same side of the fence, but their grass is always green.
I try grasping hold to last afloat, but tragically, I sink.
A practically obese 20-something still trying to grapple with his dreams.
Take a gasp and hold it deep. Release. Even smoke will fade.
And I've already choked away half my odds to procreate.
These bitches pose and wave with diamonds the size of herpes blisters.
Duck-faced, perfect picture. Raise your glass and burn your liver.
I'm fucking happy for them. Or at least I'll take my turn, deliver
the kind of worthless sermon heard in wedding toasts and bourbon whispers.
Never mind those nervous whimpers coming from the corner stool.
I'd rather be alone amid a hundred drunk and horny fools.
I breathe the muck and sordid gloom. Escape, a sunken, torn recluse.
Alone again, I stumble toward another sullen, poor excuse.
Alone again, I need to reprioritize.
But when I sleep I feel the horror slice deeper than reaper's sharpened scythe.
Awake. I keep one darkened eye on the pillow lying next to me.
It's empty. It's lonely. It's jealous.
I hide my empathy.



Underappreciated.
Posted on Aug. 5, 2013

My spark plugs are blown. Is someone home?
I'm trying to get my life up and goin'.
From dusk 'til gloam, I'll bust my butt and roam,
trying to function alone
with nothing but a crusted bone and this fucking poem.
Ready to cut a throat like a young Capone.
Trying to better my reach as I work to touch the throne.
Predators creep ahead of the weak, but I serve and protect.
So let's settle this beef with a murderous bet.
Yes, I'd prefer to the death. I'm winning either way
and would certainly get the perfect event if the tourniquet bled.
I deserve some respect, yet I work and I sweat
and take the perks of each check to the Perkins for eggs.
I'm always here, Mr. Dependable with the irreversible debt
and a landlord who isn't curbing the rent.
About to burst with regret.
Would that nervousness end with a funeral?
No one ever forgets the beautiful.



OK, Cupid.
Posted on Aug. 1, 2013

I hog both armrests at the movie theater.
I'm a moving sleeper who rudely steals sheets after using reefer.
I scribble indiscriminately in my looseleaf keeper.
My shoes are usually sneakers that match my blueish T-shirts.
But if I move to meet her, I'll probably look the part.
And if her eyes are blue and deep, she'll probably hook my heart.
I'm open book to start, unlike these awful bros,
but that doesn't mean you shouldn't take off your clothes.
I scoff at profiles with broken grammar,
but I'm too much of a dope to hold any ho to standards.
I joke at random. My broken handle on social dynamics
makes it difficult to hold your hand when mine is soaked with man-sweat.
I'm embarrassed to be on here.
I have friends in real life, too,
but they're happy, while I'm ... on here.
I haven't had sex twice in the same week in six months.
And though I can whip up something about tryst love, let's face it:
I'm mostly here to get my dick sucked.



Astroglide.
Posted on July 26, 2013

The walls are bubbling. Water damage,
it could all come tumbling down.
But before I can stall my stumbling,
I fall. The bumbling clown finds his first laugh.
The mindless words snap with ease,
but beliefs are a timeless burlap
to store your sorrows in, so find a church fast.
Pour the porridge into three bowls of different size,
and watch as the pretty blonde robs these bitches blind.
If you did survive the grits and grime, you'd probably look at God in a vivid light.
But I haven't had shit to fight.
I'll gather a spliff and write about madness that visits nights
and weekends. My sleep ends when I get home from work.
Bemoaned, I turn over in bed, but stone-sober I fled to cold-shoulder events.
I'm thrown over the edge by vicious bitches. Alone at church,
this apartment is my only perch.

And I've got to hang my hat somewhere.



Awake.
Posted on July 20, 2013

I never much figured myself for a ghost,
but transparency apparently develops alone.
I'm an open book, hopeless crook enveloped and stoned,
melodramatic and one hell of an addict.
I've leveled with loans,
but I'm better off broke.
My method in madness is wrestling sadness,
desolate moans caressing my throat as I'm stressed and I'm battered.
But you'll never quite shatter the rest of my hope.
I incessantly coax my head to the stone
but the sleep never comes, the eye sockets turn to gum.
Chewed up and spit out like the rest of this dump.
I'm buried by nothingness, confessing to none,
writing letters in Notepad,
the computer fan hums.
And the capillaries in my eyes start to burn as they burst.
I'm not depressed. I'm not depressed. I'm not depressed.
Take a turn for the worse.

Turn off the lights.