Adios, Corozon

For Diana

I'm flying through these pages
like those three years passed
and there weren't enough years
just like there aren't enough pages
to truly let you know how much I love you.
My bed remains a remorseful reminder
of why not to be so cruel
in the torments of love.
You will never lie here with me again,
will you?
And T.V shows we used to watch
will pull tears like teeth.
God damn it,
I can't escape your smile
and laugh.
Why can't your arms hold me again, Diana?
Even just for one night.
We could stare into each other's eyes
and not speak a word.
I just need you.
There are no quarrels about it.
You were my only warm nights;
my beautiful days
where even the grumble of garbage trucks
sounded like an old love song
crackling on vinyl.
Is that music to the ears
of the boy that now glows?
Will he put your future
ahead of his own?
Will he kneel down
and give you his all?
I've been praying ever night he does
because that's what you deserve
and that's what I should have done
and trust me I tried.
Every rose I gave you
was my silent promise
to keep a vacancy in my heart
for Poland
and white Zinfandel
and your blue eyes.
Oh, why can't you believe me?
I've cried enough tears these past few days
to fill the voids I left in your soul
and every sea that was occupied
by men searching for it's treasures.
Pearls and diamonds
that napped upon your neck, fingers and wrists.
Working two weeks for a check
and a reason to make you light up
as bright as the stars on our first New Year's Eve.
When the ball drops this year over Times Square,
so will my heart
as the pictures develop in my mind
of your lips softly putting pressure on his,
showering in confetti
high on champagne
while everyone around you says
"That is what romance is."
Well I'll be making love
to the cigarettes you hate
on a bed of concrete
more alone than I've ever been,
pulling my thrift shop jacket tighter
thinking of the cold winter nights
I'd bundle you up before you went outside,
laughing at how many layers you were sporting.
Your tequila hair
bunched up in my winter cap.
I'm looking out my window
and starting to despise the snow.
I've lost all interest
in hot chocolate and heating pads
yet they both stand guard near my bed post
and I doubt I'll touch either of them
not without you.
Here I go again,
cleaning up the room
like you're going to walk in and surprise me.
There are only ghosts and angels
waiting to tuck me in
when I'm tuckered out
from crying.
They can smell the left over tea leaves;
Mostly green
on my breath.
You got me hooked, you know.
Nice and hot
with a lot of honey.
Peppermint for tummy aches
and long days.
I've been having a few of those lately.
Long days, that is.
After pass out dreams
where you pop in,
kiss me
and I melt into my mattress and sheets
and then the sun starts peeping
through my filthy blinds
and the water turns on
all over your favorite pillow.
Yeah,
I lay my head on that one often
on your side of my world.
Where the dawn breaks
like
well, I think you know where I was going.
Right?
You always knew what I was thinking
and how I felt.
Do you now?
Maybe I should explain.
I'm thinking
about why I can't stop thinking
about you
and I feel like you forgot me
or are trying to.
Please don't.
I could never forget
Booj Booj,
belly grabs
Eskimo kisses,
all of our kisses.
It was all too magnificent.
Like gondolas in Providence,
long walks in Boston,
burning comets over tall trees in Foxboro.

Tomorrow will hold another carousel of emotions
but what else is there to say?
You are the only girl
I've ever truly loved.

I'm Back! (For a few minutes anyway)

Hey people. Toad here. I lost my computer and now I have to scramble for a few minutes on one at school or else where. I hope everyone keeps writing and soon enough I'll be back on this thing!

Toad

The Ox and the Pig

The ox and the pig had business in New
York. They were both meant
To be in the Lower East Side. The ox moved
Into an ancient tenement
With plans of writing a tell all
Memoir. He bought an ink block set
In China Town and used his tail as
A brush. The pig went to confer with the Rabbinical Congress.
I’m flattered, he said, we all are. But why
Us? Don’t you see how much pressure this is? Don’t you hear
Our wailing? Honestly, I want to die.
I’ve been alive for thousands of years.
I’m not the only one who feels this way.
The ox has since fled upstate.

The Roommate

Joe lives under my bed.
He mumbles terribly.
I thought he was a ghost for years—
Always wailing and squawking.
He starts in around eleven
And goes for an hour and a half.
Sometimes he’ll do an encore.
I don’t sleep well.
Occasionally, he’ll just talk.
Typically, outdated, British politics.
Something about the Queen,
Take to the streets this and that.
All sorts of righteous vagaries.
But he’s so passionate
That I want to get involved.
I don’t sleep at all those nights.
I write Marxist pamphlets
On antique typewriters
And cut the sleeves off everything I own.
He preaches about the entrapments
Of money and the great corporate scheme.
I’ve called in sick to a lot of jobs.
I think he wants me to be poor.
What would he do if I lost my house?
Would he hang around for new tenants?
I like to think that we have a great rapport,
Although one sided.
I can’t imagine that anyone
Else would put up with him.
Especially if he just keeps lying
Where my bed was.
That must be awkward for the realtors.
Not a chance they could move him.
He’d eat a subpoena.
I’ve heard him eating worse.
I doubt they could move him by force.
He seems like the type who only goes when he’s ready.
Maybe he wants to move,
Try out a new floor, something carpeted,
But wants me to lead the way.
He comes off as kind of out there—
Lost in his own thoughts.
But I wouldn’t put a plan like this past him.
Maybe he’s screwing with me.
I’ve woken up to plenty of new haircuts:
Pompadours, too-wide mohawks, respectable trims.
I can’t say that he doesn’t have a sense of humor.
I hear him giggling down there plenty.
He smokes a lot of grass.
It’s not that bad, though.
I just light up a cigarette and crack a window.
At least he doesn’t leave
Corn chips and bongs all over.
Maybe Joe just likes to talk.

Arbitrareum

A batch of birches hover in a row,
Or not.
Why not? They do,
Quite elegantly, in fact.
They each have at least five hundred
Years of ballet
And the one farthest down
Just started gymnastics.
He loves the high beam.
There’s something almost erotic in being
So perfectly, symbolically perpendicular.
It’s like being rerooted
And slipping your mossy tendrils
Inside the Earth so snuggly
That you wonder
If it was made just for you.
Man, does that take him back.
The boss says that he’s too big
For the ground now.
The tree doesn’t feel too big
But he doesn’t want to make a fuss.
He’s sure they need the room
For some new saplings.
A group of teens comes up
To the tree and all blow at the same time.
The tree tips a little.
They come about once a week.
They’re sure going to prove something
One of these days

Thoughts on Phil Ochs

I wish I could have known the man

Not too many liked him then,
Not too many know him now.
Not too many cared enough to hear what he had to say.
But I hear him now.
I hear him now.

ATTENTION

I've been talking with the missing Toadie and we've got some ideas. We want to publish a short collection of the poetry of Starving and Useless and have the authors do a reading. Hopefully I'll hear back from him in a day or two about the cost of publishing and I can let you know how much it will be to get your work in it. The plan is that once we have a published journal, we will organize a reading (we figure that that would be the best way to get people to actually buy them). We are talking about doing it in the Attleboro area, or maybe Providence, but nothing is set in stone. I think this can be pulled off at minimal expense. But, more crucial than the cost, we need to people who want to be published and to read. Reply to this if you want to take part in this or have any ideas.

-FP

A Sonnet

As the moon shines across your face,
I realize that we really won't live forever,
And as there is nothing but this place,
Fear, like love, is also an endeavour,
The fear of losing you because too much,
Too much to drink, too many bottles of wine,
Fear of using you and not it as a crutch,
Fear of pushing too hard or crossing the line,
Or, perhaps I worry that I will pull you in,
Maybe I don't want you to be as I am,
For you are Catholic, and confess when you sin,
I failed at that, and tried again and again,
And watching you sleep, I pour another glass,
And smile because I know soon this will pass.

I Eat Francis Bacon for Breakfast

My father says
That all arts are understood in terms of oratory:
Pick and cater!
Clarity!
I’ve been chastised
For not taking a class in sitcom writing.
I listen to Klaus
And don’t know to laugh or cry.
A speech will not defeat speech.
Only direct!
Only straight!
Emily is crying.
My father has hurt a woman.
He belongs in metaphorical prison
With the ghost of a story
Told under the lamppost of July
And the walking past to an electronics window.
I’ve read a book on Charles Bronson.
Did you know his real name is Buchinsky?
Still, I can’t read prime time
And there’s no point in typing my mouth shut.
Robocop is Burroughs.
It’s all come full circle.

Doves

And all you said was,

'there is a time and

a place to grow up.'

But maybe I did not

want to, maybe if I

acted my age, then life

would become too serious.

I knew how to masquerade, and

play the part of the full-fledged,

but I wasn't ready to

take off my mask of

youth. Perhaps I had to

leave my puerile days too

soon, and this was my

way of not letting go.

Because once it slipped out

of my fingers, that's it,

there would be no going

back. No more ditching plans,

and staying out for days,

no more packs upon packs

of cigarettes just because of

boredom, or lack of better

things to do. That's it,

no more midnight bike rides,

or drinking until dawn in

the park. I could see

all my glorious wasted days,

falling away. Now, it's strange.

Part of me wants to

follow in my father's footsteps,

part of me wants to

be a man like he

is; give everything I can,

and raise my own children,

and be as loving and

selfless to my wife as

he is to my mother.

Part of me wants to

get up when it's still

dark to put food on

the table, and live a

quiet existence, up in the

hills of Maine or Vermont,

with my pen and paper,

stove and axe, while the

other part of me wants

to leave my mark of

existence on society, by doing

nothing, and doing it well.

Part of me wants to

stay in bed, tangled in

the sheets, skin to skin,

all day long; champagne and parliaments,

no responsibilities but to love,

and to be loved. An

existence that says 'I did

what I did.' Maybe those

days will never be quite

over, they will be like

a bird on a wire,

balancing when the wind blows.

The Recipe for Fun

The Racist Space Helmet
is just for show,
in the typical sense.
No guarantee over
cosmic vibrations
and vigilante rays.
It is intended
for the soft, the squishy,
that unrisen dough.
Consider a cookie mold:
a christmas tree
or star, only bigger
and without the violence
of an oven. Perhaps a self-
rising agent is more appropriate—
a hard plastic baking soda—
or ceviche—cold and slow.
Though, anything with cilantro
is a poor example.
No, it must be sweet, for, you see,
toys are always palatable.

1641

I remember, in the middle
of winter, around January, a
few seasons ago, which have
all blended together since, right
around the setting of the
sun, before five pm. How
depressing it was, usually. The
shadows of the sun settling
behind the hills, behind the
ocean, like a hand over
my eyes from my mother
when I was a child.
But I was on the
train, from the north of
the city, coming home to
see you. My face had
changed much since the last
time I saw you. My
eyes grew dark around, and
my hands had grown a
bit more shaky, perhaps I
had used the whiskey as
a crutch. Train 1641, passing
the time of the ride,
which seemed to drag on
and on, by reading Billy
Collins, and with my last
sip, I knew soon enough
we would be touching again.

The Fair

A curator scolded me for stepping out of queue.
But it was hard to focus with such a long line
of dreadful projects and a mammoth, dark smudge, radiating
from the other side of what used to be a warehouse.
Nothing about a theory on economic stability
through a currency based on the speed of light
grabbed me, nor any of the countless other drudgeries.
I floated about until I came to that colossus in the distance.
An infalsifiablity bell—and an impressive one at that—all big and brass.
Poster board would have done the same work
(but then, where’s the finesse) to show the argument
of a bizarre looking deer that is extinct and was always rare.
Maybe it was just how innocent the creature looked,
but it took me back to when I was a child
and, right down the street from there,
paid a man to play Emperor and dance like a Hare Krishna.

Improvisation Over Miles Davis and the Red Headed Girl

It's late. It's gotten late. Sunday nights are the blandest, always have been. Somehow when you have music on, it's not so bad. Just keeps the wheel turning. Like a bike upside down and you're just there easing one of the pedals.

If phone calls made sense, then I would use a phone more often. Yet phones drown people. I damn near drown every time. Can't help it. No life preserver, no blow-up vest. No boat coming to help me out. I don't like telephones anymore. Maybe phone calls are like poorly executed bits of syncopation. Just too much. Too much. Makes a bad racket.

It's funny thinking of this chick. No clue how it'll work out. Where's the relation? Who knows. But I keep at it. I'm easing the pedal on that bike I turned upside down.

I always liked turning a bike upside down and turning the pedal. Makes me feel like I'm cranking an old movie camera from the twenties. Sixteen frames a second. Gotta keep a beat to get that steady sixteen. Just ease the crank.

Johnny Prozac Goes to a Show

Johnny Prozac is an overexposed
roll of French cinema ennui stereotype.
His hometown is full of stoners.
Guess they’re bored too.
They should’ve been taught
moderation in health class.

Johnny Prozac goes to a show,
finest leather on sleeveless.
No ear plugs because
he’s just a fan. Between sets, the background beats
blast loud enough to be their own band.
Chicky next to him bitches to the bouncer
about the new smoking ban,
like he was grounded for not cleaning his room.

Johnny Prozac goes to a lot of shows
so he don’t hear too good no more.
He has to crank headphones to find
lost secrecies in low frequencies.
Maybe he’ll go skiing next weekend.

I would really appreciate some feedback and criticism on this one, if anyone cares to.

Another Sonnet

Another anyday
Of basements and gilded smoke.
I’m part of the stay
Through constant come and go,
Like selective slow motion
Or the island between traffic—
A visual feedback commotion;
I suppose the word is “hectic.”
Longing for distance
From a city block of cement chimneys.
The pearly remains of pilfers clog each stack.
I imagine that some face up and others, down.
But skeletons have been known to dance
And a certain house tells me, “You’re going to be a great father someday.”



(I'm also back)

we live life

so i haven't written or tried to write in probably a month. partially because i never had my own computer, until now! I apologize for the inconsistencies.

we live life like we're gonna die.
the next time we close our eyes.
a sense of urgency, resins in the night.
and every bottle is our last drink.
we imbibe until we can't feel,
the phantom feeling of pending loss we share within.
shaking scared so silently
so much tension surrounding me
this bubble we've made is ready to break
caused reaction of fear and fate
it comes down to heart, it comes down to pride.
and whether or not you like what you feel inside.
so tonight, ill take this ride
to try and walk alone on the other side
and problems will surely follow
as sure as the sun will rise
a soldier of Emerson and Thoreau
in self reliance ill survive.

The Space Between The Streets And Dreaming

it's 2:00 am,
and you're waiting outside the window.
your breath fogs the glass,
you write "let me in."
so i let you in.
it's 2:04 am,
i stop breathing,
close the curtain,
keep the night from getting in.
so hold your breath love,
it's all we have.
so don't open the shades.
when all the bars are closed,
the city seems so dead,
please don't wake the beast.
these words are for you,
kissed with elegance,
and thrown inside the fire of my house.
this match is for you,
laced with eloquence,
and thrown inside the fire of my house.

The Ice On The River

i'll stand.
i'll stand deep in your heart.
your tongue moves as words are said.
your words.
words i've come to anticipate,
come to love.
i've saved you a place in my mind.
i'd give it up to fit you in.
a privilege, so let's begin.
please dance this dance with me.
you can lead.
it's the only one we know.
we're dancing on ice.
the river is my heart.
frozen for so long.
i need your hands against my chest.
you've broken the ice.
you've conquered the cold.
you move me in a way
i have never moved before.
swim in my veins.
turn me.
move me.
love me.
you've broken the ice.
you've saved me from myself,
and winter.
take me.
we're going under.
you are the air in my lungs.
me, with you in my heart.
me, with you in my lungs.
me, with you in my veins,
in your arms,
they keep me warm.
we're going under.

Seven

when she walked out,
i waltzed around the place where it ended,
and it should have been sooner,
and different than it was.
but she walked out,
and walked out well.
so i was left there grinning,
and spinning on the wood floor,
at my mother's place.
forward.
right.
back.
left.
we learn from our mistakes,
to never make them again.
i know what love isn't.
we move on when things are wrong,
to something we didn't expect,
and find shelter in it.
four years have passed,
two have been perfect.
one golden ring,
and i know what love is.
when she walked out,
i waltzed around the place where it ended.
and i don't dance alone,
i dance around the living room,
of our new apartment,
on the corner of main street,
and i am dancing now with you.