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Poems of Todd Robert Scovill
(1969 - 2008)









Shine on, you crazy diamond.
_________________________________

LITTLE SECRET
(poem he wrote about me)

And I will lay you down, split the difference with my tongue
You only thought I was joking, when I told you I would make you
come.
You only thought I was kidding, when I said this could be fun.

Let me be your little secret
Let me be the one you tell nobody about.

Maybe you only react best to ultimatums.
Maybe when there’s a decision that can’t be put off
an imperious urge, to let your mind wander,
and your body be explored.
If you come knocking I hope it’s my door.

Let me be your little secret.
Let me be the one you’re not tangled up in.
Let me be the one that can be left in the sheets,
not in your head.

Again no sparks in the head, nothing to turn the engine over.
Nothing to make me believe you’d wanna go that far.
Execution of ego feedings, those who’ve been led
and their miniscule following.

Got wind of the words you said, adjectives like care
and hurt. Spread like mayonnaise over soft like sentiment shared.
All I wanna do is get naked and see how it turns out.
All you wanna do is spit hints of something quite possibly there,
while lounging around the pool
with your meticulously crunched stomach, and smile
and stories of receding hairlines and the men who know your
moving.

Let me be your little secret, the late night gasp for air
the conclusions without plots, the exchange of bodily fluids
and the prophylactic with your name on it.
Let me be a little frank, let me get this off my chest.
Let me come right out and say it.
You know where I live, when your ready
bring that tight little package to the marathon,
see if we can fall all over each other in the ways that bother them
most.

All hype and no follow through.
Like me and my conversations with a bottle of Jim Beam.
Was it even really worth considering, was I just chasing the myth
letting little head, drive the upper head mad.

I can’t stay away, I can’t just leave this one alone.
I can’t just walk away. Without making sure things go wrong.
Making sure that there are no exclusive terms.
Making sure that there is some definite closure.

That I made it abundantly clear what my intent was.
While you made it abundantly clear what your reaction was.
That way there was nothing dangling around to taunt me anymore.

After all there are no little secrets, only wide open fantasy’s
to perpetually haunt and torment reality.

Trs03 hopeless

NO REPLIES

So did you get to scream out loud?
Did it all shudder through your essence,
like a runaway freight? The ghost ride.
Empty flatbed of your midnight life.
Not all heroes are defined by their deeds.
Porcelain white Christmas trees fixed just right.
You’ve got to fight to get to the make up sex.
Embraced like tree trunks and branches
from futon to bed, in desperate kisses.
Still searching for the something that made it alright.
Now we bounce back like true fiends.
He could’ve won an Oscar for his intent,
subconsciously searching for an act of integrity.
To validate his newfound value system.

So did you get to scream out loud?
Nestled among the humanity of cattle.
Herded like human beings.
Into this reciprocated feeling of meaning.
Where we struggle each and every second
to make a right decision, when they’re
never that clear. Just the legalities and consequences.
Rendered shot point blank across your guilt.

You are constant like mankind is a virus.
You are constant like a Timex takes a licking,
while I’m the one that keeps ticking.

Do your prayers get the checkmarks on the blackboard upstairs?
Where the teacher hands out mysterious lessons,
that we only learn the hard way.
If only banging your head against a brick wall paid.
I’d be able to retire by now.

Here my message echoes throughout sacred church basements.
Where people outside of me tell me how powerful it was,
and the ones on the insides, turn into
ice queens and correctional officers of behavior.

Not like I meant for it to come out that way.

Maybe that was the icing on the cake, they made it personal
getting the piece with the file, gnashing against their teeth.
The truth was something they could neither chew nor swallow.
For me it follows suit. Every time I try to put my past
in some form of egoless fact. I can’t leave the punch lines alone.
It’s all me and my creative embellishments, formerly known as
bullshit.

The sheer fact we are foolish like God’s children have no business,
In this these matters of the heart. It is always I
that continually is at fault.

Three broken fingers pointing back, one pink with a lists of swears,
that are not easily remembered, nor hard to forget.
In my perpetual spiritual dyslexia, the Sky Boss has seen fit
to give me another twenty-four of these hours, fourteen hundred
and forty minutes and eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds, of
trudging.
Not so happy roads, missing destiny, finding fate.
Still we are without reply.

NOW LADIES AND GENTLEMEN I PRESENT THE FACTS

The fact is we only bend so much before we break.
The fact is feelings are not facts, yet
they continually point us in certain directions.
Which path we take is up to us.
Forks in the road withstanding,
and standing on their own.

The fact is the more you hate something,
the more power you give it.
The fact is water seeks its own level.
The fact is everywhere I go there I am.

The first thing I packed was my problem, and that was me.
Neither hearsay nor rhetoric, nor gibberish,
or country-fried nonsense.
Just a fact, one of many in this sordid work.

You are strong, you do have access to the power.
I don’t give a fuck what anybody else says about grace,
I can see you have it; you wouldn’t have made it this far.
Ego withstanding. Like forks and other devices,
which play mental tricks.
Force us to make choices; decisions; alternatives.

How it maybe our last, but in our head
all that feeling does, is last.
Once again not only part of the facts,
but part of our make-up.
Another fact, we all must come to terms with.

So buckle the fuck up. Breathe.
Our roller coaster stops when it runs out of track.

ONE WORD: BLANK

In the beginning there was one thing we had in common.
One denominator, that made eyes wide open and hearts enter.
It’s that we started off with nothing, and ended up with something.

Magnificently captivating. Magnificently shocking.
Magnificently unique.

Some would call it art. Some would call it words.
We would call it a curse.
Blank and its ramifications.

Like I’ve said before, “The paper doesn’t talk back.”  Neither does
canvas.

I give it all, and it listens to the ink.
It feels that way with the paint.
I release it all and it bends the weight of what I think.
Gives me something to look at.

My perplexed head, refining the thought process and me
to fit the parameters of the artistically dyslexic.
Turning the curse into the gift, and vice versa.
I hope you get the cash and prizes. You deserve them.
My reward is the greatness in anonymity.

My keyboard loves the attention in my abuse of it.
My life welcomes yours.

If we’re going too fast, step back. Time out.
The “what”, “if only” and “buts”. Await.

We strive for our place among the Millers and Williams.
We take our wits and bundle them up with the tethers of muses,
daring the paper and canvas to spit back. Refuse.
What our imaginations offer, and what our talent perpetrates.

I could think of no better gift then your medium.
I could think of nothing better but space.
I couldn’t count the things you mean to me on both hands.

So take this canvas, do with it as you wish.
Cast oil and acrylic with magical brushes,
manipulated by amazing fingers, and defiant creation.
If nothing ever comes of us. Immortalize it on this canvas.
If you breathe to fly free then do so. I don’t want to hold you back.
I just want to hold on.

REPETITIVE DISGUISED AS ROUTINE

I will get up and do it again. Again.
This is the essence of routine.
Running from change.

No matter how fucking boring it seems.
Boredom is comparatively painless, considering.
All the things before then.

No matter what surprises hide in the Almighty’s plan.
Not to say I’m religious, slightly spiritual, sunny-side up
over-easy prayers. I’ve just been
blessed and in synch.

Same instances colliding.
Two objects taking up one space.
Brought to a state of belief, only achieved
through mind-wrenching openings, wide.
To conceive is to believe.
Based on the premise if you believe in,
you give it power.

I will get up and do it again.
Hit my knees. Hit the door. Hit the pavement.
Start the car. Punch the non-existent time clock
of an eternity of mindless work.

Despite my mind’s inner workings. Which presently are working
against me.
Despite my merciless obsessions, glaring character defects, and
pomp.
Suspected OCD, Anxiety, and Depression on layaway. What a sad
state of
affairs.

I will get up and do it again. I will prevail,
With my ass dragging along to the next vacant seat
Of any numerous twelve-step recovery meetings I have situated
myself in.
Here we could blame Grace, but that would be as arrogant as
saying,
“I was blessed with the gift of desperation.”

I will get up and do it again. Again.
Because they don’t think I can. Because it goes against what they
believe.
Because I’m a terminally unique distinct entity.
Gag on that irony.

I will get up and do it again.
Do the dishes. Take out the trash. Check the mail.
Pump the gas. Write out the checks.
Get fucked on traffic on the beltway,
and shove another dollar menu item burger down my throat.

Because the options are not choices.
Because the man above either is or isn’t.
Because the measured halves don’t equal jack.
Because there are those who do and don’t, need and want.

Again. I have not gotten up to do it again.
Calling in sick.
Leaving the meeting cause I’m sick of what I’m hearing.
Dropping sponsors cause he was over run by the City Of Alexandria.
Dry as a matchstick in a no-smoking bar.

Yet how could I end this without a positive note.
How about the roof over my head. The food in my fridge, what’s left.

I will get up and do it again.
As much as they’d like to believe otherwise.
Sometimes just the though of them and my date,
Has kept me from doing the likewise. What I like to do,
Even if it thinks it can kill the body and go on without.
Problems packed first, accepting self is the biggest bitch.

HANDLES

Hold your breath, leap off the tall building's
ledge.

See if you drown in the fall. Love is a collapse.
The hardened senses of denial and disbelief
colliding with one another.

Nothing left for posterity, just nakedness inside
of him.

Her seeing through the charade, him not
believing the wall is not in place.

Why she doesn’t look back when driving off,
out on the perimeters of comfort.

He’s become a floating beacon before the
feeling goes down, or a ship runs aground.

They are mere vessels crossing emotional
waters.

Things they’ll get used to, questions answered
with questions.

Who went first. Simple yes and a thousand
stuttered breaths.

Building up to hugs and misunderstandings, and
all the good stuff that makes for gooey feelings.

Butterflys escaping demons.

Hollowed feeling of the unseen competition. She
couldn’t believe he used the phrase, "You must have a rack of
dudes in waiting."

Cured mornings on next to nothing sleep,
exaggeration of imagination, how splendid their association.

Entangled without common sense, air cleared, and heart skipping
beats.

The restraint in running with it. The never having felt something like
this.
Vague reminders of the similarities in distinction.

He meant every word said, from beginning to
end, it was the time in between he longed and lived
for.

He will break into pieces proving it.

If she had him at hello, he had her at good bye.

Time not knows the reason why.

Only what destiny and faith and coincidence
have conjured up, locked hearts needing the keys of healing.

"Open up let me in" he said, "All you have to do is
knock," she replied.

Over futon coffee nights they tangled with
stares and gestures and guesses, as the wheels in the cog turned
and colors were
blue like the ocean, as the band was Dave Matthews and crashed
into the silly nonsense.

His handle on the English language left volumes
to be explored in her world unfold.

Her hands around his soul like an artist at the pottery wheel,
massaging his
shape and form to fit hers. Stuck in a delayed state of grace.

Where then are these other characters of her
history.

As where his removed and abandoned, or
hinged to sliding glass doors in the
mind.

Ones that dominated space and time and
apparently by word of mouth could do things no others could, as he
reassured
her in ego driven defiance, surely he didn’t have that market
cornered.

As it was waking with and mixing the elixir of
fallen love, and driven lust to the marching bands of making
pleasures, he
admitted he sought.

In her doubt she asked if he was putting her on,
and as he stated every word he said.

Just not fragments, but the whole fucking enchilada.

That he wanted to be the one.

That he wanted to wake with, hold tight, and relinquish the rage
and soothe the sores
that haunted those closet doors.

Inside her memory. Inside her anguish. Inside the forgiven and
unforgiven.

New planes of existence could be conquered if only in surrender.

The mutual exchange of what was grinding between the cogs and
the wheel,
and the free fall of head over heels.

How is this for a handle on the English language?

How is this for sincerity?

How is this for such a short time period?

How is this for what we do or do not know, and will only find out
one way?

How is this for getting used to and I’m not even going to ask?

How is this for a non sequitur?

If only to know one time, would be more than enough.

If never to find out, would be too much.

OUTLET AMERICA

I have come prepared for a day of shopping.
With her my one and only, the significant other.
That special someone who happened to be born on
this date some three decades and two years ago.
Not a painful reminder, but a testament to survival.
How many of us don't make it that long. Doing what we do.
I have come prepared for a day of shopping.
Birthday shopping at that. I brought pen, paper, and cell phone.
Smokes and wallet, with cash, off course.
I forgot the seventy-five cents for the armband wraparound,
imposter tattoo's sold in the men's room, next to the Advil.
Not a condom in sight in Outlet America. I mean why would they
support,
birth control. Thank god for IUD's and those who possess them.
I have come prepared for a day of shopping, said my prayers for
patience.
Reminded myself it's about her, and not me, she deserves this.
After all if your parent's wanted to give you life insurance, wouldn't
you
be
a little distraught. Is that the kinds you have to pay premiums every
month?
Does it have anything to do with the fact your step dad sells the
shit.
Is it one more sale, and the bonus check is in the mail.
Needless I have come prepared for a day of shopping.
In the outlet extravaganza between Woodbridge and Dale City,
known to tourists the world round, or at least northern Virginia,
as Potomac Mills. With it's IKEA flagship of blue and yellow anchored
harbor side right of a I-95. Looking like a battleship of retail
armament,
ready to dispense with all the goodies for disposable incomes
across the
land.
The selection process will go down like this, and this is where I fail
to
default.
To just not stay silent. I'll like something and she'll think it's ugly.
She'll like something, and I'll think it's retarded. Thank god we don't
dress each other.
We'll never like the same thing. Unless it's food she's prepared, or
words
I've written.
We can't agree on the hair, nor the glasses, nor the cars.
I really think there is something to this opposites attract business.
I've come prepared for a day of shopping, as she peruses purses
with blue
letter K's,
green sweaters with inserted and attached striped collars and
sleeves,
three for ten panties, and the ones with the seams that will never
ever
again,
crawl up her ass. Not for one second, unless there is time enough in
there,
for me too take them off. Before we begin the ground assault on
pleasures.
She feel blank and I'll force smiles that might stick. Maybe it's the
Paxil.
Maybe it's the onset of thirty-something, maybe it's my wallets not
big
enough.
I've come prepared because the devil made me do it.
No one else. As I network and scroll down and watch
as she whips that Rav4 around.
Snagging rock start parking spots, and whipping in and out of lanes.
I'm simply amazed at the way she handles this thing called life, in
light
of.
Of all the things that engulf her in her day to day to grind.
I hope I made a difference in making her birthday something.
I asked what she wanted a few times, and finally succeeded to
letting her
decide.
As all my ideas where found out to be, like the selection process,
null and
void.
While sitting and home later on all by myself, ignoring the dollar
signs
that left my side,
and her who went to return a key, and then have dinner, and then
Adams
Morgan
with a good friend. While I was home alone, doing what I do best.
Laundry, Cleaning, Vacuum, and fixing AOL.
I was prepared but not for that.
So here is to birthdays may they come and go, and get better
as we know each other better.

STRIDE

I am hitting my stride.
I am reaching out and taking words from thin air,
making them hostages.
For my own demented use.

I am up and down in a mixing bowl of sound.
Where the occasional scream for help escapes,
caught in a flurry of fuck’s and shit’s.

Do you remember the first time you felt love?
How tainted now is it?

All these years later
a tambourine of recognition
on an album not heard
in almost two decades.

A felt tip crushed syndrome, of pushing down and suffocation.
Trying to make the square round.

I’ve got great phrases. Like spoiled baker’s dozen.
Not one single shell cracked.

Does all your doubt amount to jack?
At the end of the day.
As you wipe the regret,
from the ass you’ve been,
and may be again.

I am hitting my stride.
I am doing cartwheels down the median on Veteran’s boulevard.
Through my oncoming past, to my Mardis Gras future.
Never know what’s gonna occur,
but it will be chaos for sure.

I’ve found new material in scaring them off.
I’ve found it’s better when they don’t like me,
Cause when they do it’s fake as fuck anyway.
I’ve found they are words in passing hinging
on an opportunity to climb the ladder of fraudulent bravado.
Our merit badges withstanding. Our warrants outstanding.
Our fields a barren mindscape of do’s and don’ts and did.
Worse than. As you can imagine.

I am hitting my stride.
Taking a body count.
Keeping a walk off clock.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
So I can smoke the last cigarette, call it a night,
exit to my measly existence
between Lockheed Boulevard and Del Ray Avenue.

Just another drunk. Without a drink.

It’s funny, they need me as I need them.
To continue this chain of days at a time.
Shackled to slogans as old as the walls.
So we might have a chance
to take a stab at some sort of life.

If you could picture the fire in St. Elmo’s eyes.
That solid night the avenue looked endless.
Life held some sort of tangible purpose.
The citadel of sobriety was waiting for me.
As it always had been. Shifting locations.
Like I change resentments.

Do you remember the first time you felt there was,
a way out?
Chips melting in your mouth, knees breaking as they bend.
Motives like the wind.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

ME IN PIECES

They are all pieces of me, that jigsaw inside.
Twist and turn, grind and yearn.
Every time you talk that way, say those things.
Those certain words. The flip flop in the gut.
The uncertainty in entitlement.

I think back to what I was like then,
at that amount of days away,
from what it was I normally did.

How everything was awe and wonderment.
That I wasn’t locked up, that I wasn’t coming to in the bushes.
Then came the anger and rage, and constant change.
Consistent to this day.

How the food got me high.
How I couldn’t keep the soap out of my eyes.
How I would mind fuck myself with what order,
to use personal hygiene products.

Again the phrases she uses, the things I can’t do,
to make everything all right.

An algorithm of Euclid’s and mine, love.
For this that. The pieces of us. The repetitive calculations.
The greatest common divisor of two numbers.
The special method of solving a certain kind of problem.
Through prayer and honesty and tolerance.

The solution I know, and the fucked if you do or don’t,
it some times gets worse before it gets better syndrome.

They are all pieces of me; I can’t arrange to fit,
the not actual size as seen on TV dream.
In which she is a piece, that if I had my way
will bend, break and shuffle to fit next to me.
As it feels so complete, away from the uncertainty in entitlement.

Must we all have careers?
Must we all renounce the respected title of barfly?

Where the man Chinaski asks, or thinks, to himself
which at this point, or when it occurred, is not really clear.
Who made up this rule, we all must be
mailmen, milkmen, factory workers, secretaries, lawyers,
doctors, hang glider pilots. The genius in insanity.

They are all pieces of me that I will surrender,
at her simple touch, or cocky look, the whimper
and her priceless facial expressions. Asking are you not
the tough roofless ruthless gutter punk,
you only thought you were.

If I could make the floor tiles ripple.
If I could make the folding chairs buckle.
If I could make the roof collapse.

Then Utopia would burn us with boredom,
and kill us with it’s routine.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

RAGE ANGELS

We rage against the angels.
Hit the gas instead of the brake pedal.
Never know slow like caution and all of those things
lost in the winds of our kind.
Storming the beaches of our demise.
Standing there dripping in the doubt of what’s left.
Of us, them, and the world that surrounds us.
Stripped of our gimmicks and substance.
Bare and embarrassed.

Never enough for a photo op.
Never enough to write off.
Never enough to stand out.

Where are the visionaries?
Where are the mad men?
Herded like cattle in the subways of tomorrow.
Brainwashed in three-piece suits with psychotropic answers.
For a chemically better today. All their visions
have been renamed delusions.

PC terms for a shattered scribblers.
Gatherings of three or more,
considered terrorist activity.

We rage against the angels. It’s in our duality.
We scream and wave at balance as it swings by.
The pendulum of our penultimate emotion.
Something to strive for in the paints and pens of creation.

Foul-mouthed with sinister story telling on our minds.
Making caffeine the nectar of conversation gods.

We rage against the angels. As if we had nothing better to do.
Better than any tuition paid education.
Complete with laughter and humiliation.

He sat down time and time again to rally around the obscene.
He found something intriguing about our shtick for shock.

We were pushing limits on an audible level.
While you were at home doing the same with oiled color,
and bound canvas. Like your subject matter.
Bondage. To each of the boredoms and pains.
That can only be driven back to their caves with a sick sense of
humor,
and a pledge not to take yourself so seriously.

It is here that time remains to remind us it can be frozen.
It is here we claim days and brag about years, but wake up
and put our pants on the same. One leg at a time.
Our shit stinking all the way to the bank.
Where in lies the last ego of need.
Much like women, you can't live with our without it.

We rage against the angels. Cause we've been given an option.
Lighten the fuck up, or die drowning in the seriousness of it all.
This piece has no agenda, nor explanation.
It came off my head, and found a place to rest.
Sick to death of feathers, halo's, and newly skin pressed judges
in the guise of peers.

ALLOWED TRANSIENT BEAUTY

It was a good meeting, left with a peace of mind
I didn’t have before.
Coming across the bridge at Monroe and Jeff Davis Highway,
southbound, headed for Old Town.
Green boxcars lie in wait on the tracks, a plane on approach to
National.
The sun hasn’t quite set.

It was a good meeting, listening now to Tom Petty
talk about wildflowers, rolling joints, and how it feels
to be me. Rolling through Old Town’s remaining hood.
The red brick projects between Patrick and Henry. Those still stand,
but not for long. Their life is undeniable. Their color is life.
In the midst of end of summer august time of year east coast
weather.
Rolling across Wythe and up Columbus, past the library at Queen,
and across King, south. The diesel put puts among the well to do,
and those who pretend to.

It was a good meeting, those were the people, that were there
when Mt. Vernon avenue sobered me up, and God reinvented me
allowing me to remain sober. We rehashed the stories of love and
hate,
never one without the other, and the exchange of feeling
unparalleled by any church basement.

Left of Gibbon right on Washington, still south the Parkway calls.
Tom Petty still talking all those rock blues about time and how it is
to move and wouldn’t it be good to be king for a day.
The Sun petitioning the Moon to make it’s presence known,
the Jetta strolls along the parkway like a long tall cool daddy,
with my ears plugged with good tunes.
Making a little girl in a better model Jetta smile with her Mom,
and Machina tag, waving with a heavy metal hand sign.

Unbelievably maintaining the speed limit.
Allowing me to not only see beauty but also feel it, as I’m surpassed
by Lexus. BMW, and Mercedes. Not giving a fuck.
as the first rain drops fall, and I don’t want to
turn on my windshield wipers, just yet.

All my high quality problems seem so miniscule and I’m grateful.
I don’t need to say it, I think it shows, and if it doesn’t you should
be in
my shoes.

My little bit of controversy stirs the pot, makes them say things like
I was told if you couldn’t say anything nice, not to say anything at
all.
Yeah, it was a good meeting, and I’m off to set up chairs for
another.
It was a good meeting, I like the sound of that.
Cause it may not happen all the time, and when it does, you should
hold on.
Those who say that their favorite one is the one they’re at, are full
of
shit.
I’m glad my favorite topic is what you hate about Alcoholics
Anonymous.
It resets the clock of tolerance, and allows me another 24 hours of
grace.
Having set up two long tables and seventy something folding chairs,
meditating my mind away.

Exit trs03 Hopeless

ANY BETTER

Has it ever occurred to you, we might not
want to know any better.
That we should save healthy for later on,
in double-digit sobriety.
Yet, we do know better, at any given time.

God promises become broken kisses.
Bittersweet for a brief time.

Haven’t figured out
if this is my cool down or warm-up
period. Period.
Setting up chairs remembering who sits where.
Recalling the days events, what occurred, transpired
and was royally screwed up
by yours truly.

Then preparing for the eight-thirty onslaught of
personalities trying to practice principles.
Yours truly the ringmaster, elevated from
setting up chairs to the chairperson.
My ass rests on a big square blue building block cushion.
Talk about your fragile pedestals. Seventy or so, folding chairs
later. Two tables, two coffee pots, a literature rack
and several readings. To get out of the way.

In this time period, period. I with God, listening.
Have begun to process the realization of another miracle
twenty-four hours without a drink.

Though at times it’s been close.
Irrational conversations with inanimate objects,
appropriately named Jim Bean and Guinness.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

ASIDE

Aside from everything else
all that turns and twitches in our lives.

The not-yet-ex-husband and in-laws.
The exclusions and shoplifting.
The occupations and colleges.

The DMV persecutions and hurricanes,
work situations and personal relations.
In and out of these rooms

Ex-girlfriends and where there names reside
in matters legally binding.
Like leases, and bank accounts, and car titles.

Aside from everything else
that matters to them most,
we are perpetually triumphant
in our weekly weekend escapades
against the grain, against the opinion.

Then autumn rolls in reminding me once again I’m human.
That we had our moment in the sun. Cold creep feeling.
Seeping. Destitution of leaves. Rummage what’s left of the summer.

Aside from that I can think of nothing else.

Exit Trso3 Hopeless

BETTY BOOP GETS BURNED FOR A BILL

Remember how we met? Where it was, what happened?
How exactly things like us occur?
The ends never justify the means, and all our resolve
ended in busted leaking gas pipes, green UFO’s, and missing
hundred dollar bills.
It was at the usual suspects current place of residence,
Josh, John, and Sonya, and company.
There I was couch surfing in the fifty-first and Harvard area,
back behind the Burger King and Comfort Inn.
Guess you went to school with Josh, was going into the Navy,
presently
a hostess or waitress at the Delta Café, and in the meantime
stripped, or danced like you’d call it, at some shack in North Tulsa.
Not that I had any quarrels with that.
You looked like Betty Boop they called you Beverly,
I never could tell if that was onstage or in bed.
I had just started slinging dishes at that same restaurant.
Nobody drug tests in that industry, it’s not cost efficient.
Besides what great cooks don’t smoke weed.
When I was asked back into the bedroom, I had no clue
you we’re giving a private show. Thrill Kill Kult style.
You would become the first in a short line of strippers,
erotic dancers if you prefer, to add to my resume of failed
relationships.
Can’t even remember the name of that joint you shook your goods
in.
One of many known for its twelve dollar cokes, no alcohol rule.
The truth didn’t look real ugly at that point, but give it time.
It doesn’t take long.
After that enticing lap dance who could refuse an offer
to crash at your place. Just cause I’m a drunk,
doesn’t mean I’m stupid, nursing a bourbon, the whole bottle.
Wasn’t like I was wearing out my welcome with my friends,
they waited for me to either blow in or out of town like a
tumbleweed,
knowing I’d never stay long. Maybe they figured California even
called me
then.
I’d turned them onto the Siamese dream, and I couldn’t stand to
hear
the thunder strike one more time.
Now the original conditions were termed friends.
You knew how long that’d last, when you said it with a wink and
smirk.
I brought my backpack and bottle, we raged a while. Maybe a
month or so.
Again it’s hard to tell, things twirl, spiral.
When your pretending to be her brother, and trying to be her lover.
Tumultuous is the only word that comes to mind.
I think I was twenty-three had just come off a short stint in OKC.
A couple detox’s, emergency rooms, banned from my brother’s dorm.
This might’ve been before or after Daphne and Gwendolyn Hope.
Maybe it was the STP that brought in all back to me,
a wicked garden in which I wet my bed, plush,
half the man I was supposed to be. Remember the show?
Mohawk Park, Flaming Lips, Stone Temple Pilots,
pissed because we left before the Butthole Surfers.
Acid covered tongues Pepsi peyote t-shirts and Native American
Indians.
That strange strip mall one level set of apartments,
you and one other person inhabited. He turned out to be
the connection with the lockbox briefcase.

It was like a David Lynch ghost town behind the Tasty Freeze.
Allowing everything that went on to go unnoticed like they simply
just
weren’t looked upon, for fear and dread.
Remember the cat, the one that got away, or so you were told.
Found it in the back seat of the car, killed by the T-town heat.
Locked in. I knew something smelled funny, days later
burrowed under the passenger seat. How it got there?
Beyond me. We looked long and hard for that feline
in a drunken drug induced stupor. Like a good dope fiend,
helping you look for something he stole. I never told you
I buried it in the dumpster with the kitchen trash.
I figured you’d have a better conscience unaware.
Remember how I drove that navy blue Ford Escort, like a bastard
between Club Nitro and the apartment, down Peoria.
Your new girlfriend Jessica, and the ideas and fantasy’s you
taunted me
with.
While fronting me the money to start my drug dealing.
All her friends who were my clientele for a brief period,
before things turned sour.
So I’ve broke out the Coronet Automatic 12 Smith-Corona,
it’s tap and timing and revolving ribbon, brings it all back.
The peck and precision in which it expresses my feelings.
Remember how we ended? Was it my drinking?
OF COURSE IT WAS. If there’s one thing I don’t have a doubt about,
it’s that, what else could it be?
Blowing the money given for drugs at the bar.
Driving the Escort like I was going to kill everybody but me.
At least I didn’t wreck it.
Maybe I justified it all, somewhere in the back of my head
that little voice with horns that hated your Sugar Daddy’s.
All the time you were spending with them.
All their money I was spending.
All the jealousy that would typify
All the girls I would date from that moment on.

Maybe I’ve just been more undercover about my insecurities.
Maybe my nonchalant attitude is just a tough front about to fall
apart.
I didn’t run from that situation, just stood there
ready to take an ass whipping, something I was good at,
always have been. Right, like a bunch of Goth fairy boys
we’re going to stomp my ass when I told them
this story or that one, whichever sounded best in the mirror to
myself.

All I really remember is that for one brief instance I did shine,
with the big bright lie, that I was somebody.
Sleeping with the hot stripper, hooking up ounces and pounds,
making up four finger bags for my head to stash in the cookie jar.
Like the cops would never look there. Talking shit out the side of my
neck,
no one to bullshit but myself.

Perhaps it was financial negligence, at least it wasn’t
domestic violence. That horror was saved to hurt the ones
I truly loved. Quitting the dish job thinking I was going to roll and flip
my way to the top of the dope dealer charts. Have the threesome,
and drive around town delivering buds, with a never ending
pocketful of
cash.
That shit never happens even if your selling crack, and not smoking
it,
even those guys get touched.

I remember the righteous acid sex, and bourbon breath, the ego
trips.
The visits to the strip shack, thinking I was all that. Not even
needing
the bag of chips. How I perfected fucking it up, made it my forte.
It was just a matter of time I was never meant to be on top.

Even after I was banished back to Josh and John’s, the tumbleweed
cometh
again.
We crossed paths one last time, to hook up on some LSD. You had
one hit,
sold it to John, while I used the restroom. Honest to God,
I thought it was just a dollar bill I grabbed from the sink, it wasn’t
until
way later that evening when I realized it was wrapped around
a genuine Benjamin Franklin, all pissed off cause Mr. I Won’t Do Acid
was tripping and I wasn’t. What’d you think, I return it?
Just drunken luck I guess, making the V line to the Circle K
convenience
store.
A case a beer was called for. Did you know I was in the bedroom,
when you
and your little crew came over looking for me?
Jack said he took you for some dough, a couple weeks down the
road.
We had something in common. You’d always be the center of
attention,
the diamond in the den of thieves, like I’ve always said
“Abuse in itself, is also a form of attention”. The only thing we
couldn’t
take
was your heart, some one had taken that years ago.
Before we’d arrived to play perpetrator to your victim.

I remember when Betty Boop got taken for a bill. Do you?

Trs03

BOYFRIEND’S ASS BEAT MYSELF

I couldn’t help but notice:

What
a dick
your boyfriend is.

I’m so sorry:

I spilled
my hot coffee
on his crotch.

I don’t know:

What
possessed me
to drag
his sorry ass
over to the curb
and bash his head
several times in succession
into the gutter.

I know:

It’s probably none of my business
and I have been guilty
of acting exactly the same way
myself.

But:

I would’ve been grateful
and thanked the guy
for showing me some manners,
not cried like a bitch, due to the fact
some other testosterone monkey
kicked the shit out of me.

Might’ve made it stick.

You probably thrive on the abuse,
after all it is a form of attention.

I unknowingly just stepped into:

A sick sadomasochistic role playing game
you guys have refined, where you
verbally joust each other into a state of sexual arousal.

Me, trying to ponder the words to lay down,
for my current infatuation somewhere between
Woodbridge and Arlington. While thinking about

How:
I’d stick my dick into his,
girlfriend, wife, or whatever she is.


Guess the world is a really screwed up place.

Anyway you look at it. No matter
whose shoes your trying to fill.

Men are dogs, and women are the backyards
in which they roam. Unleashed.

It’s nice to see people talking civil for a change.
At least they appear that way with my headphones on,
pumping the pavement into my brain, auditory disconnection
from unapparent reality.

Trso3

DICTIONARY-PROOF

No words can keep her here,
whether written, spoken, or thrown
into the wind of carelessness.
Fuck the common sense, they’re off to the races
first place: Codependency. Love ahead a length over lust.
If I was a betting man. I wouldn’t.
No words can keep her here, caged bird cornered.
Wings clipped by too much freedom and heroin.
The Sun is the same one, whether
your in        Virginia or California.
It’s all in the setting. Oceans. Coasts. Left and right,
tied shoes like knots in heart.
She makes laughter delicious. He succeeds to secede.
Twenty-seven days into April. Twenty-four hours into
making decisions about wrong and right,
tears on Thomas street.
Seventy-four bucks into Greyhound.
Maricopa County calls her.
No words can keep her here,
sweeping clean the closets of doubt,
are there any cobwebs unturned in your arsenal of fear?
What if we were to do this or that?
Attaching all these songs the kind of significance
that makes trash men toss cans harder,
makes daydream downshift into slow motion.
No words can keep her here, and he knows that
scratching his ass like it will present
some new magical arrangement, an equation
to leave her, motionless.
No words to escape those lips, just precious eternal
bathroom waiting moments, souvenir pennies
crushed and stamped.
Into his conscience. Into her sock.
The inevitable outcome our spines are weak.
Our hopes bigger and brighter than tomorrow ever could be.
The gutter ran into the house, and the pull out champ parked.
How Arlington can cross souls, put the dictionary down
leave the thesaurus alone.
Cause no words can keep her here, ready or not
is not a question. Just exhale.
Breathe in the infinite moment, and what’s left of it.
Ironic as is may seem.
Rotate the tires in your head, the wheels have been spinning for
years.
Far too long for a shipwrecked girl, beached momentarily. Land
bound.
Here comes the zenith, blessing the spring.
Is it the warm weather or her easy come and go presence?
Making traffic stand still, the box blocked, Matrix style.
If I could make all these things in my life sound worthwhile.
She would still turn her back, give her feet flight
like the spirit can’t be broken, though it’s wings
might appear that way.

Trs03

EVIDENT

Let them run wild in their minds. Dial-a-Mom?
Driven to all sorts of mechanisms that might ease their insecurity.

Like Cinderella had to be home before the clock struck midnight
and the white station wagon turned back into a pumpkin.

It was an evening like none other, with many more too come.
Here hope portrays itself as an event yet to happen.

As they struggled to keep the big bad love in perspective,
while under the influence of potently true romance.

There is no easy way to let anybody down. Physical it just was.

At least with the truth hanging around, some sense of security
might be established, to prevent the unthinkable from happening.

Dropping words and pictures into purses, evidence
to fall into the wrong hands.

Maybe this will cost him all his sanity but it will be worth every
penny.
Not one cent less. Empty envelopes, hearts full.
Strong enough to take on anything that might prevent them.
This was evident.

Shell-shocked and speechless, in light of it all.

Here now times takes their toll. Minutes fly by unnoticed.
Mentally walking to what door?
The one in her soul, the one in his apartment?
Here now the getting to know each other, unravels
like a Tootsie Pop. How many layers to the center?

If I had to choose a way out at this point, there wouldn’t be any.
If there was a choice, when it hurts this good.

Like all the giggling and pacing laps in my head, about what she
said
was it  real or just pumping me up? She could say the same.
Are we really safe, is there anybody home?


So we twist in circles sitting still in couched conversations.
Enamored. Elated. Adored. Human pretzels.

Asking ourselves inside out, is there something to this?
If we take the plunge, will we ever be able to recover?

All faith presides in the hopeless at heart,
while the inevitable feeling of a smile
gives way to late night admissions.

The others besides those who had for nineteen years tried to
destroy her.

Does it hurt you, and do you have any ground to stand on?

Nothing was really evident, till she said she wasn’t kept.
That she was her own person. That the kids would have to
understand.
Wean as into, not away from. Evident.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless


THE HALL OF DEEP DOUBT

It was like I nailed the perfect dive, breaking water without a
splash.
I could hear the marching bands in the back of my head.
I could see myself talking to myself in the mirror, all the hype in
spite of
it
future chips on the shoulder to be knocked off the uncarved block.
Don’t need no one to pat this lad on the back, he’s quite capable
himself.
For a mere moment, an instance if you will,
I forgot about:

How mechanically challenged I am with Volkswagens.
The impending financial insecurity, which fear has left.
The glamorous side to throwing it all away, apart things fall.
The past relationships charged and graded on a sliding scale.
Payable with feelings and scars and heartburn, never tears.
The idea of safely drinking, recreational destruction.
Rationalizing liver failure and periods of incarceration.

God does those things daily, what made this different.
Perhaps grace has become redundant, I’ve built up a tolerance.

It’s rude to stare, I told myself in the mirror.
Getting back to the words, which were just mere imitations of the
feelings.
Generic means of expression, feelings which can’t be properly
explained.
Lacking the tools given to describe them with.

Again press play, listen to the texture of her voice,
the application of vocabulary and the entrance of feeling.
Sincerity I believe they call it. It’s how the bullshitter’s tell each
other
apart.
Words like amazing incredible and talented all in the same four
minute span
of time.
Finished with dude, blown away we become, in the intersections of
desire.
Hope dangles about in the background,
which is filled with the noises of:

Busting radiator hoses.
Crashing cash registers.
Thundering trash trucks.
Slicing razor blades, and the lone ice cube
doing it’s sick twisted echo of a dance,
     around the half empty half full high ball glass.
Accompanied by the piercing crack of a beer tab.

Twist off worlds, interchangeable glances.
A whole catalogs of maybes, buts, and yets.

Don’t look to close, the infatuation might bite back.
Might have a little something something to it.
Something that might stick with the roll-on convenience
of emotional deodorant. Confidence. Confidence,
dry and secure, raise your hand if your sure.

Dare we raise it a level, increase the graphic context.
Add new cryptic innuendo to the suggestive flirts,
we toss back and forth. Conviction requires follow through,
and commitment is a word we fear until we are in it.

What it is exactly we will and won’t accomplish in our frivolous
doting?
Back and forth till our hearts are sizzled, are libido’s gutted out
with the carvings of false hopes.

Wait! Press play again, let’s hear it one more time.
Parading about the cubicle built by pink clouds.

I intend to roam free in your mind, as you have mine.
Unhinged, neon vacancy blinking, and bewildered.
What power daunts are every step from this moment to the next.

Did he rent that much space, how long was his lease? How long
was your
leash?
Or are these images reflections of trick walls lined with mirror of the
conscience.
The Hall of Deep Doubt. Where are past loves are given all day
passes to
linger about.


Car at shop. Scattered remnants of Lava soap.
Direct deposit set in, financial crisis momentarily diverted.
Success better be better than death, cause I’m still holding on.
Heartache imprisoned once again in the duct tape wrapped God
box.
Getting drunk put off for another twenty-four hours, not one day at
a time,
I can always get fucked up tomorrow, last I checked Jack, Jim, and
Scotch
weren’t in danger of going bankrupt.
Postponed by fifty-five minutes of something.

I didn’t call that day, I waited one.
I haven’t heard a thing.
How long can this go on?

INTERSECTION

Columbia Pike and George Mason, 7-11 at 11 in the a.m.
Breakfast at Bob and Edith’s, since 1969. Like a lot of other things.
Sunday afternoon meeting at Country Prick’s. Walked into another
lead,
unintentionally. Had to let sponsor meet the new flame. Infatuation.
Phone out’s in Woodbridge, left with Nietzsche. Thus spake no one.
Amish adolescence in the Devil’s Playground. Waiting for rumspringa,
praying for the bed courtship. Intentions. Intersections.
How we collide, and where at, it’s almost accidental. Like a lot of
other
things.
Coffee at Misha’s. Walks to closed comic shops, the way they
should be.

Pointless but captivating, left with conversation and forced roses.
Pointless in enjoyed company splendor. Warm spring days. Maybe
Summer,
will have it’s way. Great conversationalist.

Fingers, crammed and crossed behind his back.
Bathroom waiting bliss in end of Old Town Torpedo Factory
restaurants blitz.

Is the ink still there? Are the words deserved? Thirsty for
knowledge,
knowing nothing at all. Met the man who forgotten everything I
ever knew.

Where this could go, where could this go?

Will she stick around to see the pearl jam?
Did she sleep with the man, who kept her caged?
Not allowed in the living room. Tears to fuel the crows.
Who gives the fuck or a fuck about, what they know or what they
say?

It was just me and her in those feet moving down King street,
East like West was some place we’d  left behind.
A way a walk was meant to be. Hose clamps around the neck on
Haight street.
Crucial exchanges of glances, sizing up determination.
Do you see that floating among the driftwood?

Pyschobabble of the past, cascading across the rocks.
Waterfalls of our present happening. Put off the laundry,
there’s still time to air it out. Show and tell with your life,
and the people in it.

We are not in kindergarten anymore, and the milk has spoiled.
Prove to yourself she’s just not a figment of your imagination.
Actual phone
calls.
Press this pen harder, prove it can be better, struggling soul
shipwrecked in Arizona, like some country prophet was right
about oceanfront properties.

Worried about the incidents.
We’ve both had them, clinically drug induced psychosis.

It all comes out in the wash, which he has managed to put off.
There was Chinese food at Eastern, two homeless men
Struggling with a brand new heater in the box, which
eventually served it’s purpose, like all things do.

Appliances destined to become
a rather large cigarette lighter
in a apartment complex foyer.

You can sleep on the futon, no I want to sleep with you.
Things happen some pushed some received some left.
That was more than a month ago.

Wreck relationships like I wreck cars.
Never intentionally, and always without
a lot of finesse.

Trs03

LETTER TO JO

Jo: The alarm woke me up this morning and I started off my day
with Dave
Matthews singing "Crazy", how appropriate I thought. How
shockingly sad. As
I'm beaten by our dilemma, and have no really clear solutions at
hand. I
guess I'm mad at myself first and foremost, for not knowing how
the feelings
got turned on or how to turn them off. Then for assuming this
whole time
that you were a free woman, which was majorly incorrect. I don't
know what
to do. I have retreated in my head to a state of self-chosen
depression. I
plan on working, sleeping, and meetings. Until something breaks.
I'm scared
to talk to you for the fear it might hurt. I'm jealous of your f-buddy,
how
he got eight months, when I can't even get a week. Where are the
brakes?
These are the breaks. It's like you are a kept woman, living under
your
in-laws roof, like there is that chance you and your husband might
work it
out for the kids sake. I only become the enemy to them and your
children. As
I'm just by default something that goes against that. I understand
that you
have to have your own life, and I would like to be apart of that, I
am glad
you feel alive with me. I wish I too could feel alive at this moment,
instead I feel torn. Cause there is no real safe bet answer for this.
The
common sense thing would be to stop it, before somebody really
gets hurt,
besides me or you, like your children or others. Crazy just like Dave
sang
this morning. I don't want to ignore you. I don't want to stop
seeing you.
What choice do I have? Reduce it to weekends or even monthly
visits, things
like these escalate and get out of hand so quickly. Because, I
couldn't stop
it or turn it off. I'm so sorry. I'm fucken empty. I'm fucken a coward.
I'm
fucken lost. This should've never happened.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

NOT GETTING

Me not getting my way. Whining.
Popcorn all over the place, popping up everywhere.
Reminding me, we did get our way.
At one time.
So a long four days are ahead.
Where I will do my routine, and you will do
your best to keep the mother-in-law off your back.
I’m glad we talk. I’m glad we like each other.
I wish there was more I could do.
I wish I had a house with three extra-bedrooms.
I’m glad you said living together was tough.
It made me think about it, sensibly.
I’m up and at ‘em, I need to catch up on sleep.
Or soon sleep with catch me.
I know I want to provide solutions.
Even if it is a man thing.
Me not getting my way. Whining.
I’ve never been in a relationship of this sort.
Usually it’s contact and cohabitation.
Then it’s crisis counseling and separation.
Followed by still worse grief and pain.
You have all these other elements in your life.
I don’t want to be more important than them.
I want to leave your eating alone.
I want to leave your program alone.
It becomes hard when you care about someone.
I know it will work out.
You know this because you’ve lived longer.
You know this cause you have a faith that is stronger.
Me I’m just accustomed to whining, cause I’m not getting my way.
This is a good lesson in patience.
I’ll never be able to look back and bitch about,
cause every instant was worth the wait, that came before that.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless


Patience Less

Black as molasses, sweet as the time it takes.
Feeling the blunt end of your temptation hammer.
Beating every so softly, words like road flares into my frame of mind,
missing every caution sign from here to Mount Vernon.
George Washington told lies and chopped down cherry trees.
Yet, that doesn’t change the fact, you’ll never be
something attracted to me. You feel it in the cards of a stacked deck.
Slight of phrase, trick of hands, they way conversations are shuffled.
When will we learn? So the story goes ashes to ashes and dust to
dust.
Me and all my urges tainting the present.

If it was just physical, would it be this mental.
Nothing is ever not emotional.
Always entangled in the spiritual. Praying to cease desire.

These are the ties we bind. These are the ends left loose.
Never knowing how to take the measures necessary, always
jumping to cliffhanger conclusions that will justify the fall.
Ever so breaking the hearts, minds, wills.

Knock the socks off, put the seat belt on, watch the fireworks form,
with a pop, fizzle, and drizzle of what if’s.
Vocalized thoughts of what tongues could do when not speaking.
Somehow the silence proves eternal, cause every time the mouth is
opened,
the words never come out like their supposed to.
Think it has something to do with ego.

You say this. I do that. Bait and Bite. Hook the line, sink the boy.
Fish out what reality is left in this escapade of a dance.
Two steps to thirteen, does not matter.
Do what we do, cause we don’t have anything better to do.
Or is there something there? Who’s kidding who?
Should be the question at the end of every interaction.

Starfucked at Solomon Island.
Glimpses of stomach, flashes of piercings.
Change the setting like we change channels.
Never know who will remind us we are just mere mortals.
God like in our heads, sentient in our surroundings passing.
If  I was just something different. If I did know you, like you say I
don’t.
That indeed is probably the root of all our troubles.
Better shut my mouth, before I end up on the restricted calls list.

Exit trs03 Hopeless

ONE OUT OF A BAKER'S DOZEN

YOU ARE NOTHING
I COULD EVER FATHOM
BEING WITH
YOU ARE SEVERAL ZERO'S
BEYOND MY CHECK
NOT EVEN ANYWHERE CLOSE
TO MY INCOME BRACKET
YOU ARE SMILES AND GLARES
AND HUNDRED DOLLAR BAD HAIR DAYS
I IMAGINE, AND DO I QUITE OFTEN
LIKE A GUY LIKE ME WOULD
STAND A CHANCE WITH A GAL LIKE YOU
YOU ARE THE WORDS
THAT MADE THE IKEA CHECKLIST, MORE THAN
WANTS AND NEEDS
YOU ARE THE SENTIMENT AND SECLUSION
ALL NEATLY WRAPPED IN THE TISSUE PAPER
COLORED DELUSION, SEE THROUGH ALMOST TRANSPARENT
CHECKED OFF AS AN IMPOSSIBLE PROBABILITY
YOU ARE THE COFFEEE STAINS AND NOSTALGIC THEMES
OF LIFE BEYOND THE DREAMS, AGAIN
BEYOND MY MEANS, YOU ARE
LONG HOURS IN FRONT OF THE BATHROOM MIRROR
LONG WAITS OUTSIDE, WITH THE ENDLESS QUESTIONS
ARE YOU READY TO GO?
I SUPPOSE MAKING A LIST OF THE NEGATIVES
MIGHT DAMPER THE DESIRE
FOR THE UNOBTAINABLE
PICTURE PRETTY POLLYANNA'S
IN SHOPPING FRENZIED ESCALADES
YOU ARE THAT ETHEREAL GIRL
SO FATAL SO FEMME
CHANGING LIPSTICK LIKE LOVE CHANGES COLOR
IF RED WAS RAGE,
AND CUPID LAID TO WASTE
TO ALL POWER IN WILL.
DO YOU KNOW?
THEN WHAT WOULD WE DO?
PLASTERED PROMISES IN THE SHEET ROCK OF YOUR SOUL,
SO QUICK TO CRUMBLE.

TRS03

PERHAPS


The ultimate in the maybe, in the face of it all.
The thought of walking away and don’t look back,
before we do something will both regret.
Why does it have to hurt so quick? Why does it have to be like this?
The excess luggage of our past crucifies the present.
If he wrote standing up then so shall I.
Spitting letters like rounds into the hearts of those around.
Maybe I have scared myself off. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat.
Knee deep in the pheromones, rushing off my lips the promise
of something better, something great, something I probably can’t
deliver.
I was doomed to be the guy who was too good to be true, a step
up
from the guy who got away and came back.
Until the kids called and her purse rung, until the braces were
tightened.
Until the brakes had to be applied to our interaction.
The Freezer Queen and Kettle cooked, stewing in their own juices.
Panicked calls upon departure. Did I scare you off?
Are we seeing too much of each other?
Is that something we need to consider?
Why does it have to hurt like this? Why does it have to be so quick?
How do I stand up to all the other things that occurred before me,
and
continue.
Knowing I’m not the end all and be all that I thought I was.
Just a pitter patter, giggles, and cramped jaws from priceless smiles.
Trying to dress up the beast with two backs knowing it will be
something
magnificent.
When she’ll never be able to spend the night.
When she’ll never get past the rings in his lips,
the hooks in his heart. The tangible given  to prudence.
Who do you trust at where are the lines drawn, this not even
a week later. Considering what God did in seven days.
Words like complicate and extreme, never compliment
they only feign in comparison to the stuff going on inside.
The shouting echoes of your either in or out. Your either pregnant
or not.
Your either an alcoholic or not. Once you’re a pickle,
you’ll never be a cucumber, again. Ever.
The follow through will provide the results we either
fear most, or dreamed off. Sleepless.
Did who scare who off? Is it past the point of avoiding pain?
Can we come out of this unscathed? Are we not on the same page?
Examine now what finite differences there are
between infatuation lust and love.
Microscopic interventions in tiny disappointments.
The ultimate in the maybe, in the face of it all.
The ultimate maybe can be above and beyond me.

What does the word slow really mean?  Are caution signs designed
for those blindsided by the gigantic and overwhelming L-O-V-E.
And if I’m not eating and I’m not sleeping doesn’t that make the
feeling
more genuine.
And if your backing off mentally walking out the door towards your
car,
should we
look back no more? Only to plunge forward, helpless in the crossfire.
This I have thought wrote and spit on both feet, pretending the
typer is a
piano,
doing weak imitations of Tori Amos. Four o’clock is not soon enough,
nor late enough. The hours have dwindled into minutes of anxiety.
I shouldn’t have spilled all that stuff on you, now there is not a mop
big
enough
to soak up this mess of feelings, a puddle on the floor of our world.
The spigot is broken on this faucet. I hope you don’t drown.
For the very same reason I can’t be your fuck buddy, I’ll never be
your
love.
You hold back like you have common sense, I interpret this as
rejection,
nothing but me and my harmless company.
Soon seething in the backgrounds, wallpapers of doubt falling down.
This same sinister feeling that maybe if we just got it out of our
system.
Expressions like faces and the menageries we have sculpted in
being too
forward
or backward for that matter. Now if I call and back out will it hurt
you?
Who am I kidding I’m not that important.
Not a candle to the ones that came before me, and will be after.

THIS IS ME ALL INK AND SCARS.
THIS IS ME PLAYING THE AIR GUITAR WITH THE BROOM.
THIS IS ME AND THE THINGS YOU DO TO ME.
THIS IS ME DYING TO FALL IN YOUR ARMS.
THIS IS ME FOR WHICH YOU MIGHT NOT BE HAPPY.
THIS IS ME ON THE BACK OF A TRASH TRUCK.
THIS IS ME AT FIVE OUT OF SEVEN MEETINGS.
THIS IS ME AND MY BROKEN DOWN WHEELS.
THIS IS ME AND MY COMIC BOOKS AND SIMPSONS.
THIS IS ME AND MY PROFOUND WORDS LOSING WISDOM.
THIS IS ME AND MY UTTER INABILITY TO MAKE DECISIONS.
THIS IS ME CIGARETTES AND COFFE.
THIS IS ME INDEPENDENT MOVIES AND
DECLARATIONS OF THE POWER OF THE TONGUE.
THIS IS ME ALL BATTERED, BRUISED, SOILED, AND STAINED.
THIS IS ME NOT FOR YOU, SO MY MIND WOULD HAVE ME BELIEVE.
THIS IS ME TEN YEARS TOO LATE BEATING KARMA WITH GRACE,
SCATTERED LESSONS FROM THE SCRIBBLE SCHOOL.
THIS IS ME PLEDGING ALLEGIANCE TO FAITH, QUICKLY BECOMING
THE HERETIC OF THE HOPELESSLY ROMANTIC.

THIS IS ME TAKE ME NOW OR FOREVER LEAVE ME. PERHAPS.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

PORTRAIT SELF

THIS IS WHAT I AM.
THIS IS WHAT I'VE BECOME.
THIS IS WHERE IT WILL ALL,
END AND BEGIN AND START OVER.
WITH THE PASSING OF THE HOUR.
LIVING IN MOMENTS NOW PAST AND PRESENT.
LEFT WITH LITTLE EXCUSE AND HOURS OF ME.
I FIND MYSELF DAILY ON MY KNEES
BEGGING WHOEVER IS UP AND ABOVE AND BEYOND
FOR SOME KIND OF EXPLANATION.
SOMETHING TO MAKE SENSE OF:
THE STATE OF THE CUBICLE.
THE DISTANCE BETWEEN HERE AND OHIO.
THE ROLES WILL NOW PLAY
EXTENDING THE LIFE OF WHAT WAS.
I WANT TO GET TO THAT POINT
WHERE THE HOT CHIC CALLS
AND I SAY: “ME AND THE DOG ARE WATCHING THE GAME”.
I DON'T HAVE A DOG BUT TWO CATS
AND I CAN'T WATCH FOOTBALL, UNLESS
MY TEAM IS WINNING. THE PHONE ISN’T EVEN RINGING.
HOW I HAVE HMO PROBLEMS. TRYING TO DOUBLE BILL ME.
RECURRING VIRUS’S AND TERMINAL ONES.
THAT WANTON LOOK OF THE STRAY DOG,
THE ONLY DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND HIM
IS I'M JUST A LITTLE MORE WELL KEPT.
WITH A SPLASH OF COLOGNE AND SHOWER.
ALL THE ANGER AND DISPLACEMENT.
ALL THE ALIENATION AND MISTRUST.
LOOKING FOR SOMETHING TO TAKE ME IN.
MEETING HOPPING LIKE THEY WERE BARS
ONLY THING THAT’S MISSING IS THE DRINK.
NOT LIKE THAT DID MUCH GOOD ANYWAYS.
FOR ME MAYBE HER.
SO I'M LEARNING TO LIVE WITH MY OWN SKIN
AND FINDING IT DOESN’T FIT, A FEW SIZES
TOO SMALL, SUFFOCATING
WITHIN THE CONFINES OF MYSELF
ALWAYS FIGHTING THE WAY OUT
OF A WET PAPER BAG, PUNCHING AT THE SEAMS.
SEEING THE SHADOW FOR WHAT IT REALLY IS.
MYSELF IN THE MIRROR DARK.
TRS03


PRINTER VERSION FRIENDLY ME

I’m looking for the printer friendly version of me
I’m led by my small head into some big defeats, no Waterloo’s
but tell that to her. Calling to tell me she was checking into detox
and I was an asshole for not picking up the phone.
Nobody likes being demoted to “just friends”.
You never see that till hindsight, and don’t feel it
till it’s too late.

While the parents landed on Tuesday and plan on vacating Sunday.
My vacation lasted from Friday before that to Tuesday night 9:05.
I have been to Ford’s theater the Smithsonian, which one
I can’t remember, and ate out like there was no tomorrow.
Which is nice. Denny’s. Shoney’s. The whole old people chow circuit.
Fuddrucker’s. Captain White’s. All the while my Dad harping me
about
how their finally getting a Starbuck’s in Tulsa.
As if that might be some incentive to visit them more often.
While talks no longer center around, what are we supposed to do
with you,
but what are you going to do with us. As time takes it’s toll on
everyone.

I’m looking for the printer friendly version of me, the one with the
latest
upgrades
that allows me not to cuss up a storm and leave Double-A
meetings, because
A)        I hate being interrupted B) I hate being looked down on  and
C) Half those fucks just don’t know what they are talking about.
Issues.  Like Magazines. Disposable.
Maybe there’s a little more to it than that I can only think and spew
as my fingers and lips and thoughts no longer coordinate,
on what exactly is real recalled memory and actual experience.
These lasting lesson scars from the previous love affair.
What you saw and what they saw.

The idea of floating globes of soap and luxuriant oversized gas
guzzling
Off- road vehicles, dominating those left coast highways is vainly
poetic,
and yet the only thing missing from that surrealistic recall
is some bloody road kill, like an obscure varmint known only as
Pepe LePhew,
and marketed by Warner Brothers. How he chased love of a
different species,
thinking it was his.
A symbol of America’s love for everything, hunted down, strung and
quartered.

Alas as always even if the friendly printed version of me, never
seems quite
there
I am with you like Ginsberg was with Solomon, and Henry with June.
Maybe not howling anymore, just short sharp quick east coast
shrieks.

The burp of hello in the Diner of Tomorrow.

Exit trs03 spincycle

PULL YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS

PULL YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS, GIVE THE CATS A BATH
CLEAN UP THE CUBICLE, NO LONGER TWO.
IT'S ALL ABOUT BEING SOLO.
PULL YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS, PITY THE BOWL
FOR THOSE WHO'VE LEARNED. DISCARD,
THE HOMOCIDE PLAN FOR YOUR HMO.
PULL YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS, TURN ON THE SHOWER.
REMEMBER IT'S ONLY SATURDAY, AND THE WEEKENDS
NOT A COMPLETE WASTE. AFTER ALL, YOU CRIED
AT THE TITANIC, LAUGHED AT FRIENDS, AND CURSED NBC
FOR SHOWING WEST WING RERUNS.
PULL YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS. YOU'VE GOT XMAS COMING UP.
YOUR NOT BROKE, AND IT JUST TAKES A SQUIRT OF STARTING FLUID
TO GET THE JETTA UP AND RUNNING.
DAMNING THIS WEATHER LIKE SNOW WAS SOMETHING
UNEXPECTED.
EAST COAST BLUES, LIKE LEFT COAST CLUES
WHERE WHO WILL BE ON WHAT MARKED CALENDAR DAYS.
PULL YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS, SURE THE  IDEAS OF UDL'S
(UNDISCLOSED LOCATIONS) SOUND INVITING.
LIKE NEW ORLEANS AND EVERYTHING BEFORE IT.
PULL YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS, YOU MAY NEVER BE
IN HER INCOME BRACKET, NOR HERS, IT'S THE EFFORT THAT
COUNTS.
IGNORE THE NEWFOUND INTEREST IN BLACK OVERAGE LIBRARIANS.
IGNORE THE SILLY PSYCHOBITCHES WHO TOY WITH YOUR LIBIDO,
PURPOSELY. IGNORE
THE ROLLERCOASTER.
EVEN WHEN IT'S GOING UP OR COMING DOWN.
IT'S THE RIDE THAT MATTERS, NOT THE EFFECT.
ONE HELL OF. SOMETHING.
PULL YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS QUIT EXAMING
ALL THE PATHETIC DIFFERENCES BETWEEN YOU AND THEM.
BECAUSE YOU'LL BE BACK THERE'S NO PLACE LEFT, FOR YOU TO FIT.
SO PULL YOU HEAD OUT OF YOU ASS, PUT YOUR TEETH BACK IN,
KEEP YOUR CHIN UP, AND DON'T LET THEM BREAK
THE BROKE IN BROKEN.

TRS02

STILL

Still got snow on the ground.
Still got clean underwear in the drawer.

Still got all the promise of tomorrow.
Still got the regret of yesterday,
the swinging doors both ways.
Still got a chance at reconciliation.
Still got a pocketful of resolutions.

Still got money in the bank and a check coming.

Still got all the fucken still life
of black and white photo's
stuck together, in gothic remorse.

Still got less at the end of hope.

Still got a chance to break even,  although
I haven't been gambling.
Never was one. Except when it came to love and bunk dope.

Still see some as idiots and others as genius.

He was tempted by MENSA,  and
is that a terrible predicament to be in.
While my dictionary broke trying to keep up
with his vocabulary.

Still got a stack of books, with accompanying digital pictures
that I might be able to turn into cash, oh great and wide open,
E*bay.

Still got some bridges to be burnt.
Still got the list of yets.
Crossed off, and double-checked.

Accuracy has never been my forte.

Still got a chance at a non-denominational Christmas,
with Everclear, The Exies, and Seether.
It's all up to Sparkle and the will call window.

Still got a career with the City of Fairfax,
even though I've been pulling
some Houdini like disappearing acts.
Justified by weather conditions and faltering backs.

Still got a friend in an ex, who's ending a relationship
as we speak. James Bond theme parties withstanding.
Flaming Ohio, and Columbus's Gay District.

Still got the felines, Hopeless and Shimmy,
and the litter box, and catnip, and whisker lickin's treats.

Still got the eight-hundred and four dollars in rent, twenty
something
in electric, and twenty something in Ma Bell.
A hundred and thirty in car insurance, and that's just liability,
All of these things are monthly.

Still got choices on Xmas presents.
Playstation 2, Xbox, Computer.
Certainly, not a Glock.

Still got a phone card  with a hundred and something minutes.
Still got the same old damn curse with words and paper and letters.
Instead of writing my way out of situations, now
I'm writing myself in, and onto the next

Still caffeine driven, and nicotine drained.

Countless moments of pathetic, behind the wheels
of typewriter, steering creation with one hand,
in a new direction. Look at me Mom. I'm doing it.
Then the front wheels go whack, and face kisses the cement.
All for the glory of solo flight.

trs03

WHENEVER WHEREVER HOWEVER
EXIT TRS04 HOPELESS

SPIN SEX DOCTOR

She had sex with one of the Spin Doctors
Even now that sounds ridiculous.
It didn’t at the time. It was a confession.
There were no strings binding, and Ocean Beach
calling.
She had sex with one of the Spin Doctors.
Which one I’ll never know, and even at the time
they might’ve had a pocketful of kryptonite,
but I had a pocketful of nothing.
How I got so lucky is beyond me.
Do I miss the streets, or do they miss me?
The longest walks I take now are to the dumpster and mailbox.
The rains feel the same no matter where you’re at.
In you head, or bed.
She had sex with one of the Spin Doctors.
Even now that seems absurd. Do they know how lucky they were?
To them it was probably just another backstage quickie.
I know how they think, I’m a guy to begin with.
Does that dude in the band Elephant,
that you met in line at the Post Office
in somewhere L.A.
remember you like I do?
She had sex with one of the Spin Doctors.
Was that your first brush with fame, and my first taste of jealousy?
If we could all make our own stars on the boulevard.
I’d still spit on mine, and polish yours.

Exit TRS03 Hopeless

STAY

I stay because six six two thousand and six will be the date on my
sixth
anniversary.
Six Six Six. Get it. Satan’s so camp.
I stay because some people would like to see me drunk, however
you could never get them to admit it. They’d be inhuman to not
think that
way.
I certainly do. Hate and appearances kept up never mix.
I stay because nothing else is left.
I stay to see who’s fucking who, and why I’m not.
I stay out of habit, I forgot there were other things to do
between seven and ten, prime time.
I stay because one hour out of twenty-four is nothing to sacrifice,
for what I’ve been given in return.
I stay to take inventories and have mine taken, it’s so refreshing.
I stay because I haven’t found one bad reason to attend.
But, I’ve found all sorts of irrationally good reasons not to attend.
You’d have to be one of us to comprehend a statement like that.
I stay because you gotta go to all thirty to get the one good one.
Skip once and you never know what your gonna miss.
The magic, Sky Boss buzz, spiritual experience in a can.
I stay because sometimes the meetings before or after, are
indescribably
better,
and wouldn’t happen without the meeting between.
I stay because I need to be there the next time some vile smart ass
punk
like myself walks in the door and feels like he don’t belong.
The basic principles of the blank blank program, it appears
hold good for individuals with many different lifestyles.
I stay here because I’ve earned my seat and no one can take it
from me,
besides me.
I stay here cause this is the best way to faith, with the least
amount of
requirements
for understanding. Proof is in the pudding. Whatever that means.
I stay because my alternatives are described with the likes of such
adjectives
as doomed and crushed or to live a on a spiritual basis, are not
easy terms
to face.
I stay because my ego thrives and dies in each surrendering fifty-
five
minute experience.
The other five given to nicotine at half-time or pointless chip giving.
I stay because it defies all common sense and goes against
everything everybody ever thought about me
in my first three hundred and sixty-five.
I stay because I like looking at tits and ass, which
if someone said that at this certain meeting, I would really be
floored
with their rigorous honesty. However, I’m silent cause I’m practicing,
patience, tolerance, and what’s that other thing?
Oh, yeah! Restraint of tongue, can’t keep the pen on a leash.
I stay because I like being the guy still here, instead of the one
coming
and going.
I stay because my pride will simply not let any of these other pricks
below
me,
get more time.

Trs03

NO ONE CAN EVER SAY

So no one ever can say I don't know what it's like.
Homeless lady up one floor, gets a buck.
All of her worldly belongings in front of her.
Trying to figure out the crosswords,
trying to figure out the world.
No one could ever say, I didn't what it was like
to be me, to be in those shoes.

So no one can ever say I haven't been there,
with knots in my veins and bands on my wrists,
and a probation officer, who's definitely pissed.
Cause I refuse to report.

So no one can ever think, we're not alike,
or I'm above that.
Seventeen million seconds from my last
What? Fix. Drink. Kiss. Fuck. Lie. Theft.

It is now on the escalator all things appear to me
as they really are, and now I can approach
whoever it is that's brought me this far. Remove it all. Now.

But, it doesn't work like that.

Kids behind me in line at Starbucks,
why do I feel like I'm about to be pick pocketed.

Some twenty pages from finishing women, and even
Chinaski hasn't figured them out. No one ever will.

Like the woman on the second floor of the mall, who grumbles
a thank you and I beg God to bless her,
and think is this at all possible for under a dollar.
Who am I kidding.

As I cross the threshold towards the stairs
to go down a floor. There's another,
slightly more mentally disturbed. And I cannot save them all,
I don't even think God can at this point.

Me constantly watching over my back in the coffee shop,
thinking these delinquents are getting over on me,
and walking off with my change, or metro pass, or cd player,
or worse yet my Journal and Bukowksi novel.

No one can ever say I didn’t try. Not this time.

Exit Trs01 Hopeless

RUNNING ON ALL CYLINDERS

How am I supposed to be?
The build up come down and leave.
Time is limited and fractions of feelings,
left uninhibited begin to fester.
Challenge now your apologies and judgment of right and wrong.
Nothing in life is fair from this point out, cause if it was I’d have a toe
tag
in a body bag, at the morgue.
How am I supposed to be? When you do such things?
It’s getting harder and harder to be a gentleman.
It’s getting harder and harder, that part I’ll leave unmentioned.
You ask what, and you know, your not that naive.

Do you ask what just to hear it from my mouth?
Do you ask what to know it’s for real?
Do you ask what to confirm your power?

Presence. Presents. Wildflowers and ultimate plans and secret
colognes.
Thank you for teaching me patience the hard way.
Thank you for making me believe good things come to those who
wait.

I have achieved some sort of immunity, to think clearer
when you’re on the other end of the line, three cities away.
Not when you’re present, then I’m simply lost inside erratic heart
beatings,
acute cases of hyperventilation, and predicted frustration. Almost
perfected.
mental exercises of restraint. Do the right thing, has become the
mantra
that is being beaten into redundancy, as we test each other’s limits.
I have thought up some diversion tactics, only be in public,
never at this apartment, not till the time is right.
It is me that can get out of hand; it is you, who has the safety net
of time
on your side.

This is the one I can’t read to you now, the title should’ve been
for my eyes only. Your mother-in-law says watch out for guys like
him,
it should be the other way around. Nobody here on my end to give
me a little
warning,
and if they did I would simply ignore them. Nature of the beast
within.

This in a week he has went without his regular partner on the trash
truck,
not missed a single day of work, was late once, and dealt with
identity
theft
and the true nature of some of the fellowship. Vain and predatory
they are.

When my trusted friend Eric said I was running on all cylinders, he
had no
clue.
That the engine was about to overheat or throw a piston.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

SINISTER I

Blackbird Cylinder
Double-barreled
Sinister I
Meeting innocent U

Leftover crème counter stained
Speechless direction
of umbilical desire.

Fan out snuff
extinguish cigarette
peel off patch.

Send dark glare to bright stare.

If there was
way for me
to talk to U.

Exposure to ever present
pissed off yesterday
pissed on tomorrow.
Light switches hit
flickers of honesty
disguised as clarity.
Chained heart to reaction.
String puppets Masters.
Pulled off, Great Con
tricked yourself
into caution wet floor
mess, thought, speech.

Follow through.
None of us really do.

The I has been taking notes
instructing the libido
to quit stretching
the spiritual leash
to it's fullest length.

Half measures. Sufficient
and suggestive.
In some venues of stress.

Love doesn't exist
in the I's income bracket.
Lust only thrives
on one side
of the street, mine.

High Maintenance Babes
suffering from severe low self-esteems,
and anorexic bowl hugging tendencies.

Sure that's worth paying
the high cost of a low living.
Cause I'll never be able to
get up kids my hands
all over them.

trs02

PORTRAIT SELF

THIS IS WHAT I AM.
THIS IS WHAT I'VE BECOME.
THIS IS WHERE IT WILL ALL,
END AND BEGIN AND START OVER.
WITH THE PASSING OF THE HOUR.
LIVING IN MOMENTS NOW PAST AND PRESENT.
LEFT WITH LITTLE EXCUSE AND HOURS OF ME.
I FIND MYSELF DAILY ON MY KNEES
BEGGING WHOEVER IS UP AND ABOVE AND BEYOND
FOR SOME KIND OF EXPLANATION.
SOMETHING TO MAKE SENSE OF:
THE STATE OF THE CUBICLE.
THE DISTANCE BETWEEN HERE AND OHIO.
THE ROLES WILL NOW PLAY
EXTENDING THE LIFE OF WHAT WAS.
I WANT TO GET TO THAT POINT
WHERE THE HOT CHIC CALLS
AND I SAY: “ME AND THE DOG ARE WATCHING THE GAME”.
I DON'T HAVE A DOG BUT TWO CATS
AND I CAN'T WATCH FOOTBALL, UNLESS
MY TEAM IS WINNING. THE PHONE ISN’T EVEN RINGING.
HOW I HAVE HMO PROBLEMS. TRYING TO DOUBLE BILL ME.
RECURRING VIRUS’S AND TERMINAL ONES.
THAT WANTON LOOK OF THE STRAY DOG,
THE ONLY DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND HIM
IS I'M JUST A LITTLE MORE WELL KEPT.
WITH A SPLASH OF COLOGNE AND SHOWER.
ALL THE ANGER AND DISPLACEMENT.
ALL THE ALIENATION AND MISTRUST.
LOOKING FOR SOMETHING TO TAKE ME IN.
MEETING HOPPING LIKE THEY WERE BARS
ONLY THING THAT’S MISSING IS THE DRINK.
NOT LIKE THAT DID MUCH GOOD ANYWAYS.
FOR ME MAYBE HER.
SO I'M LEARNING TO LIVE WITH MY OWN SKIN
AND FINDING IT DOESN’T FIT, A FEW SIZES
TOO SMALL, SUFFOCATING
WITHIN THE CONFINES OF MYSELF
ALWAYS FIGHTING THE WAY OUT
OF A WET PAPER BAG, PUNCHING AT THE SEAMS.
SEEING THE SHADOW FOR WHAT IT REALLY IS.
MYSELF IN THE MIRROR DARK.
TRS03

NOT GETTING

Me not getting my way. Whining.
Popcorn all over the place, popping up everywhere.
Reminding me, we did get our way.
At one time.
So a long four days are ahead.
Where I will do my routine, and you will do
your best to keep the mother-in-law off your back.
I’m glad we talk. I’m glad we like each other.
I wish there was more I could do.
I wish I had a house with three extra-bedrooms.
I’m glad you said living together was tough.
It made me think about it, sensibly.
I’m up and at ‘em, I need to catch up on sleep.
Or soon sleep with catch me.
I know I want to provide solutions.
Even if it is a man thing.
Me not getting my way. Whining.
I’ve never been in a relationship of this sort.
Usually it’s contact and cohabitation.
Then it’s crisis counseling and separation.
Followed by still worse grief and pain.
You have all these other elements in your life.
I don’t want to be more important than them.
I want to leave your eating alone.
I want to leave your program alone.
It becomes hard when you care about someone.
I know it will work out.
You know this because you’ve lived longer.
You know this cause you have a faith that is stronger.
Me I’m just accustomed to whining, cause I’m not getting my way.
This is a good lesson in patience.
I’ll never be able to look back and bitch about,
cause every instant was worth the wait, that came before that.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless


ONE OUT OF A BAKER'S DOZEN

YOU ARE NOTHING
I COULD EVER FATHOM
BEING WITH
YOU ARE SEVERAL ZERO'S
BEYOND MY CHECK
NOT EVEN ANYWHERE CLOSE
TO MY INCOME BRACKET
YOU ARE SMILES AND GLARES
AND HUNDRED DOLLAR BAD HAIR DAYS
I IMAGINE, AND DO I QUITE OFTEN
LIKE A GUY LIKE ME WOULD
STAND A CHANCE WITH A GAL LIKE YOU
YOU ARE THE WORDS
THAT MADE THE IKEA CHECKLIST, MORE THAN
WANTS AND NEEDS
YOU ARE THE SENTIMENT AND SECLUSION
ALL NEATLY WRAPPED IN THE TISSUE PAPER
COLORED DELUSION, SEE THROUGH ALMOST TRANSPARENT
CHECKED OFF AS AN IMPOSSIBLE PROBABILITY
YOU ARE THE COFFEEE STAINS AND NOSTALGIC THEMES
OF LIFE BEYOND THE DREAMS, AGAIN
BEYOND MY MEANS, YOU ARE
LONG HOURS IN FRONT OF THE BATHROOM MIRROR
LONG WAITS OUTSIDE, WITH THE ENDLESS QUESTIONS
ARE YOU READY TO GO?
I SUPPOSE MAKING A LIST OF THE NEGATIVES
MIGHT DAMPER THE DESIRE
FOR THE UNOBTAINABLE
PICTURE PRETTY POLLYANNA'S
IN SHOPPING FRENZIED ESCALADES
YOU ARE THAT ETHEREAL GIRL
SO FATAL SO FEMME
CHANGING LIPSTICK LIKE LOVE CHANGES COLOR
IF RED WAS RAGE,
AND CUPID LAID TO WASTE
TO ALL POWER IN WILL.
DO YOU KNOW?
THEN WHAT WOULD WE DO?
PLASTERED PROMISES IN THE SHEET ROCK OF YOUR SOUL,
SO QUICK TO CRUMBLE.

TRS03

WHENEVER WHEREVER HOWEVER
EXIT TRS04 HOPELESS

MORTALITY

Felt my own mortality today,
Decades in the making.
Second glances at everbright suns.
How many times have I thought that?
That God was a mass of incandescent gas.
Second chances at breathing, something
some people take for granted.

Like the crowd needs the hometown heroes
and the star needs to burn before it shoots.
Felt my own mortality today.

Three years and standing, coffee stains
on the wife-beater.
Memories of twenty-nine day decisions.
To smoke or not. We ain’t talking about cigarettes.
Rainy day Telegraph Volkswagen front end kisses.
Crossing streets to catch buses.
Was that a sign from the nuclear furnace above?
To go ahead and continue as you were,
as you always have.

Felt my own mortality today.
Cryptic feelings lacking forms of expression.
Nothing you can really put your tongue, nor finger on.

Just tears at movie previews, ekg patches,
26th birthday’s, opiate blocks, emergency rooms,
and fourteenth street libraries. South of the Castro,
north of Nowhere.

Felt my own mortality today.
Something lingering in the back of my head,
about all the times I should’ve, stayed dead.

Getting good at the apologies, now if he can just
get to the point, where he won’t have to make
so many. For living. Existing. Taking up your visual space.
Tantrums of ten-year olds. Two decades ago.

Where is the palindrome?
Where is the non sequitur?
Where is the oxymoron?

All these figures of speech.
All these dogs roaming,
without a leash.

Felt my own mortality today.
During the halftime, in the half-way point
of a half-measured attempt.
Half the man I’ll never be.

Trs03

NEVER WAS

Never was a girl that sounded like pavement,
nor felt like pumpkins. Till I met you.
Never was a girl that would go anywhere but here,
and we were always there.
Lost and lonely.

Confused and bewildered by the things we stuck inside ourselves.
It definitely wasn’t sugar and spice and all things nice.

Betrayed by things we loved inside ourselves.
Betrayed by the lust we hid and locked onto
into black dark night, a velvet comic book
with a missing page.

Bring on the stale American night
I’ve built up the courage again to ask one to do something,
and again I have this feeling they won’t be where there supposed
to be
where I have seen them before.

Never was any other options. Choices how they delude.
Never was that feeling running this strong, so many years later.
How we change when we’re not around.

Continuing the not ever. Hand over the title
to the pity pot porcelain throne, there are people
who need to vomit.

Never was a sober me. White collar, clean drawers.
Side effects of being indoors.

Bring on the problems renamed situations,
sticking forks through solutions.
Sheer mental fornication.

Never was this imperious urge to spit verbal venom in utter disgust.
At the damsel in distress, taking this meeting hostage.
If you could’ve witnessed the so-called well, soon to be sick hands
reaching out, both genders. What happens outside over coffee?

Never was as much incredible B.S.
Which is the total sum of me inside my head,
without a flashlight, and adult supervision.
Going on my own information.

Never was a chance in a million years, that
she, he, or they
would ever consider going out
with a guy of my caliber. For me it would’ve been
better than hitting the lottery for two bucks on a dollar scratcher.
Breaking a little more than even.

Betrayed by my ego stuck in low self-esteem.
This condition though common is perplexing.

Never was a tough guy, but I could take a good ass whipping.

Never was a hero, but I’ve played one in the shooting galleries out
West.
We were playing with bottle rockets not pistols.

Never had a girl who hadn’t approached me first,
I was never very good at the start, nor the ends.

Never saw myself as spiritual. Funny what seven years of despair
can do.
Me and my tree, twenty-seven inches tall.
Waiting for the sprinklers and full on,
tearing apart the insides of Volkswagens and Gideon’s Bibles.
Scripture.

Looking for answers in a forest of inquiry.
Where in the shadows dark gives life to doubt, and light plays tricks
slight of the wrist with wrong and right.

Never been this long without some good down time on the asphalt.
Maybe that’s what I’m missing a good curb check,
better for the gutter prince to reign in dirt, than shine in heaven.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

WHENEVER WHEREVER HOWEVER
EXIT TRS04 HOPELESS
Y GRATITUDE LIST

grateful, I'm not in the penitentiary
where by all rights I belong.

grateful, I have a full-time job.
even if it is a tough mother fucker
three out of the five in the week, days.

grateful, I no longer wage war
with my ex-girlfriend. even if
I am lonely, twelve out of the twenty-four
hours in the day.

grateful, I have a roof over my head
even though it's more than I can afford
and my downstairs neighbor's neurotic
and noise sensitive, may this typewriter
drive her to an early death.

grateful I'm a member of alcoholics anonymous.
in good standing but not out standing in my field.
that's the best thing about it, if you didn't pick up today
your just as good as the bleeding deacon
who hasn't for twenty years.

grateful, I have two cats
and the ex hasn't decided to start
a custody battle. they keep me company
the other twelve hours, of the day.

grateful , I have  a sponsor
even if he isn't most accessible, at present.
Life happens to everyone, me included.
he specializes in calamity, I don't think
he'd be sober without it. try and tell him,
different.

grateful for my five senses still intact.
smell, touch, sight, hearing, and speaking.
Though the last one I could do without at times,
It would probably keep me out of mess or two.
there is a reason why they say silence is golden.

grateful I have a diesel Volkswagen Jetta.
even though something goes wrong with it weekly,
and it's trying to nickel and dime me to death,
and get me drunk. reminds me of the black cloud
that followed me as a teen, which I always thought
was my lifestyle choices, now I've narrowed it down
to being vehicles.

grateful for the counting crows, for they have moved me
through experience, gave me markers
to which I could measure, my life.

grateful for my boys
at Wellington,  hilltop, Groveton,  bellehaven,
and Woodlawn.
Pre-release Dave, aggro Kevin, Brett, Tim, john v, jimmy f,
Eric and mark,  ever in charge
of the wingnut steering committee.
country club Rick,  traditions tyrant Charlie,
mean jean blow me pal, Winston, len,
super-mac  drew, Casanova josh, Wayne f,
when he's in Florida., and of course
that smart ass from the sticks. Weldon h.. Since 1966.

grateful for the gals
at Wellington, hilltop, Groveton, bellehaven,
and Woodlawn.
grandma Diane,  Sharon bubbilicious, dcm colleen,
that melodrama queen Connie, waiting on her Emmy,
jenny f., west wing Ellen, Pearl, Jan, Geri,
squeaky Susan, surely Shirley, drinkypoo golden.
the bird geek Kelly.

long live Marty and Kent in our shares.
circling the tables and chairs I set up.
for that position I'm ever eternally grateful for.
better than Monday night football,
better bring your popcorn, cause it's like the movies.
sometimes.

grateful you can get kicked out of clubhouses,
but not aa as a whole, grateful
the only requirement is a desire to stop drinking.
not wash your mouth out with a bar of soap,
nor nurture your inner child, or place your issues
on a pedestal.

grateful, I'll never have to apologize.
for being late, cause arriving at all
is a small miracle in itself, and better than the consequences
that could present themselves, if you stop attending.

grateful I can read and have a big book, because
if I had to depend on  half the shit
I hear in these rooms, I'd probably drink again.

grateful I have insurance and two types of leave,
sick and annual, which about sums up my mental state,
retirement even though the statement says
four hundred and sixty-five dollars a month
at sixty-five. still plotting the diabolical end
of my primary care provider and hmo.

grateful for my not blood east coast family.
my ex's mother, that angel of the forest in Manassas,
her ex-uncle that uncle Abraham smith, Phil
and his learn for living and what about sex.
Vietnamese wife and ninety-six years of living at 209 pine.

grateful for the mom and pop, who continue
to come through, after all
that I have put them through.. Jerry & Bonnie,
and my younger brothers, Marc, Chad, and Kurt.

GRATEFUL FOR THE STEPPING STONES CLUB,
MAY IT REST IN PEACE AT SALLY'S CITADEL.
BELLEFONTE AND MT. VERNON. MISSING THE 2417.
WITHOUT THEM I COULDN'T HAVE MADE IT HERE.
RED FACED CY,  Captain DICK with a capitol d, DIET COKE BILL,
Pernell the preacher, bbg, that’s big book george for those of you
who don’t
know, Michael, SARAH, ALLAN AND HIS HIGH PRICE OF LOW LIVING,
FORTY YEARS
STRONG AND STILL RUNNING.
All the hens in connie’s chicken coop, michelle, Karen, eve.
Tom and Judy my adopted recovery parents, who would’ve ever
thought, I’d be
friends with the likes of such?
No I didn’t forget that a-hole perma-smile Larry.
It’s just inhuman to be so happy. I never considered
He might be a sober alien. Christine who bartended in spite of it all,
and
Showed me how the program worked in shooting down My
advances one after
another
then there’s my sister from another planet Susan.
forever a black woman trapped in a white woman's body.
grateful for thee blockbuster, video vault and Simpson's.
marvel comics and rock concerts.
There is not better way to work out some resentments,
Than in a bad religion mosh pit.
the countless hours of  mindless entertainment,
that kept a somewhat
almost there mind from wandering. occupied
between the trash and meetings and Virginia lodge.

grateful for the boys entering anarchistic states
towards internal excellence. will see them yet.
the sound in science, the jimmy in James, passing the mic.
That’s the beastie boys, incase you didn’t know.

GRATEFUL THAT GRATITUDE IS MORE THAN AN ATTITUDE
IT’S AN ACTION. If you are, than show it.
Was what I was told. If you grateful you have a job
Work hard. If your grateful to be in aa, show up.
If your grateful you have a family do something for them.
If your grateful your sober help another, and if your not
Still do it cause I bet ten bucks you get grateful
real quick. This list could go on ad infinitum..

Grateful for my partner on the back of the trash truck,
May god bless oscar Carmichael for being so tolerant
Of such an ass like me..
he always says “you don’t need to be a weatherman
to tell which way the wind blows.”

Grateful for my short time with john umbarger
Who now roams in heaven, spreading the common sense, which I
so often
missed. his official job title should’ve been “Ambassador of goodwill
for
the city of Fairfax”
Not parts department supervisor.

Men like them helped me through my first year.

It is the morning of my third, I thought what a better way
To start it off, than with finishing this sixth month in the making
gratitude list. since yesterday outside of antietam
While showing mom and pop yet another battlefield,
The operative word being field, I went ballistic when
I bottomed the car out on some concrete and
Gave it yet another signature noise to taunt me into insanity.
Me and my car toothache, I swear that cars
Still trying to get me drunk.

It’s hard to believe one thousand and ninety-five days ago
I was getting off a greyhound bus at union station,
With a three day reprieve and plans of nyc
or new Orleans. Whichever freight train came first.
Those three days have now turned into three years.
Like I always share sometimes with profanity,
sometimes without.
It’s like I’m dreaming and I’m going to wake up
and be strung out on Haight street still.,
or in a eight by four cell at Santa Rita
on my way to Quentin.

But I am awake, and this isn’t a dream.
My character defects surface and painfully
But gently remind me of that.
Is that a Oxymoron or what?

I can only argue my faith which is proof in the pudding,
That meeting makers make it, and that god, grace,
And the sky boss have made it possible.
that         My whole time in sobriety is not just accidental,
But an oxymoron.

a figure of speech in which
Apparently contradictory terms
Appear in conjunction with each other.
Me breathing without the drink and substances.
That’s ultimately the truth, and I’m sticking to it.

Exit trso3 spin cycle

MICE WITHOUT WHEELS

She was bedraggled, beaten, and tore up from the inside out. She
bobbed up
and down the boardwalk, through the crowds. Bouncing from
passerby to
passerby. Watching from a distance you could almost swear she
was some
dirtied clown. The Potter’s rotgut vodka did it, with no hesitance, nor
mercy. It had consumed a whole life for under two bucks a half pint.
It
wasn’t that hard to come up with two hundred cents, if you were
combing the
beach, squatting the Sunset, working the boulevard, or ruling the
row. How
long she had been in this condition, no one could guess. At what
point had
her will given way and the alcohol taken over?

We used to see her, not strut, but shuffle the boardwalk. Always
that
sinister friendly smile, and unkempt hair, in various states of
disarray and
length. Wild-eyed. Her name might have been Joyce. Crazy for sure.
I called
her wild-eyed crazy Mary. Not a bag of belongings, or purse, or
identification. We used to watch her hustle change, that same sick
slick
glide from person to person. A confidence that said she was going
to
eventually get what she wanted. A half pint. Nothing more and
nothing less.
Maybe the guy at the Davey Jones liquor locker made his buck off
her demise,
or when she got her check, we all assumed she got one.

We weren’t too caught in our turmoil, to ignore the madness that
revolved
around us. I once saw her hit by a car crossing Ocean Avenue
trying to get
to the liquor store, saw her later that afternoon panhandling in a
mint
green hospital gown.

Didn’t take her long to catch up with the routine, it wasn’t her first
ambulance ride, and somehow I knew it wouldn’t be her last. She
had an
undeniable persistence that glimmered in spite of it all. Besides the
fact
it was killing her it drove her, and that I admired with a content
sadness.

Others like me and myself in such a condition; our only true friends
were
hypodermic syringes. Funny how the disease identifies and isolates
other
comrades in arms. If there was an inch of human being left in me, it
was the
day I gave her all my pennies, and wished her a quick demise.
Which she
wouldn’t get. None of us would. That’s just the nature of the
monkey. He
raped that fucken pink Energizer Bunny and beat your brains with
the cymbals
of self-destruction. Urging you on and on, flicking angels by the
wayside
with as much strength as it took to rationalize the next “it”.
Whatever it
was, for Joyce it was Potter’s, for me it was Methamphetamine. One
of us
made it out alive, and although, I’m still breathing, I’m not quite sure
it’s me. She’s dead.

EXIT TRS?? SPIN CYCLE
(Thirteenth of mother’s days may 19??)

STORYTELLER TATTLE

It was all good until then.
The moment you had her in bed.
Then it weaned it always does.
Conquered and begotten.
We keep from smothering, that which isn't around.
There was a great poem halfway done.
It crawled away the minute the monitor froze.
It went something like this:
If you’re lucky and fortunate
to stick around long enough
you will live to feel this pain again.
There we're pictures of pancakes at IHOP
and butter balls on top
and the best years of our existence lying ahead.
Now it is mediocre movies about serial novels.
Weekend fucks between meetings and movies and curfews.
For Christ sake's she's forty-five. Grounded. Children.
Responsibilities.
While one goes to court for concealed weapon next week
the other was caught red handed at the Best Buy the week before.
Sunday morning awaiting the anticipation, amongst
the ruffled leaves of dirty laundry, and filthy carpets.
Remnants of yesterdays exchange stuck between my teeth.
Nothing a little mouthwash won't cure. Adhesive remover for the
thoughts.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

THICK AS

So here we are, some eight years later
and I can taste it, like it happened within the last hour, the last
supper.
The euphoric recall that hollows the throat, that empties the gut,
stirs the
regret
thick as molasses, whatever that means.
Funny how I don’t remember, one specific drink, brand, or flavor of
alcohol;
Like I relive, re-taste and re-experience, that one shot of speed.
That one building, that one walk-in closet, that one particular walk.
From Happy Donuts in Castro to the squat in lower Haight.
The order of events and circumstance, that surrounded it.
Besieged my soul and soaked me with the hedonistic poison,
thick as peanut butter, or whatever that means.
The fireworks. The fourth of what? The sheer amount.
The predilection to shadows and the people that hid in them.
With the drinking it was one big blur, or ended up that way.
The high points were the irreversible and unforgettable actions,
things that stuck like chewed gum under a table,
to the inside of your conscience or what was left of it.
Still it’s two years short of a decade.
It was the Crown Royal of Methamphetamine, even the same color,
amber
Not only am I distanced by time, but coasts away when it surfaces.
Living a totally different life, with teeth and wheels,
and the key to a roof over my head.
I’m coming or going, from my gainfully employed position
on the back of a city truck.
When it enters my head a sick sweet tart version of
a feeling much like love, but not quite, accompanied by
a giddy deep dark fear and that feeling of knowing you’ve been
there.
Three or eight years ago seems to make little difference to the
beast,
thick as syrup, whatever that means, and I’m riding along
looking at all the other humans in passing, carrying on as they do,
and I
am.
Wondering if the fellow next to me is thinking about
shots of Methamphetamine, thick as Aunt Jemima.
And I know what that means. A few breaths short of a cough.
Heading to or coming from another hourly reprieve, knowing
at gut level, this is how my mind practices to deceive.

Maybe that is what differentiates me.
Maybe that is what sets me apart.
Maybe that’s what makes me a distinct entity.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

TIME FADES TIME

Don’t fade on me now, if this was the end of
the special time; If the years twisted and turned
like licorice, and left us with toothaches and sugar-coated hearts.
Like life happens, and all that we had was meaning.
Nothing as important as two plus two equals four.
Just an understanding, cleansing the insecurities and fears
that sprung and rooted themselves deep within our beings.
Essential.

Don’t fade on me now. Don’t you dare think of stopping.
Don’t deny me your words, for all the ones I’ve given you.
We have been evangelical in our descent, we have denied the
stigmatism,
we have accomplished so much, and fell so short of the good
intentions.
Worthy of Nobel peace prizes and Pulitzers.
Our repertoire is one they only dream of in their
humongous Hollywood budget pre-production, post-script sessions.
Leaving something literate stained to the casting couch.

Maybe there is someone, and they don’t approve.
I’ve been in those shoes, but selfish I, forgets you
and what you have to go through.
Not even being there. But damn it, don’t you fade on me now.

Have I asked too much? That sounds so U2ish;
Have I not given enough?
Are there boundaries and have I crossed them?
Do the words fail me evermore, like everything else around me
Infallibly human. Given to the letting you down syndrome.

These claims are all and desperate.
These letters become chains, broken and then bound.
If not ink than blood. What you wrote, what I thought.
What I wrote, what you thought.

Never an enigma, always a riddle.

EXIT TRS03 HOPELESS

UNNECESSARY

I know there is more to them than that.
The things they do when they are stuck in desire.
The five-letter word, that starts with lies
and ends with truth. Explosions in his mind,
deposits on her lip. Bloodied.

I know that there is a fire, they both feed the flames.
It isn’t always passion it’s mostly aggravation.
Oxygen pretending to be chemistry, it happens when you breathe.
When you’ve been alone for so long, anything makes sense.

I know there is more to them than that and this.
Inches from restraining orders and 911 calls. I taped the left
message,
so one day later, I can play it over.

For his listening pleasure. The words out of his mouth, that went
like this: If you get up fucken please call me back, um,
I might be here; I might not, fucken, you we’re right I should’ve
listened
to you,
fucken, heh! She wouldn’t let me leave(screaming in the
background of
female:
your such a fucken liar!) You here what’s going on? I tried to get
out of
the bedroom,
she wouldn’t let me leave and she got a fucken bloody lip
from me pushing her away, so now she called the cops and said
I fucken punched her in the face, so, heh! I’ll probably be in jail,
Take it easy, now you know where I’ll be. 8:26 a.m. Sunday.

Myself recalling the phone calls, the giggling and giddiness,
of somewhere Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Where he had found
true love in an Amusement park of the soul. I should’ve told him to
remind yourself with a pinch, this is possibly dreaming,
soon it will all wear off, and you’ll never get it back.

As it has renamed itself a daytime nightmare.  All the good stuff,
gone.
The laughing and giving and sharing fussing and play fighting,
and comfort factor. Knowing you no longer need to wonder,
what was around the block, corner, or your next phone service
weekend
encounter.
This has become the penultimate weakened encounter.

Knowing each other is within a cellular shouts reach isn’t enough,
never will be. Right now they are smothered in that self-induced
sick jealous and insecure desire. They will never be enough for each
other.

I don’t think it's bad that they feed the fire. But what do I know.
I just want to be there when the dust settles
and the charges are dropped.
As they go days on and day off. The hate comes back, and the love
fights
back.

Hope you got some rest when you returned home, you needed it,
after those insomniac nights with multiple personalities
pretending to be your wife.

Hope you do the next right thing,
when it comes to appeasing the thing you put the ring on.

Hope you eat cause it'll do you some good. It may seem like an
eternity,
but I know in my head it'll seem like seconds of just yesterday.

I should’ve told you I would listen to you whine about her leaving,
or it
ending,
rather than hearing again how it’s gone to hell. My first and only
attempt
at being a marriage counselor.

Now as I have flipped burgers and rolled dogs
spending time with my satellite family, while I’ve searched far wide
the vast internet highways of pop-up billboards and fly by night dot
coms.
For the word annulment and psychiatric help.

I know there is more to you guys than this but it’s all I hear about.
From one end of a broken phone, breaking up on some stretch of
Route Four
in southern Maryland.

Sure I’ll watch the kid, but I won’t be comfortable around the
mother.

Maybe it’s the other way around, and it’s not you preying on a
single young
mother
of an adorable two-year old, but  her the thin sexy devious instant
family
waiting to happen looking for a meal ticket and way out from the
Christian
insanity
of rural Pennsylvania.

Cutting on her self. Cutting on your nerves.
Cutting on each other’s hearts. As it felt so good once,
and fell apart so quick.

Usually there is a good ninety-day run before the arguments begin.

I can only imagine how lonely those nights must’ve been in Calvert
County.
I can only imagine how far and between moments of fellowship,
were hours
from.
I can only consider that the phone dating wore thin, and the
vacation
that almost never happened, drove your mind to points unknown.

Then we switch the mirror look at the person staring back.
What does he have to say for himself?

Now looking at my side of the street, how I encouraged it. Became
your
anti-sponsor.
The other guy you would rather talk to about bringing this girl out
here.
Telling me you had purchased the ring, but waiting until after the
deed
to tell me you actually went through with it. Miracle marriage
certificates
framed without a single tear yet.  The definitions of tears.
How I let the warning signs slide. So glad to hear about something
else
besides the other mother of your two kids.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

WHERE ARE YOU GOING WITH THAT PHONE IN YOUR HAND

We knock around these ideas in our head.
We play Scrabble with the things that were said.
Phrases to leave guesses in the not so neon night,
where all might be alright if the phone rings just once,
and the electronic rattlesnake again strikes.

We are pasted with indifference while acting like adolescents
having such a finite mid-life crisis, if I was to die tonight
everything would be just right, if the carousel of cartwheels
was prompted by the affirmation you weren’t forgotten.
A number never called, I lost mine can I have yours?

So in me there is things some will never see, it was like you had X-
ray
glasses.
Made transparent the disguise, pulled up a seat and mimicked the
child.
Rolling the balls of croquet down the hills of encounter, mind if I
have a
seat?
Till the twilight comes screaming, and the enchanted are broken.

Taste now the curiosity, define the word impression.
Tables of existence, plateaus of reason.
If everyone in the world was ready for my words.
Maybe then we wouldn’t need a second helping,
nor revelations.

The comfort factor in awkward.
The beauty in being retarded, if I stuttered
she’d laugh. Singing “Bye June” while looking for the moon.
Where we’re all going eventually. Full as the stomach leaving the
picnic,
chasing the pool party. Eventuality. Parting is like a tease of things
to
come.

If there were a thousand dawns, I waited through each and every
last dusk.
For this eventual moment. Explain to me this time the everything
happens for
a reason.
Leave the exclamation at the forearm where it belongs and burns,
with the means and ends of letters and sentences, that will perhaps
give meaning to some of this. Riddled with this. Heart’s in butterfly
panics.

Eyes as radiant as innocence barking to come out and play.
Hair as luxurious as sleep and the safe passages we find in
unconsciousness.
Adjectives and compliments to add to the refrain.

Like I said, how many times till I can call you?

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

WORKING WITH MY HANDS

Worked with my hands today, not like I don’t use them everyday
slinging trash cans and spanking monkeys. It was more like
using my fingers and wrists to manipulate terra firma, and soil the
plants.
Something a farmer would do. At one point I thought to myself,
I’m actually charging them to do this, the work was so rewarding.
My mind wanted to tell some ridiculous lie about how I used to
grow killer
buds.
The only thing I ever did was stole and sold them. Truth be told.
Today I know restraint of tongue, but not pen, plus there was no
one around.
Worked with my hands today, in the light drizzle that was getting
heavier,
In the rain which hasn’t stopped for weeks, this far into June.
Recalling what some Navy officer said last night about fear being
the most prevalent symptom among folks like us, alcoholics.
Not that I’m any expert on that subject, my biggest fear was that
I would become like them, and this shit would work. I think it is.
Unfounded and faithless, a new set of dilemmas festering
in the vast uncharted realms of my conscience.
Spreading the compost dirt atop the floor of the garden, careful
to not bury the vegetation which had already sprouted.
I felt something I wasn’t quite familiar with, and I wasn’t quite sure
what
to call it,
I mean I definitely wasn’t in the midst of a selfless act, which are
very
rare,
few and far in-between. It had however removed my mind from the
fermenting
process
which boiled unrealized fears to a head. Ones which started with:
“Why did I get denied the opportunity to open a bank account at
the City’s
Bank?”
“Why do I have to call this Chex Systems company, can’t you tell
me?”
The years of bad credit from hospital encounters I can barely
remember,
but so frequently brag about at meetings. When somebody at work
mentions the word garnish and how the State of Virginia does,
I’m off and running. My mind wandering to the stacks of envelopes
my parents had collected, and I disposed of without even opening.
Knowing what they were.
Worked with my hands today, trying to get a little side hustle on
so I can make money to go to this weekends Comic Book
Convention.
Trying to work off a debt so I can get refinanced.
Somebody told me once you gotta owe money to make money.
Maybe that was some of my old running partners,
who kept fronting me buds out west.
Worked with my hands today, it’s about the only thing I can do with
a
over fifty-percent chance of success,  every time my thinking or
speaking
get a part, I inevitably fuck it up.
Renewing my vows to stop eating out.  Stay off the E*Bay.
Bono echoing in the abyss of my mind, what you don’t have, you
don’t need
now.
What about love? How does that involve my hands?


There we run into the typical stumbling block.
There we are not prepared for it, when it does come.
There we don’t even know what it is.
There we are not even sure of ourselves.

Yet, we go blindly led by the loins
into the next predicament, which might validate our self-worth
in the universe and to those of us around us.

Worked with my hands today, playing the old psychological faith
tape.
It didn’t bring you this far to drop you. Which essentially has been
true
for something like the last one thousand and ninety-five days and a
week.

It’s easier to beat the law then it is the creditor.

Still there are all these other things going on that don’t even
involve my
hands.

Cussing out whole rooms full of people and telling them to suck my
cock
and pray to god.
Swearing off certain meetings and making amends a week later.

Anniversary’s, Parent’s, Barbecue’s, and Car repairs. Did I mention
the
rental?

The ninety-seven year old Timex named Phil at 209 Pine
who wants to read the Delirium. Mother of ex-girlfriend
who wants to take me out to dinner this weekend.

The seventeen year old kid who lives off the Parkway and is
presumably,
back out there having thrown away his continuous year, and never
calling.

Out there, if there is such a place. Like Love, if there is such a thing.
Prevalent if there is such a thing. That’s what my hands have been
doing.
Prevailing where all else has failed.

Trs03


X AMOUNT

Feel the pain x amount of miles away
two thousand eight hundred and twenty-four
reasons: I can't; you won't; it wouldn't
do us, a damn bit of good.

Eleven simple lines that say nothing,
but give it all away. While my words
realize they have no real power.
To alter the course of things, nor to heal.

Trains running heavy as freight
down the ghost tracks to your soul,
a yard full of hearts pierced by the icicles of
only god knows why. We tried to love again.
We found ourselves betrayed as we began.

This along with the echo of the Killing Joke.
Two crazy men breaking out of a sanitarium.
Running from rooftop to rooftop. One jump is far to long.
One offers to shine the flashlight across
so the other can walk across the beam,
he responds, “Are you crazy you would turn it off
when I was halfway across!”

This becomes a metaphor for are relationships.
How they strive but never attain, what it is
we can only maintain.

Still I felt the pain all that day.
Knew it like I knew the back of the hand
or the break of dawn.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

XV REASONS I L-I-K-E YOU

In prose form of course, wouldn’t write it any other way.
Where to begin, there are so many and so little rhyme.
Will start with the smile and move down to the now absent toe ring,
the red hair and freckles, and hope in spite of it all.
Your sheer positive attitude despite what horrors you have been
through.
The way you say with confidence I’ll get used to you, and pick
through the
clues
hoping to put a finger on the ultimate plan unraveling in my head.
The curiosity and courageous spirit must count as one or two of the
reasons
I L-I-K-E you.
In actions not words, proven in entanglements of the passionate
kind.
How Zeppelin almost mysteriously or coincidentally
comes on every time your in the car.
The loving mother and liberated woman you are.
Your failure to let the kids get the best of you, understanding
and perseverance become your natural traits,
you are a testament to love and tolerance.
Your sense of humor and how I can make you laugh.
Your favorite four letter words STOP and QUIT.
When my tongue’s wrapped around and idea so tight.
Two is not enough we must have three.
Your acceptance of me and who I am. Ornery.
This might be more than fifteen, or a little less
but the pressure has been on to write you something.
So I woke up this morning and spit this out over eggs, waffles, and
coffee.
Dying to L-I-K-E you when I wake up.
Settling now for your sultry comforting psychedelic voice.
Maybe I should change it to psychotropic.
The way you let me breath, and the things you see.

Exit TRSEXIT

Love is a State

Leave now while we still can, lets not wait till it all gets out of hand
-Hoodoos Gurus

Love is the state where we put bull’s-eyes on our necks,
then perform cartwheels trying to pull the arrows out of our souls.
That  Cupid by no mistake has delivered there, with such precision
it isn’t funny it’s confusion.

Love is the state, in which things happen so fast,
you don’t have time to plan out how things will best
work out. Nor slit your wrist, find a noose, or seal the garage
airtight.

Love is the state, in which two people are perpetually pulled in
opposite
directions,
while making such a commotion in the candle lit sheet twisted and
wrapped
bedroom nights defying neon and all it’s stillness blinking.

Love is the state in which woman gives of her self the most, and
knows it
all.
Not telling. Put the heart on a yo-yo string, to toss it out
     and reel it back in again.

The Gods of Indecision have made this their business and they’re
doing quite
well.

All the while two lovers quarrel silently inside themselves.
Losing themselves to tapered sentences with hidden ultimatums.
Always the redundant question: Are you mad with me?
Bedtime stories featuring Bukowski.

Love is the state in which man endures the most, and knows only
little.
How one can say the word love, yet not believe in the word us.
All its ramifications and understanding, far beyond mere mortal
comprehension.

Love is the state in which all things are possible but everything is
expendable.
The length of time between the words all and nothing.
The infractions of the deeper definition of the term, friends with
privileges.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

GODSIGNS

If there were signs from God there could be none clearer.

As one interaction ends in an email,
another starts in never so beautiful confusion.
What had been prior to, and only dreamed of,
then rationalized as impossibly out of his league, and this world.
Comes bursting forth in what are you doings, and we better think of
something
before we do something stupid.

Her who had feelings years back, tangled up with something else.
As well with him, both were. So far from anywhere near.

If there were signs from God there could be none clearer.

Returning objects instructed to be thrown away, you’re a trash man
that shouldn’t be hard. Something along those lines, or this one.
I never want to see you again. I don’t have time for this. Etcetera.
Etcetera.
Knowing she didn’t mean it, he so kept the stuff and neatly tied it up
in discount store bag. Then it was mutually agreed
to be placed in the back seat of an unlocked car on the way home
from work.

If there were signs from God there could be none clearer.

Acoustic and ever so long, the deed was done, taking the right
hand turn on
Westover,
he noticed two little girls on roller blades, right before the park at
Shady
Lane,
where they had fooled around once. In the ends it wasn’t about
anything
other than sex.

One of the girls held up a piece of construction paper with the
word: SLOW
printed on it.

If this was not a sign from God, about everything he was going
through
he certainly then couldn’t guess what the criteria for one would be.
Albeit they meant for the cars flying through that neighborhood,
obviously.
He was one of them at any time, in that brief email executed
interaction.

If there were signs from God there could be none clearer.

He did slow down. However he didn’t know if
he’d be able to apply it to the situation at hand, forming lines
in their time and space. Making existence everything and nothing.
Being in it right now, it’s not as easy as slamming your foot on the
brake
pedal.

Affairs of the heart never are, especially when you are one of them,
and don’t stand a chance. Again a prelude to another poem,
Not yet written but waiting in the wings.

It is through his life he has looked for these signs.
It is through the placement of misplaced pennies that he stumbles
upon.
It is through the belief the forty five seconds on his knees, both
morning
and night.
It is through the way the words materialize themselves, clusters of
literary
fireworks
raining on the high school marching bands in his head, sounding off
as these thoughts of her, spark these
stabs in the dark at greatness, never relinquished only stuck on
pause.
In the interim that is called living.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

EGO HEIGHTS

At the height of Ego, he was full of
all sorts of Bullshit. Witty quotes
He had memorized, stolen lines from dead poets.
Stuff he thought made him wise.

At the height of Ego, he was good at
giving advice, but not taking it.
Even the mind rationalizes all the lies.
Walking away from this girl, cause
he had that one.

Now he was neither.

At the height of Ego, everywhere he went
there he was. His best and worst enemy.
All rolled into one.

At the height of ego, he dazzled
young ladies alike, who would later
Burn his work in abandoned basements.
So much for hope. Perfected nonsense.

At the height of Ego, his attitude
made holes in the ozone, nobody
Could tell him anything different.
He was wrong, so convinced he was right.

The quality of being stubborn.
Many a men have died by it.

TrsexiT

EMOTIONALLY BEAT

She won, beat the boy into a state of reasonableness.
She won, walked off with all the power and left him with sad songs.
Those are always the best moments. That’s how you know it’s real.
He’ll have cigarettes, coffee, and Corgan.
He’ll have reservations and lurking notions abundant.
They’ll still have Thanksgiving in spite of it.
Changing the course of action, not the goal.
Looking up audacity in the dictionary.
Find out who you are. Find out where you are. Find out why you are.
Leave him blank. Bared the ink. Bared the paint.
These words will be left unread. These lines will go unsaid.
She is what she is, and he would never want to change, nor
contain it.
He’s always been best a waiting. He did it for an eternity on a street
called Telegraph.
For something that never came back.
When you’ve experienced pain to that degree, everything else
seems to ridicule the idea of something worse.
So now they try something different, or rest on their laurels.
Considering what’s left of the choices.
Tell her to get out and take her taunt and torment,
it is so refined, and not her fault.
Tell him to shut up grin and bear it.
Be a man and go about your business.
If only we really operated that way.
It is the eccentricities that kill us in the end.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

I am/ You Are

I am a double standard, saying this doing that.
Loathing gay men, loving lesbians.

You are empty, filling the spaces in my head.

Thoughts of celibacy, chastity doesn't stand a chance.
Wrinkled Playboy under mattress, one more
good jerk-off.

I am a paradox walking in circles, a pair of Docs.

You are infatuation missing its climax, just a prolonged
series of what ifs.

Stacks of letters with words, no one's ever heard.

I am an arrest waiting to happen, still in custody.
You are an address and zip code.

We are so far from everything
They want us to be, ourselves included.

I am a seven-digit number, cases.
You are a cell phone out of range.

An envelope unopened, and a heart attack
every time we cross paths.

I am wishful thinking personified.

You are: Sylvia Plath, Anais Nin, and Lydia Lunch
all rolled into one: Laura Scaramastra.

We are the gray between the black and white.
That no one understands.

I am asking myself:
"Why am I writing this?"
You are asking yourself:
"Why am I reading this?"

TrsexiT’97

IF IT WERE NOT FOR HOW

The latest installment to explain:

How my poetic license has been revoked.
How on rhyme I do choke.
How useless words, need sentence.
How false pride replaces periods.
How doubt cuts me at the throat.
How it was all trash.

What did I tell you?

How without substance I am loathing.
How I go on, dig deep, there must be nothing.
How it’s not that easily spoke, yet regularly and readily
regurgitated.

For tomorrow’s vain glory and your viewing.

How hardened criminals portray victims
of a victimless crime.

How when running, feet become a recurring theme.

How upon screaming the tongue becomes inoperative.
How many times have I had to tell you!

How upon incarceration some men act
more like their wives than themselves.
Domestic and overly effeminate.

How two misfits in an 8X12 cell can strangle each other
with schizophrenia.
How it only took two shots of coffee, to work them into
this kind of frenzy.

How all night long one feeds, the other drains.
How it will be two more weeks, maybe more maybe less.

How old school friends make sense, and X marks the spot.
How Porkchop is whipped by Koko. How I was by Charity.

How my public pretender can bullshit the judge
in his chamber, and out of his shorts.

How I spend my 21 hours a day, 3 of them in a pod.
How I am the epitome of defeat.
How I am fifteen sentences to long, and numerous pleas
too short.

Now how cow brown?

TrsexiT’99
It Is

It is the struggles that exist without glory.

The rewards, which aren’t always, present.
In the anything but, or could be, effervescent.
Diurnal routine.

That which some could define as:
Boring. Just another journal entry,
in a long procession of talentless sots.

It is an exclamation missing.
It is refuse and reclamation.
It is all these things that are around you,
which you often fail to see.

For they don’t need to know,
the Whenever “they” are “there” Syndrome.
Explaining, would be a waste of word.

It is the alarm clock, the bus stop,
the Master Lock combination,
to the money making gainfully employed
frustration.

It is the delusional neighbor who won’t answer the door.

The never ending relentless ability of others,
to fuck with your sanctuary.
Having none of their own.

It is long term pair bonding, working out the kinks
with raised voices, separate but together
futon nights of sleep.

Ever seen the simian in captivity?
How they bark over space, and rope, and knots
And bedding. What they’ve got left.
Subjugated to an unwanted audience, or the
guinea pig of an ongoing experiment.
Call itself salvation or love, or care for your survival,
dragged out of the wild.

It is the hump in the middle of the week, fuck Monday
it is all about Wednesday.

The justified sick call, payday coming, full-time openings.

Fingerprints and background checks.
What possible threat could a trash man be
to the security of the city, much less the nation.
Is this why we are under a state of terror,
because the F.B.I is up to their necks,
in background checks, not able to follow real leads.

It is all these things you need a blind, not to feel.
Seeing the justice for what it is. Insensitive.

It is the city boy denying the country. Fuck the quiet,
I need my seven-eleven convenience.

It is the last train on the yellow line,
tag team conversations.
About what act just raged, at what venue.

The fat fucken bouncer, with far too many
piercing’s and tattoo’s. That looks like he should be
a poster boy, for what you don’t want
to end up looking like. The rest of your life.

It is the wooden floors and uncharted course of love.

Does anybody have a map? Manual? Set of directions?
Anyone?

It is the measurement of time, unyielding,
craving or caring of what was and never will be,
again.

Goldmund returning to the woods,
Narcissus remaining to save his ass.
If there is one thing will all be it’s old.
Ask them who must be giants.

It is the ashtray filled and emptied in the blink of an eye.
All those cancer sticks towards heaven.

All those elements stained upon your presence.

Space, it’s more than just a concept, like gravity
it’s the law.

We will make the 24/7 something to be cherished,
regardless.

It is the Elysian mine fields of love, strewn
With carcasses of ex-something or rathers.
That at one time amounted to significant others.

It is us who ramble aimlessly through this territory,
each with our own personalized luggage,
remnants of the what was.
Making it further than any before.

It is us who repeat the motto’s of punk anthems,
to the sustained idea of cohabitating successfully.

It is the end of the day and the beginning of the week.

The calendar becomes scratches
on the surface of our history.
When the idea has dwindled down to nothing, there is
always something more.
Moving forwards, paying backwards.

She shared about the trap, like I was the mechanism.
Full of triggers unintentionally set off.
I tallied the votes, swearing not to passively aggressively
cosign our demise.

It is the experiment in her laboratory, the subject
she cannot do without. The results.
How they are documented without ink, no graphs,
nor charts. Just notches in phrases in her head.
To recant later. When the A + B + C doesn’t equal D.
Like it did before.

EXIT TRS02


FIVE CENT JUDGMENT

Made a bad judgment call, If I had a nickel
for every one I made, I'd still be in great debt.

Held hostage to the guilt of mistake.
Wishing the gin wasn't so slow.
Wanting forgiveness, like the nickels
I'm short. Every time redemption is on clearance.

Doors slamming, tension mounting, what do I give a fuck?
No. I don't think it was a fucken trap.
Just bad judgment. Pelvic bone grinding, undulating sin. Yielding to
petty
temptation.

Selfish my actions and reasons.
Unforgivable acts. Bad judgment. Stupid reactions.
Severed souls as well as nerves, you couldn't cut the air
around her. In her anger. It is hard as stone.

Me, I stew alone, with my bottle of gin now gone.
Not fast enough our nights have become the days
we wished we had.

To bless the eve and thank the dawn.

Now ourselves, each to their own.
In an anger fueled isolation.

Together but alone, never knew it could feel this cold.

She was no longer, over my shoulder, doing something
as I scribble mad, all the notions or ramblings,
that pretend to justify me.

TrsexiT’97

FROM THE BACK OF WOMEN

So there I was, trying
to rebuild my present, taking
a driver’s skill test.
Some sixteen years, one DWI,
and one suspension, later.

My name was called, not my alias.
It took a second to catch, in my head.

The tester in Day-Glo orange safety vest,
followed me to the car.

I’d been clean and sober, some
four hundred and sixty-three days.
Doing the meetings, keeping
the job, doing
the prayer, keeping
     the vigilance.

He stood outside swaying,
like one of the once famous, now immortal
World Trade Center Towers.
He wasn’t on the hundred and tenth floor.
Something was afoul. He made hand motions,
to test my turn signals.
Checking a piece of paper, erratically.

Not only was I nervous.
It seemed he was falling to pieces,
beads of sweat cascading over
his forehead, starting at
his grease like receding hairline,
finishing at his brow.

He got in, slight smell of alcohol tipped off my nose,
on his mouth, not mine, that was strange
for a change. Not like he shouldn’t be drinking,
he wasn’t driving.

I suppose this job could drive a person to drink,
we all have excuses, in various shapes and sizes.
Me, myself, I didn’t need much.
I could turn an inch into a mile,
in the time it took to consider, yes or no.

I started the vehicle, after instructing him
to put on his seat belt, a hot tip from
an irritating boss, but it wasn’t like I actually wear mine.
Begrudgingly, I put on mine, and have ever since.

This is where it got weird, you know those moments
where the reality images in your eyesight
take on bizarre twists, and the thought process
takes a little longer to commence.
Due to the occurring complications.

He pulls out a small shiny silver flask, it wasn’t enticing
nor did it look as pretty as  hotel bar, or
a bottle of wine, in the exactly right sunlight.
Silver dross burnished. He took a long swallow.
Offering me the same, I passed, “Drive!”
he shouted, commanding me to motion.

Words like intuitive were tainted with temptation.

“Drive!” again. I did as asked.

No directions, no specifics,
he took another swallow.
He began to toss forth unrelated facts.
About his wife, his kids, his job.
Strings of stories I’d heard
in a million different versions,
around certain circles.

We made the block. A red light
became a saving grace.

I do not know where my rational thought
originated from. I drove like I did back in the day,
when being a chicken minus the head was my forte’.
No particular place to go, just don’t
get pulled over.

TrsexiT

EVEN BETTER

This is my time of life, waiting for something
to arrive. That may never come. This fear
I have lost you, and must never love again.

Anything or anyone.

Complicated questions to God, all the things
you should have done.
Like could have and would have.
The have and have nots.

This is the only level I know how to operate at.
I know the gift of desperation,
or where are you going to sleep tonight?
As well as, when will you sleep again?

Babe-a-licious girls you only dream of ever touching.
The word never having some finality.
Reading about the cat's cradle.

Waiting for winters rain, my availability for
the year two grand is questionable, indeed.
In theory: Can you stay out that long?
Counting on fingers.
September, October, November, December.

Dental problem beyond repair.
How it alters the ego, reminds him
he's ugly. Again another if only.

To face weekend warriors, myself
keeping clothes clean, haven't showered since
the end of August. Could do the Veteran's joint,
but it's so god damn close to the police station.
Enough of my concerns.

Having craftily located myself,
at the exact scene of the crime.

Only Boga says: "Mr. Scovill!"
With enthusiasm, that’s the kicker.
Inviting me to coffee, heard he's got
an open account with Bay King Donuts.
Relative of Kingpin. Notorious donut shops,
in the east bay area.
Why doesn't he run my name?

Filling in the blocks. Fucking the blanks.
Wondering what she's gonna think, when
she reads this. Should I mail her
The delirium disk? While I've still got the chance.
Does she think I'm using her.

Has my writing lost it's velocity.
Do I just need to jump out or off.
Doesn't matter. Blah! Scratch!
Re-write script from point zero.

At least with my stuff having a short life span
(unlike myself), I can write it over.
Even better.

TrsexiT’98

END HAPPY
You want Happy Endings?
How about: Me and You and Vegas,
under delusions of Elvis, and instant matrimony.
Just add Polaroid’s. Rhinestone Cowboys,
and all the promise of twenty-four seven.
You want Happy Endings?
How about: More refined and realistic,
Me, you, and a workspace loft in the District.
An espresso machine on the blink.
A red brick through the stereo cause I was listening to Elliot,
at six in the morning.
Paintings hanging from the rafters, like stolen bikes
in the trees of Golden Gate Park.
Once Upon A Time there were Chess tables.
The fruits of our labor.
Now and then.
Now and later.
Now and tomorrow.
You want Happy Endings?
How about: Safe kisses at domesticated residences.
Shining like we do. Jr. High some twenty years after.
You want Happy Endings?
How about: Making brilliant strokes, brushing off
all the regret of the past. Creating for those who can’t.
Make each image mean something, not to them but you.
As each scribble with my fingertips perpetuates the sentence.
Invokes the statement in printed letters missing the apostrophe.
Missing the catastrophe.
You want Happy Endings?
How about: Letting me explain the meaning of the lyrics,
about the trapdoor in the sun and who found one.
This is how I know it is real.
This is why it must run its course.
This is where it will attest to all the nonsense,
that tries so hard to pick it apart.
After all for anyone to know the outcome would be presumptuous,
and assuming the role of god in the universe, even I at times
realize it’s beyond my comprehension.
You want Happy Endings?
I had one this thanksgiving.
Walking you to the door, talking through,
that which taunts us most.
As we strive to try something different.

Exit Trs03 Hopeless

ENOUGH SPACE

Now they walk by, any time of day
even night. Witness my madness.
Without no longer being affected.
I.E. Personally involved.
They keep one's distance, which
is probably for the best.

I can't put enough space between me & myself.
I don't go anywhere. I'm stuck waiting on.
Her or jail. One of the two, as is the case
most of the time.

Having made choices, dreaded alternatives.
After the termination. Hitting knees,
in the false chapels of slave labor Christianity.
Redemption. Christ forgives. All.

Reasons for: Failure to show any signs of growth.
Not participating in religious activities.

Something to that affect.

But as I was saying, you can't miss me
my parent's birthday gift for hitting three oh,
a bright blue ball cap, with a fire engine red capitol C.

A team known for losing, its fans die hard, as I will and do. At times,
and
instants.

Everything after. Births and anniversary's.
Procreators and daughter.

Former soul mates,
so was said, once. The imperative term here
‘was said’.

Once upon a time, when delirium was fine.
At least he sent a card, yeah, I'm taking pictures
and saving minutes. Wingnut in cap.
Awaiting the hate. While joining the bucket bashing nobodies,

In their eternal quest for common rhythm, common ground, through
percussion.
Howls and clangs. Till someone comes along. Johnny law ain't so
bogus.

But ever present, past labels, bring past faces
clearer. Lost my sleeping gear, made the mistake of
Leaving it in People's Park. Gaffled, but double-hooded.

TrsexiT

BOXED

Boxed myself in. It was bound to come to this.
Eventually. 17 MXPX songs. 1 Starbuck’s empty.
Eleven plus minutes, till she’s off.

Left coast, I’m on the right.
Trying to do what is. Twenty months.
Is that, the longest I’ve stayed out?
Of Jail, that is.

And what if..

God’s will is that I go to…

unended thoughts, incomplete sentences.

Things better left, said
not written.

Always me. My whole life.
My shit. My problems.
My dilemma’s.

Not enough sticks to shake at them.

Boxed myself in the decision’s,
based on the fear of
what if?

Talk about a phone weighing a ton.

It brought me this far.
It being something else,
beside myself, and all that
mental luggage, mentioned before.

How do you know it doesn’t want me
there. Again.

Semi-colon.

TrsexiT

CALCULATED SPIRAL

This is the end of the beginning of important.
What it was I complete forgot
As we ramble towards a new understanding
of existence.  I'm either a telegraph or inmate.
Such it would seem. Looking again
at the perpetual rules of Max and Sam.
In a position of neither here nor there.
I am what I am, if I was Popeye the Sailor man.
So says cartoon imprisoned in animation,
A suspended state of being.

TrsexiT

Cycle Spin There

Dead gray thought, dull warehouse
atmosphere. Underlit, and underfed.
Wish I was someone.

White minority, and everyone's got a singing career.
As a rap star, just not in here.

Shaved to the head, skin.
No, I'm not one of them.
No, I'm not a Buddhist monk.
It's just the clippers fucked up,
halfway through this haircut.

Cycle Spin Here
Spin Cycle There
Comic Book Swear

That's what Eddie would look like, if he was        colored. Is that a
racial slur?
Color is opposite black and white,
in our television world.

The Hell's Angels won't have me.
I have a moped, not a Harley.
It can barely do 40.

I claimed the Backward J Gang,
represented by a fucked up tattoo
on my left peck. Should’nt have been using the mirror.

Cycle Spin There
Spin Cycle Here
Comic Books Swear

Maroon bunk bed, bright orange
jumpsuits. Pink Underwear.
Poking fun at complimentary colors.

TrsexiT

DOWN THE HATCH

Man walks into a bar, says:
"I wrote about things I probably shouldn't have."

He is pencil thin, decrepit, and shaking.
As the bar keep comes, begrudgingly, as he
tilts the bottle, then grinning
two-fisted and cursing, he downs his first stiff drink.

Unconsciously waiting to be 86'd.

The inevitable and irreversible, he scribbled.
There is no happy destiny to trudge.
The is only now and yesterday,
kicking the present in the ass.
How we long to look back.

"Does he? Does She?" He asks.
Ordering another stiff one, barkeep not happy.
Knowing where this is going, as it always had,
just a different mug. As always.

Down the hatch, wondering when, he will be
Cut-off.

Curiosity gets the best of the tender, keeping
his tongue shortly. "What did you write about?"

Turns the drink over, lighting the man's cigarette,
before he can ask for another one, drink.

"Things I shouldn't mention."

"Yes, we already know that!"

"Why else would you carve ridicule into forte?”

"What in the hell are you talking about?"

"Nothing I guess, just talking shit."

One long drag of the cigarette,
isn't that always the way it goes.
Building hopes of great conversation into
puddles of mysterious shit.

TrsexiT

27 Inches

This twenty-seven inch television could cure me of
Alcoholics Anonymous, post-incarceration trauma,
my catalog of issues, and my abused inner child.

The downstairs neighbor got tired of
banging on her ceiling, and could
possibly get us evicted.

If, the carpet and padding doesn’t pass
re-inspection, there never was a first.
Hopefully, the situation will be remedied.

The shouting matches finally accomplished something.

The legend of the gauntlet, dreamcracked.
every day life walks on.
The reappearance of despair.

Mutual hand-gripping serenity prayers.

Second floor stalking, she’s on to me.
Sideways. Razor burn. Arlington.
Common Ballston. Still no effects. Affects. FX.

If still is my favorite word, it doesn’t show
in my demeanor.

Dreaded tomorrow while barking Miller to myself.
Shivering parking garages.

Beauty seven stories up and drifting.

While old man, niggardly front
like they have no cash.
Hoarding it for death, that’s when it will
serve them best.

Open auctions for Krustylu Studios,
3 days and counting. Fifty bones riding.

While sex runs the world, and my girl
out of the store, and the world is
Or has become, one long strenuous mental fuck.
Nevermind the mind.

My back making secret pleas, negotiations
with my head to contact the distributors
of Jack Daniel’s or the nearest ABC liquor store.
Whichever would come first.

The written revolution in my head
beckons for something different.
Leave your metaphors and similes at the door.

Reality has its own internal security for that.
Illusion called fantasy called euphoric recall.
Called never again as good as it was before.

Sculpted monster of desire, tell us why in time
your image does perspire?

Pass through the next deception.

This is my random collection of what ifs
and what have you not’s.

This in the box that lies, direct, cable, or local stations.
The assortment of advertising seductions,
the freak shows, games shows, soaps, and sensational news. All in
twenty-seven inches or less.

Trs02

BARBED WIRED SOUL

His was a barbed soul, now as scarred as the flesh.
The vessel that contains it.
Testament to the torment.
Lines of them in both directions.
Some of them thicker than others.
That’s how you measure the bullshit, or the story told to explain
them.

It wasn’t suicide, it was release.
So the coward pleas, prime example of failure.
Every time the blood got a darker red,
his arms soaked with dried spots of coagulated substance.
So vital to human life, not his,
need to lose three pints to exit.

Inside it hurt so bad, and it wasn’t
a physical impairment, just an isolated animal
fevered, at the ways his peers
had treated him.

Yet, he could not clench fist, to hit back.
It solved nothing, far as he saw.
So he got beat, a lot.

He became good at taking beatings.
Both from his ex-wife, and best friend.
Not too mention a few other nameless others.
Choosing to inflict pain upon you,
     as some sort of relief, so he took it.
And when he took it, he knew, all too well.
He would be able to crawl away, find his
     razor blade, and start all over.
Because that was how he dealt, with his anger.
Better to hurt yourself than others.

He retracts himself from the narrative, seeing
how dark his work has become.
What cannot be undone,
like the crook that can’t be straightened.
As the criminal can sometimes convince us,
he’s innocent.
Because society had created the crime,
by making it a law.

Indispensable street hardened attitudes,
malice in poverty.
A respite, despite the end.
Never coming. Nights with stars and fears,
and never enough to go around.

TrsexiT’97

BOTHERED

Does my past haunt me, or I it?

Again, fingerprints and the abbreviation for
the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Again, taunting wireless messages.
Spun me, spindled this, spinach salad?
Something else.
It’s the question mark after salad that bothers me most.

Maybe my reign of right living,
might come to a close.

As full time positions are filled,
with my soul, and so spoiled background.

Is there anything else? Tell me now.
The repeating itself favorite current question,
direct from the mouth of the director of operations.

Yes, can I have a freedom pass to pass go,
collect benefits, and retirement.
Dressing on that spinach.
Hope things are well on the left coast.

TrsexiT

Make Break

This is where we make or break it
This is where you either, sink or swim
Men are made of boys, and women of girls
What were they before then? Nothing but that.
Tears never shed, come, flood gates.

Time does more than mend, it makes you work.
Seek progress like Christian’s pray
for second helpings,
something they’ll never have.

We pound the pavement
We ask of our youth, what happened?
Looking for the E-N-D.

This is where we are segregated by
courage, faith, cowardice, and disbelief.
To our own chosen corners, to come out
digging in to the chink, or swinging
Like it’s the last round. Going Down.

I will wallpaper your doubt,
Inside the remnants of my heart,
Watch, as you peel it off. Saying,
the glue wasn’t strong enough.
It wasn’t gauze or God or pleasure mesh.

I will cut out the tokens, and trinkets,
keep the captured images, make
a life super-sized collage,
of what and where we’ve been.

You will dispel my lies for more of the truth.
None of us can ever handle it, if we could
we wouldn’t be glued to a television set,
stuck on the internet, or plugging our ears with NPR.

Bombarded by:
Everything that’s going on outside of us.
Instead of what’s going on inside of us.

This will leave you with countless questions,
about the cryptic circumstances, concerning
previous statements. I cling to knowing nothing,
but you’ll know me better, as you have
turned and figured, in less than nineteen months
my insides out.

TrsexiT’02


LONG SLEEVED SUMMER

Now these are the mornings, it never quite made sense.
Nothing fit, after another bout with chaos.
Playing with darker cards, refusing
to look at that one book.

Wanking off to your own sick pathetic thoughts.

Can’t hide out here, can’t go there.
Round trip junkets to the Belly of the Beast.
Fagan catching the dodger red-handed at Whole Foods.

True junkies wear long sleeves in the summer.

A shelf full of what I once was, and may not be again.
Changes and opinions adding up to selfish decisions.
Not another soul to blame for this one.

Trips to the market against my will, Lost telling me
things about Satan, he wishes he knew.
The Anti-Scott wasn’t home,
and I again left my friends, to return here.

Now even my thoughts seem censored,
I don’t quite write it, like I normally would.

TrsexiT

MEETINGS IN THE SHITTY

Meetings in Sunset & Pacific Heights.
Rich little cunts whose bottoms were full paid vacations
at Kaiser Hospitals, trembling internally
down the Haight. Enough personal hate to keep me going.
Looking for a glimpse of what's never gonna let go of me.
Dope. Speed. Methamphetamine.
Needles and spoons. Pins would be too easy.
Visits to those hedged chapels,  at night calling bingo.

Having conscious contact slap me in the face.
Having teeth pulled, left and right.
Write ups for actions I didn't do.
I'm not scared, I'll use again, I'm scared
of what I'll become. Don't panic babe.
Shitty meetings in detox, on Clayton.
There used to be a drop in there.
There used to be a piece of me, somewhere.
That was salvageable.

TrsexiT’99

Now I’m Scared

Now I'm scared cause I'm losing that fear,
of what it's like being inside.
Orange as a pumpkin with pink insides.
Looking like the rest of the patch.

Now I've got as they say: "Game".
With or without money on the books.
I've learned Mexican gang signs,
and polished up on my ebonics.

Now I'm scared cause the only clean time I get,
comes with a seven digit number on a wristband,
and a court date. No bail options. I fucked O.R. off,
(Own Recognizance) a long time ago.

I get perks, if you can call them that,
cause I'm in SF not LA.
When I hear these guys gripe, I laugh.
Having done Santa Rita as well.

Now I'm scared cause I identify, with the word
recidivistic, as well as institutionalized.
Though nothing rhymes with words like that
but alcoholic and addict.

Inside, outside, can you say supervised probation.
Inside, outside, how long until I'm a violation.
Inside, outside, it's only a matter of time.

Till I get a CDC
(California Department of Corrections) number,
and the hit the yard of a much bigger house.

I swear they should put a revolving door
on County Jail nine.

What scares me most, is how I look forward to this.
Inmate, convict, coward, it doesn't make a difference.
I still trade my freedom for this Club Med Incarceration.
Liking the no-choice, sober-up factor.

Sober fool wishes he was wise.
"Will I always be Clown Nothing?"

He is a known and convicted drug peddler,
who has failed to register as
A narcotic offender. He has rap sheet
Three pages long and growing.

Starting with marijuana possession,
ending with two counts of sales and distribution, some hype kits in-
between
and countless
open containers and trespassing.

He is on probation, in not just one, but two
counties, and tested dirty his first day out.

Young man wishes he could cry.
"Must I always Fuck Up?"

TrsexiT

One Cent Short of Common Sense

Stumbling over me and onto you, the pennies for sale.

Fuck the government! Fuck it's currency!
Two Feathers shouted, tossing nickels and dimes,
and two pennies off a cliff in Palisades Park.

Surely to their end on the Pacific Coast Highway.
Santa Monica.

Damn worthless, no good for nothing, son of a bitch.
The deputy screamed aggravated
at not being able to pick up one coin,
on the floor outside the holding cell.

Finally kicking the penny out of the room, into court.
Where I would later pick it up.

Hemingway at the racetrack,  with a soon to be
deceased wife, as they always are.
Watching a jockey ground score a penny.
Farewell to her, as well as arms.

Jesus and his parables, render unto Caesar his penny,
and give God what is his.

Penniless, Rollins wrote, after homeless
and before immaculate.

Try asking those Beatles where Penny Lane is?
There beneath the gray smog filled urban sky.
A record store on the Drama-Nod, no longer
worthy of copper it's now zinc.
What would ever so honest Abe think?

The synonym to poor, and adjective,
totally without money.

Christopher Snow sucking on a penny trying so hard,
to fear nothing. Deemed by the whole town.
A bad Penny.

Someone or something undesirable.

Dean to far east of Eden.

Cobain on his high horse sitting and drinking
pennyroyal tea.
Punk is dead, Kurdt killed it for less the 1/100 of a buck,
and an extreme case of shotgun breath.

Causes looking for rebels.

Cheap trick posted up hanging outside
of penny arcades, they don't give a fuck
if you found it heads or tails up.

TRSUNKNOWN

THE ALMOST

I remember living with the dream, she brought me home, gave me
all the
gifts of Proverbs. Except the wisdom. The junkie’s fantasy,
everything but
returned love. She had an ex, he came over in the middle of a coke
binge,
there has just been a miscarriage, it was his.

He began making super-sized railroad tracks of a powered white
lacy lady,
combined they seemed to be the size of Penn Station. She wasn’t
participating in the making of nostrils into Hoover vacuum cleaners.
Stuck
in her little frenzied speed induced painted portrait.

She wasn’t the only one trapped, her roommate was also, in a
spire, in a
closet. Smoking glass. I was hanging in there, spun myself. On
hand-outs,
leftovers, and rinses. The etcetera’s.

He, the ex, included me in the distribution process, allotting me a
pile of
Bolivian marching powder. He was a roadie for Metallica, or so he
said.

He was a big shot, he was something, I never would be. Like
Straight Edge
Eric, and her Psychotic Other Boyfriend, before me. I had nothing to
lose, I
was park trash, fresh from the tree. The one that was haunted by
Ted and
K.C.

There wasn’t an inch of life left in this hollowed heart.

I had my own stash of other stuff, cheap mans cocaine,
methamphetamine. I
mixed up what was left, as he railed himself into oblivion in front of
me.
Sitting on the floor in front of her bed, offering the dream, whatever
she
might need. She sat catatonic, paralyzed, removed but present.

Me at the desk, with all my unglorious apparatus, and pointless
want. No
straw necessary, nor rolled up currency, just the little brown glass
vial,
and a bottle rocket. Dropping in the fresh cotton, with what he had
contributed, and what was mine to begin with. It was thick, forty
units and
growing.

I debated doing it all like I normally would, I could no longer tell if I
could any longer get any more high. My mind said, split it in half. For
some
strange reason. Probably the marching.

I fell out in a wave of coughs, heart stalls, and a overwhelming
tunnel
vision. I stumble to my knees from my chair. Him asking me, how it
was.

That moment all good junkies know, that moment of panic they all
live for,
to die. This time their really high.

Later on my mind told me, in worse straits than ever, I should’ve
done the
whole thing. Made burn holes in jeans, unaccounted for. Empty
bottles of Jim
Beam, streets the dream banished you back to.

The dream was shaken, stirred out of her misery
by an unparalleled fear.

Death real or imagined.
Is like love,
in certain given circumstances.

The Almosts, could have been’s, and near misses.

TrsexiT

PERSONAL HYGIENE

Oh how they pampered, baby’d, and doctored thee.
Each and every one of them, each and every time.
In their own special way. Like trying to groom a troll.
If only they could’ve clipped his fingers, instead of nail,
rendering him the inability to pick up a bottle.
Limited, nothing he would’ve over come.

Peanuts and popcorn in a bathtub, dousing
the mojo in rising.
Even when she got the cash she couldn’t fix the teeth.
There were hurricanes named Andrew to run from.
Charity taught him to brush them in the shower,
before making pleasures in memories four lane
27 car pile-up.
All the while trying to fix something meant to be broken.
From one vehicle to the next, whether he was passenger,
or backseat driver.

How hope left him, passed out.
In the back of a green Buick, while he envisioned fucking stars with
immaculate pristine words.

Grammar leaving etiquette no self-defense.
All on the pretense, they would find a way out.
Virgins in preachers attics, scattered souls
needing a heretic.

Without the destitution. He would be
deprived of something, sometimes
dragging the boy off the playground. Dirtied to the bone.
A few other places you can’t clean. Eternal remnants,
darkened tissues. Forever reminders.

The girl who swung both ways, the fist fucking climax.

Sisters on elementary rooftops, incoherent pieces
of the sick collage. 8mm film slides in the mind.
How they love espresso, but settle for Irish Crème,
and the in between.
Moments you wished you had only been a scene.
That they didn’t feel like a dream, pinching necessary,
reality not included.

Where does all this fit into personal hygiene?
What emotions can be arrested by speed stick,
brushed away like tartar, needing control.
Groomed, manicured, managed, or maintained.

Where are they now? Aforementioned candy stripes
looking after someone, who looks back.
Re-married, or just, joined. Looking a cursed gift
in a rotten mouth. Fish that got off his hook.
Knew the bait was all the false hype, sprinkled with
great phrases. That sometimes rhymed
with his internal devious way of romanticizing the fuck
out of nothing.

How he wanted to be, but not even God
could attend to all his needs. Left him bitter.
Used up and spit out. With not a thing to show for it, but
priors and past wreckage, needing to be cleared.

TrsexiT’99

PERSONALIZING THE I’S

What once was, can be no longer.
Can a writer without substances, be a writer
with substance?

Oxymoron’s excluded. Definitions.

Had enough of the attempts so vain,
binging on caffeine, can’t afford espresso’s.

Want to write compelling short stories, about
heavy petting on amusement park rides.
Neither of us were locals, and we treated each other
like tourists. Before chain-smoking, and thrill fucks.

A stack of sex arcade tokens, and empty jar of Vaseline.
How stark boring the peep show got,
eyes wishing for lids. Hands for rest. Redundancy. Neither and, if, or
but.
Still yet.

TrsexiT

POLISHED

Slowly but surely, it all comes creeping back to me.
In the polishing there is always the dross,
not even the wax of lies can cover up.

They have all just become outlines, waiting
for the detail of memory.
However vague or specific that might be.

To embellish, if not exaggerate, the all that was,
and the will that be.
Like a Zeppelin song or a Pez dispenser,
or a candy beeper.

These are things will really remember, in the passing.
These executions of situations, from one brand
to the next.

This excitement couple with despair, now has become
something one can’t quite bear,
with any air of dignity about themselves.
A chip of self-loathing on their shoulder.

These people who surround me, often bothered
with the nature of my work.
The subject, content, text.
Whatever you wanna call it.

This idea of genius, separate from the artist.
All these fragile elements.
Concrete in the cracks of my persistence.

I can still hear Persimmons, mounted atop a trash can,
in front of some franchise bagel joint, not giving up
on the pennies, or ideal.

Here we find liberation, in both stable and unable.
Here we are given, not only a moment to reflect
but, a chance to refine.

This is what I really intended.
This is what it really amounted to.
Hills of beans in the pastures of our minds.

What we can accomplish, if we don’t break.
Yes, Corgan, I am already broken.

TrsexiT’02

PENNIES ANTI-HUSTLE

Somewhere September, two days till her birth.
Wonder if mother told that kid I had called.
Waiting at Ashby Bart. Hopefully, gonna cop.
Something. One on one in the mission.

Shooting all my difficulties,
into        a comatose existence.
Top rollie's and $12.50, or around there.
The rumor of the seven bone balloon.
What a useful planner.

Fresh out of sewing floss, fresh out of
Friday's,  penny anti-hustle.
Clean clothes don't make spare change.

Forever recuperation and inventory taking
at Bing Wong's laundromant.
Washing pissed on Levi's and sorting out
remants of one's life.
How many objects of value,
can you store in a Jansport backpack?

Unsmoked buds, still faded on the schwag blunt.
Chicago and new pics,
still some crusty's hold up the fence.

Reappearance of Medusa, ignoring Wit's End.
Not having ten bones.
Will not push, will move if it becomes necessary.

Should write Sense, feeling blown off.
So many kids hopping out, I should be one of them.

I'm stuck on disabled painters, or sidewalk attendants.
Dead presidents, short of success, maybe you could be
a paid writer. Hah! Ass-sphincter says what?

Walkman minus headphones, stashed in East Oaktown.
Serial Killer sent out to San Rafael.
Where the woods have castles, hot tubs,
one of the members of Metallica, and cocaine.

TrsexiT’98

PENNY QUART

Pinchers of pennies betting their souls won't go to hell.
on greed alone. "You know that ante", Satan says.
As legislature in the Massachusetts Bay colony meet,
to fix the price of beer.

After much deliberation.
The price was announced in 1637.
"Not more than one penny a quart, at the most"

Tell that to the gutter punk at Haight and Clayton,
three centuries later, asking if you can spare one.
A penny or a quart.

The local drunks pitching pennies to the breeze,
on an Ocean Front Walk. Venetian Angels lost.

Not more than one cent short of common sense.
that comes with the forty-ounce purchased
at the beach house. So they'll tell you
in self-inflated ego.

Alcoholic vain, time and time again
it doesn't depend.

TrsexiT´99

PENNYWISE

I wish I had been listening the last 12 years,
I was already chasing down my own dead heroes.
News flashing still pictures in Chinese joints,
across from the Hollywood Bowl racetracks.
One star Chuck’s. Faceless endings.
I got turned on at Warped this last summer,
after come-along’s Good Charlotte.
Watching you parade around, white trash hillbilly
punk puppets pulling your own strings.
Shoes and water bottles and bodies flying.
Your energy was like Jason’s laugh, never-ending.
I’d heard of but never heard. I found out.
Kurt was dead when I was in Venice.
I never made Hermosa Beach.
Lied about going there once.
They wanted to know what happened
to all the speed.  Our answer was:
“We went to…”
Now I’m strung, on that feeling, on that
pulse pounding attack on the sense,
Needing once cent wisdom lyrics, to put it all
together. Now I’m hooked, and find
suicide, can be a common bond. Both theirs,
And not ours.

TrsexiT’02

PENNIES ANTI-HUSTLE

Somewhere September, two days till her birth.
Wonder if mother told that kid I had called.
Waiting at Ashby Bart. Hopefully, gonna cop.
Something. One on one in the mission.

Shooting all my difficulties,
into        a comatose existence.
Top rollie's and $12.50, or around there.
The rumor of the seven bone balloon.
What a useful planner.

Fresh out of sewing floss, fresh out of
Friday's,  penny anti-hustle.
Clean clothes don't make spare change.

Forever recuperation and inventory taking
at Bing Wong's laundromant.
Washing pissed on Levi's and sorting out
remants of one's life.
How many objects of value,
can you store in a Jansport backpack?

Unsmoked buds, still faded on the schwag blunt.
Chicago and new pics,
still some crusty's hold up the fence.

Reappearance of Medusa, ignoring Wit's End.
Not having ten bones.
Will not push, will move if it becomes necessary.

Should write Sense, feeling blown off.
So many kids hopping out, I should be one of them.

I'm stuck on disabled painters, or sidewalk attendants.
Dead presidents, short of success, maybe you could be
a paid writer. Hah! Ass-sphincter says what?

Walkman minus headphones, stashed in East Oaktown.
Serial Killer sent out to San Rafael.
Where the woods have castles, hot tubs,
one of the members of Metallica, and cocaine.

TrsexiT’98

RECYCLICATION

Gonna get a thesaurus, re-write
all my favorites.
As well as the classics, verbatim
as in execution.
Show the originality of plagiarism.
If there is such a thing.
Hollywood is full of them, re-runs.
Why can't I? Be full of, old ideas
with new and improved
special effects. Technology and Y2k.
Whatever happened to the Atari 2600?
Years and digits, changing in the passing.
Me and my biological clock, doesn't know
If it's ticking. So I hope this giant malfunction
shows how computer dependent, most of the
brainwashed, Bill Gates bought, masses are.
Needing Prozac and internet, me with my oh so
primal need. Fermented beverages,
And illegal plants. How I'm gonna convey
this to Mother and Father, I know not.

TrsexiT

SCRATCHED

Wanna-be writer pretends to sculpt imagination,
into emotionally worthless paraphrased statements.

Ones that might, harbor effect, follow through,
where his own monster had left off.

Leaving the reader in a suspended state of resentment.
Towards he who thinks to write this,
doing what he does best.

Spreading lead across processed dead trees.
All along cursing shadows of random thought.
Tossing away any sense of parabolic meter.

Suffocating bright dreams with false promises.
Bending the ands and buts.
The usual precursors to madness,
what ifs missing their question marks.

Writer wanna-be, turning tears into diamonds.
12 inch records soon to be broken.
Vinyl as his soul, scratched
out of existence.
Who said anything about pretty portraits?

TrsexiT

SECRET CHASER

The then in now, stepping
from rail to bus.
Distorted social, stepping
out, to take a smoke.
Gloom of pre-heart day, everything’s
red as fuck, when she says
“Will be out of the black.”

My girl thinks my thoughts
speak louder than my actions,
The reverse in vice versa.

Where have you been?
A funeral, a car shop, a home improvement joint.
Where has she been?
The car shop, a male co-workers, a shrink’s office.

Just want to work it all off at once, like
a Hal Hartley movie. Some cinematic ending
to our predestination, or preoccupation,
with the others behaviors and how they could be
something other than their not.

Secret chaser, there’s none to find.

Keep waiting, for the metaphorical penis to be removed,
and replaced with a cunt. Some big secret
which she could of caught, but it got over,
like previous priors in her life.
Fucken Fathers.

Then thinking I’m gonna come home, make amends,
take an inventory, find a spiritual awakening
(in of all places the lost and found).
Wiping my ass with an “Our Father”.
Tomorrow, I’m going to turn around,
and do it all over again.

That’s the way it seems. Stacking up, it always does
and will. So says my old man.

Me, indirectly beating the outsides of a fucken bush.
for some crash crop.

The VCR might not be set up.
Holiday land waits at the post office.
Fires to walk through,
at least the heads not cracked,
on the car not me.

TrsexiT

SEPERATE

We are looking up the definition of separate,
while I yearn for contact.
You give what you can, me
never satisfied with what I have.
You are untouchable.

We are as far from,
The opposites that attract.
Instead, we repel, cause
We are too much alike.

TrsexiT’98

SICKENED DEPENDENCE

Recalling a fourth, no, not a fifth. Sure there we’re plenty of them,
somewhere between ’97 and ’99. This Independence day sticks
out, sad to say,
like the sore memory of thumb.

Scored some dose, tabs, dirty street acid for me and my associates,
if
you could call them that. Those to whom I was bound with the sick
and
twisted bread ties of mutual abuse contracts. No room for loose
language,
under such circumstance.

I ate the most as was par for the course. My drug of choice was
always
yours.

One swore he was getting off, the other should’ve left it alone. It
wasn’t the best trip. The scene that remains, still to this day,
disturbs
the psyche.

Abnormal amounts of flesh, best left covered. Didn’t turn out that
way.
Food products smeared across the conscience, and other porcelain
fixtures,
grown men crying like babies. It was bad paper as they say in other
circles.

We went to see the fireworks, at some Indian Rock Path in Albany,
above
Berkeley. It led to a lookout, apparently. I don’t know, I never made
it to
the top, two thirds the way up, I felt it all too clear. The acid and
death,
I could hear the gunshots, and gangster talk. My legs decided they
would
quit, give out. My head told me, death was a hundred yards ahead
and closing
fast.

We turned back, returning to where we originated. In the back of
the
van all the streets began to look the same, a sick menagerie of
uniform
sameness. One corner
Was no more distinguishable from the next, and it led
to an impending sense of dislocation.

I began to annoy the driver with questions at every intersection. At
every one it seemed there was a patrol car. Police. Cops. My head
reasoned,
this was how the Berkeley PD would get back at me. Like I was that
important, Telegraph Avenue enemy number one. I was really
losing it.

Somehow I managed to come to my senses, or regained partial
direction,
going east on Dwight from Shattuck, preparing to make a right on
Telegraph.
Everything returned to its amazing familiarity with the song playing
on
LIVE105, returning my ego to it’s unusually normal but large size. I
knew
everything was gonna be fine, even with the disturbing sequences
that still
lay ahead.

The gay man trying to get it on with a straight seventeen year old
runaway strung out on heroin and cock. The bizarre episode of the
Simpson’s
where Homer goes to Krusty college and the Mob is out to put him
in the
grave. The weeping fits of two hundred pounds of disproportionate
flesh.
Rejected. The clenching of teeth and the crawling around in your
skull
looking for some sense of comfort in the ensuing madness, beds
made for the
maker to lie in them.

TrsexiT


SKULL PICK

If it wasn’t enough to pick the inside of my skull clean,
I climb into my dreams
hoping to find you are there and we are on the same page.

Yet our story is vast and wide and beyond an ending.
It unfolds like layers of the rose. It provokes the classic myth
of love at first sight, while the lavender ones I bought dry,
and hang their heads at our doubt..

I don’t know about you, but this is how I breathe.
Every time you come around, quick and short, and think and see.

Reservations what are those? Still with a dull paint scraper
climbing around in the interior of my brain, at what point
in my life did I decide wallpaper would cover up those sins?

Have I mentioned Sam and Max. They’ve been here before.
This is where they chase each other. Gerbils on exercise wheels.
Hunter and prey, pray(P-R-A-Y) and be hunted.

I chose that selection of songs so I could remember
with what utter absolute innocent and unstoppable horror
I fathomed the nature of your words. Where they came from
and how I felt hollow.

Look for theme in consistency while balancing on the tight wire
of  boulders across childhood nightmares. Waking shallow throat,
deep in
heart.
If you leave messages like these you will get replies like these.

I’m not of you, your not of me.
We are something that they in their mind’s eye,
just can’t see. They choose not to believe.
It goes against their judgmental nature and chicken coop behavior.

Any time I want to go back there now I just play that cd.
It takes all the anguish and freshens the suspended state of in-
animation we
became.
Me twirling the cigarette so close to the ashtray, the glass could
taste the
burnt tobacco.

While you wanted only not to hurt me.
While I only wanted to love you with everything I had.

Which might not have been much, nor seemed like enough.
This within a week we might find ourselves alone
with nothing but the toolbox of over-complication,
riffling through looking for the tools for consequence adjustment.

Inside our heads the worst place one could be.
Neither flashlight nor boys whistling in the dark.
Feeling this good must come with some pain.
Just as equal if not bigger.

Reminiscent Everclear songs, and whose possessed
with a power bigger than,
that pain, this pain, your pain, my pain.

EXIT TRS03 HOPELESS

SNAPSHOTS

There are these snapshots
that add up to, but don’t equal
all that is you.

Your half-opened backpack
In the middle of
my green bedroom floor.
All the promise of tomorrow
that ends tonight.

There are these snapshots
that add up to, but don’t equal
all that is you. Still life.
Your paint covered denim jeans
Which drape your calves,
encase your essences.
What you do. How you breathe.
How you live. Want to paint it
with typewriting fingers.
Cause I could never use a brush
the way you do.

There are these snapshots
that add up to, but don’t equal
all that is you.

That tiny struggling so beautiful soul,
climbing in and out of that
bite-size Japanese SUV.
With those chic glasses, and
bouncing hair. Smiling.
Something I watched walk away,
awe struck.
Not knowing how to react.
As I so often do.

There are these snapshots
that add up to, but don’t equal
all that is you.

A former boyfriend more the man
than I’ll ever be. With
his own business and ankle bracelet
and trip to Aruba.
How he was fortunate enough to have something like you.
How I could never be that lucky, watching you and those glasses
and Adidas sweat pants,
walk in and out of five thirty’s
for an eternity.

There are these snapshots,
That add up to, but don’t equal
All that is us.

If you take that chance.
If you never pick up again.
If you never look back again.
If you paste propellers on planes
without wings. Knowing anything can fly if you believe.
I heard you were putting them
on reptiles anyways.

I believe whether the odds are against us.
I believe whether the gods are mad
with us.
I believe whether they endorse it or not.

I took those pictures with my head
my words developed them.
Our encounter immortalized them.

eXIT tRSO3 hOPELESS

FUCK A BUNCH OF MAYBE’S

I QUIT I GIVE THE FUCK UP. I SURRENDER. I LET GO.
I PRAY FOR CALM AND GRACE AND EVERYTHING BLOWS UP IN MY
FACE.

I’VE HAD IT WITH THESE ARMCHAIR SHRINKS AND THEIR PLUG IN
GODS.
I’VE HAD IT WITH PEOPLE WHO REFUSE TO SEE
THEIR SIDE OF THE STREET.
I’VE HAD IT WITH MYSELF AND MY LACK OF UNDERSTANDING
OR TOLERANCE.

I HAVE EQUIPPED MYSELF FOR WAR.
I AM IN A LANDING PATTERN OF NOTHING
BUT SELF-DESTRUCTION.

MAYBE DESTROYING A RELATIONSHIP IS THE BEST WAY TO START
OVER. MAYBE THIS IS
THE UGLY WE ALL NEED BEFORE THE ENDING.
MAYBE IF IT’S MY FAULT SHE’LL BE ABLE TO WALK AWAY,
AS LONG AS IT’S NOT HERS.
MAYBE I’VE HAD IT WITH THINKING ABOUT MY VACATION
AND HOW IT’S ALL TEETERING ON
IF SHE CAN MAKE IT THROUGH ANOTHER WEEKEND.
MAYBE I AM AN ASSHOLE. MAYBE I AM WRONG.

JUST SAYING MAYBE ONE MORE TIME HAS DONE ME NOTHING
BUT DO ME IN.
I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHEN I SAID DON’T, WHAT PART OF IT
SHE DIDN’T UNDERSTAND.
AND I KNOW SHE WAS TRYING TO DO SOMETHING NICE.
AND I KNOW I WAS TRYING TO MAKE PEACE
OR AT LEAST EXPLAIN WHERE I WAS COMING FROM.
BUT WHEN SHE REFUSED TO HUG ME, IT WAS NOTHING BUT
FUCK YOU AFTER THAT.

AFTER ALL THE TIMES SHE LIED, SHIT ON ME, STAYED OUT ALL
NIGHT, CHOSE
MARGARET AND NEST BUILDING STONES OVER ME.
WELL FUCK THAT. FOR THE LAST AND FINAL TIME
FUCK THAT FUCK THAT FUCK THAT FUCK THAT FUCK THAT.
I SHOULDN’T BE SO FUCKEN STRESSED ABOUT MY VACATION.
I SHOULD’VE MADE MY OWN PLANS LIKE SUGGESTED EARLIER.

CAMPING THE BEACH VANS NEW YORK PHILLY VERMONT.
I DON’T GIVE A FUCK.
NINETY FUCKEN RESENEMENTS IN NINETY FUCKEN SECONDS.

TOMORROW IT’S WAR WITH THE PEOPLE THAT SAVED MY ASS.
MUCH LIKE BLACK SABBATH. IRON MAN KILLED
THE PEOPLE THAT HE ONCE SAVED.
VENGEANCE FROM THE GRAVE.

I AM BLINDED IN SHEER HATE. I REFUSE TO BE HAPPY
SO I CAN BE WRONG OR RIGHT IT DOESN’T MAKE A FUCK.

WHAT HAPPEN TO US? WHAT WENT WRONG IN THE WIRING IN MY
HEAD?
WHY DO I FEEL THE NEED TO FUCK IT UP?

HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I USED THE F WORD IN THIS PIECE?
ARE YOU COUNTING?

AS SOON AS HE STARTS TALKING ABOUT THE STEPS I’LL STOP
SWEARING.

LINE THIRTY-FIVE COLUMN 7.
LIKE NEXT TUESDAY I’LL BE THIRTY-FIVE
ON THE TWENTY-SEVENTH.

MAYBE SHE’S RUN OVER TO MARGARETS RIGHT NOW.
MAYBE I WON’T HAVE
A ROOMATE GIRLFRIEND LOVER PARTNER FRIEND.
AT THE END OF THIS MONTH. MAYBE I DESERVE TO BE
ALL BY MYSELF WITH MY CATS AND MY ANGST
AND MY REFUSAL TO BEND OVER BACKWARDS ANYMORE….

EXIT TRS04 HOPELESS

PARDON ME

The part of me that wanted to hold on drown. Let go
of all forms of life preservers and hopes thereof.
The part of me that reserved dreams in the clouds.
Falls like the rest of the angels to the notion, nothing
could’ve mounted that Everest.
I climb out of my cellar, and fake smile so bright.
I pretend everything is going to be all right.
I know better as they do, but we carry the charade like soldiers.
Finding something in the passion to return to where it was, we all
came
from.
If it’s foul mouths and caffeine, or romantic movies and euro trash
cafes,
states away.
There will always be the painting, hanging in an office.
Maybe not the one with eyes on my back. I used to sleep with one
eye open.
Turns out I needed them in the back of my head.
What a can of spray paint could fix, forget the gas and matches.
The part of me that wanted to hold on drown. Let go.
Finally subsided to the tidal wave of it’s never gonna change.
There will always be the eyes and lies and look in them.
The way you hold that cigarette, and act as if nothing had happened
in the interim, all good junkies no better.
Syringes or stems. How long can we continue playing the victim?
Questions for solitude nights, where he could never get it right.
Nor could they apparently. Or anyone he ever met for that fact.
He just watched them go down. Ducks in a row.
Now I get to return to whom I am. If I was ever that in the first
place.
The part of me that thought we stood a chance got shot down in
friendly
fire.
Happens a lot in this war with cupid, hearts, and disease.
You proved them all right. I shake my head. Cough on a cigarette.
Glance back at the past dancing on my shoulders.
Tell it the fires not that far anymore; the ground crews should be
closing
in.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

MOMENTS THOUGH

Moments we must be serious.
Moments we must jerk-off.
Moments we must flick off.

In the face of oppression.
Before the nightmare of contentment sets in.
What no crisis! What no drama?
However will we exist?

The story of the man who beat the odds by sitting still.
Much like the tale of the guy who got away and came back.
Inactions equals surrender squared.

Though the position was overrun.
Though the ego thrives on.
Though the odds are against him.

What a deadly combination, this body and brain.

Having thought much about the struggle.
Been told the misery was optional. I want to gag and bound
Buddhists,
and their noble truths.
Refundable after ninety-days. With or without the receipt.

It is when we put our fingers crossed on the concept of right size.
Do we accidentally crush ants and act like elephants.
It is then that everything crumbles like Halloween candy,
opened a year later.

Moments we must concede.
Moments we must succeed.
Moments we must avoid.

A lone soul in the corner counting personalities.
Numbering the voices.
Silencing the doubt.

If you came this far why let go now.
It only seems like the end of the rope.
Faith and leaps and pink clouds without safety nets.

Not enough musts to have.
It’s all been had.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

THE TIME NOW SCRIBBLINGS

Time now waxed in boredom, invite those demons
of impatience and restless youth.
Defying life's ironies with crazy acts of rebellion.
Pointless as they may be. Maybe.
Hurting their makers. Hurting their lovers.
Desecrating the spirit, careless on the highway
called excess. Wasted youth
like abandon parking lots, and corpses
that once held onto life.

Time now a hustler in Times Square, though
He'd never actually been there. Working over
the kid who's never been, in this or that situation.
Ones discerned and described, and revived in his head.
And we are all still just human.
Time now you tell me, where I fit in.
Crooked shoes as is soul, places I didn’t have to go.
Pasts irreversible. Truth so far from fiction.
Facts  so far from lies.

Me and her in the Almighty's eyes,
shades of darkness, beams of light
reasons we must be separate tonight.

Time now weighs me in years, measures me
in experience. Hustles me with cowardice.
That keeps me from jumping off bridges, golden
as the city they span, blinded
as the faith I have.

Time now is the false bravado of the next drink,
of bottled alcohol. Where my majestic thoughts
put my measly self on the cross. As someone said,
"Get Down, we need the fucken wood!".

Martyrs become fake heroes, Joan of Arc burning.
John Lennon catching lead, years later, for something
He should or shouldn't have said.

Now time drags, bridges are eminent,
where have we met?

Time now is borrowed music and stolen tapes, if I could
fix this or change that. Songs on machines.
Tears never meant to be had. Subtle escapes.
Nicknames uttered and stuttered, late night
booze reeking breath.

Time now tells tall ass tales, experience
facts not fit. Rendered incompetence.
Despite the genius. Not seen so clear.
in madness. Vague reminders
of who he once was.

TrsexitT’97

WHENEVER WHEREVER HOWEVER
EXIT TRS04 HOPELESS

CHECK MATED SMOKE

Only the shadows of smoke, trailing across the wall.
Silent solitude, sneezing the demons out of me,
as I ingest them Distilled spirits, sick purpose.

Proposed anthems to the Exiled. Me and my
sinister delusions, escaping now. Like those
trails of smoke, shed in shadows, produced by
generic cancer sticks.

Where are you? In all your glory? Posted at some corner,
pretending you know something about anything,
when if fact you know shit about shit, nothing.

Random souls incarcerated, in those Yesteryear’s dreams
now forgotten, flopping like fish out of water,
Soon to be dead of overdose. Not on purpose. Not ever.
You could never be that clever.

Still those shadows and the way they tease,
where would they be without the light?
That the thief asks in the night, cursing
under his breath, tainted
with those aforementioned, spirits distilled.

Wondering if there is anything left of what once was.
A great poet, now damned, by his very quintessence.

Fish without water, humans without oxygen,
poet without inspiration. Junky with too much heroin.
Syndromes.

Levitate yourself in false greatness, stab at the abyss.
Not knife but pen. Pretend, someone can love,
when in fact you can’t.

Barbaric rendezvous with fair weather friends,
false accusations with wings, that hurt worse
than the real ones. Cause at least you did them.
So you lost another friend, and there are as many of them
as there are fish and dames in the sea.

Stop your pathetic explanations for self-imposed tragedy.
Face it, you prefer the atrocity.
Like the happily-ever-after’s, that are
so soon shattered.

Do they know the shadows like you? Are you
playing chess with the Anti-Christ?
Questions in circles, vicious in their own cycle.
Spun as you were, hung out to dry.
Stood up and spit on.

Checkmate, you can’t walk on water, neither do
the shadows, they just dance. Inches away
from the shore. As the sun is blocked by your presence.
You light hog! They shout. Little do they know,
their existence is dependent on your being…

TrsexiT’97

SOME VERSUS THE MANY

There are some, actually many, people.
Whom are beyond me, which  I don’t have
the capacity to comprehend, much less tolerate.
The way they are in regards to others.
Namely myself, as selfish as I am.

There are many, actually some, people.
Who just annoy the shit out of me.
Yet, everybody’s got the right to breathe.

There is a list of suggested character defects.
That’s three times the size of the seven deadly sins,
and serves as a mental checklist
for things I should be working on.
In my quest, selfish as I am,
for a spiritual awakening.

Some these I might not achieve.
Some of these people, or many
will suffer the consequences,
of my application of them, or use.

Going over them in my head.
Where I am certainly not at my best.

What the fuck is a sense of inadequacy?
Is it only revenge if you act on it?
Leaving the remorse and self-pity by the way side.
What the fuck is uncharitable ness?

Getting back to these people.
Some and many more, who I can neither
Help nor hurt, though I would like to
At different times. Both.

Case example number one:
The Queens trash king,
Transplanted to Fairfax city.
For reasons that are beyond me.

He thinks because he humped trash in the Big Apple,
He is better than anyone else on our crew.
He is the first to act like a baby, or bitch. Depending on whether
He’s whining or shouting. When he doesn’t get his way.

He does nice things so he can be mean later on.
He apologizes only if it’s in his best interest.
He hogs the hopper, and technically speaking
That’s taking up more than half the back of the truck,
Putting the block on you when you’re trying to dump a can yourself.
He takes cans out of your hand after you’ve done all the work.

We’ve had words on more than one occasion.
The last time I threw my gloves to the ground  on Embassy lane,
coming out of the last hole, because once again
he had called me green, he had important information,
that he chose only share with my partner in front of me
Like I wasn’t there. Concerning money.

He could’ve just told me he got the envelope.
After I had spent ten minutes listening to this poor women’s
concerns,
about the whereabouts of Christmas cash that was meant for us,
and I had not seen anyone get an envelope, and I was with the
truck the
whole day.

When I got back on the truck and informed my partner what was
going on.
That’s when it happened; he told my partner he’d had the envelope
in his
possession,
the whole time. He could’ve said something when I was talking to
the lady.
When he started calling me green, that’s when I resorted to my
ever
favorite,
arsenal of profanity. Which most likely is where I was at fault.
Using the motherfucker expletive repetitively.

That’s when he said he was going to hurt me.
That’s when I thought about my recently killed brother.
That’s when I threw my gloves to the ground.

This time there have been no words in three weeks.
I hope he keeps it up. I’m better off
when he doesn’t act like my friend.
That way I know where he is coming from,
and where we stand.
It’s that in-between that drives me nuts.

The difference between the trash crew and the rest of the yard.
We only hold grudges for a couple of weeks. They hold them for
years.
Our type of work doesn’t allow the waste of energy.
We have to save every ounce for that damn trash.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

PULL THE CORD

See the artist struggle, watch the girl twirl.
See if she can fit in, where she felt left out.

Pull the cord on her back; listen well to what it says.
“Wrong Answer! Blah! Blah! Blah! Just stop talking now!”

All those desires turn her brain to spaghetti,
or at least it feels that way and should be described as so,
I wish I was the fork, and could spin her back together.
But she’s more than just one bite.

When I’m full of myself, I tell her
“I’m the best thing that will ever happen to you”
How true I wish that was. Silently folding to indecision.

Not enough roses, diamond rings or houses on hills.
The future spills forth in calamity and chaos, I bite my tongue.

We will be happy again. Watch her arrive and leave.
The way she gracefully descends into her head, not enough steps
to pull her out. Not enough chips to derail that train.
Racing down Rt. 1 darting in and out of this crisis or that one.
Changing lanes, shifting emotions like gears.

Denny’s beating IHOP by a week or two. The places we take it
again.
Silent dinners and strong words, from a guy who makes less than
twenty-five grand a year. Just a strong faith,
in some mysterious Sky Boss.

Still, even now, when I wake, I can’t believe she’s still here.
That’s she real. When will it end? They always do.
No matter the promise, no matter than band around the finger.
I try to banish that thinking.

See the girl struggle, watch the artist create.
See if she can change the surroundings to fit her insides.
Wallpaper the words fear and doubt
in a black and white checkered pattern,
up and down, over and across.
She’ll figure it out; it’s the insides that change to accept the
outsides.

Pull the cord on her back. Listen well to what it says.
“I have love to give you. To be brutally honest I don’t want to hurt
you”
She doesn’t have that much power. I’m already broken.

Maybe I’ve been holding the words hostages.
Reserving them for later, a better place and time,
where they will fall in line.
Where they belong, at the end of my smoking fingertip gun.

Buried in the thing we tell ourselves are not right.
Buried in the thing we tell ourselves won’t work tonight.
Buried in the sentiment which so long ago has curled up into a ball,
and hid in the shadow of the unknowing, which of course
hurts worse.

Me, I tell myself in the mirror.
“Your condiments will always have pace to rest,
as long as there is a roof over my heard.”

I don’t mean to reduce her to the phrases she’s coined.
In my head they are so much more than that.
But, she pulled my cord.
It sounded off, “Hopeless. Helpless. Romantic.”

She is rarely happy anymore and her life is always a wreck.
I though that way once, but it isn’t so today.
She finally got over the every Friday being the worst day ever,
she still gets “The Jones”, but takes the action necessary to combat
the insanity. I’ve seen her genuinely happy even when she’s not
sleeping.

Pull the cord see if a parachute opens.
See if the is any form of emergency contingency.
Take my hand. I’ll be there for you, if you can
be there for me.
Will pull each other’s till were sick in the head.
Which isn’t that far off, but it depends on how you look at it.
This is a good thing. This will be a good thing. This will defy the
Gods and
Odds.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

DOING THOSE THINGS

Do you even remember doing those thing? I mean us.
Do you do it with someone else? I mean like us.
or is that too much to ask? As you are now over it,
As am I. So I pretend. Unsent letters
Not accounted for. Stacks of paper, you’ll never see.
At least not as long as I’m alive. So you might
just get your hands on them. One day, way after
I’m presumed dead or missing, and not in prison.
Do you even remember doing those things?
Are your new Gods, the ones who make the movies
you die to be in. I know what happens
when you don’t die at twenty-one. Time is healing.
It is also misleading.
How long till you no longer shoot through my heart?
The star you are, when will it stop?
This will inevitably end up in that pile of wasted ink,
that never seems to quite fulfil it’s purpose.
Nor find it’s destination. Dead letters without postmarks.
Do you even remember doing those things?
I mean us. Do you do it, anything, with someone else?
Like we did, when we did. Retarded and immaculate
in the ever changing present tense.
I could rent copycats, but that would only singe my soul.
Wasted remembrances of real things gone astray.
Angels getting wings, fools falling
head over heals to their chosen poisons.

Enough of that story. How much longer
Can I regurgitate our past not present?
These letters become desperate incantations,
of something that can’t happen.
I was never a magician to begin with.
She was never a savior neither. That was too much
to put on such a gentle soul.
One that brought home the wolf.
Do you even remember doing those things?
Eventually you will move away, and we
will no longer have any idea of how
to get in touch. Walking off
to serious relationships
in canyons. Better men don’t answer
such serious questions.
They just walk. Maybe I’ve got it wrong,
and I can pretend for a second, to think you are
shining bright, as ever and always.
That is all that really matters, and I am finished
With the delirium. Endings can also be exits.
Do you even remember doing those things? I mean us,
With all our fated passion, and desperate interactions.
Giving birth to dead dreams, never knew
you would have to be gone, to realize them.
The dreams that is.
Do you even remember doing those things?
Dreaming that is? Us and the world. Radiated spirits,
like Kerouac and Monroe never were.

FUCKED EFFORTS

Why am I trying to be the guy, I will never be. Again.
Something happened. One time
she believed in me. Now she doesn’t think
shit of me. Now I’m nothing.
She’s been waiting for me to do this.
What a fucken bitch. If your waiting for
someone else to do something, you can
That makes you a fuck and I shouldn’t be an asshole.
I should feel like X amount of time
I was trying for something that could be
accomplished. Lucifer saying, ‘Ride it out’.
Write it out. Another Beck’s, another feeling
inside my fucken heart, where all that remains
is hurt. Fucken Hurt. Sirens outside.
No one to end my madness, she hasn’t dialed
911 yet. Guess Sandra was right,
the spirit of break up is prevalent. Nothing I
nor anyone else can do. Can play God
and convince her I love her. When she should know that.
Putting on Tori Amos. Screaming silent to myself.
Phone calls to Lucifer, what for? Her fingertips
tapping, wishing I was somewhere else.
I could leave right this moment. That would be
convenient. My friends said they were coming.
I wish I had some right to existence. Unfortunately,
it’s all due to her. It’s her apartment. It’s her this and that.
I have no rights to anything., I just pay the bills and fuck
when she wants. It was all for naught.
I spelled naught for her. The emptiness. The helplessness.
If you hate me that much, I’m sorry you brought me here.

Don’t at least I get some time to get the fuck away.
Don’t I have any rights. Didn’t I pay bills? Buy food?
You act like your almighty God, when in fact
you don’t pay any bills either.

TrsexiT’98

GRAVES NEEDING BODIES

Mornings without intentions, weeks
with too much fear and questions.
Like. Where will you be? With whom?
Leprechaun being troll, that hasn’t found
a bridge to crawl underneath, yet.
To many to crawl across, or burn, depending on
the intentions preceding, the mornings
without nothing, or anything, for that fact.
The actions that will follow, often
falling too short.
Entrances needing exits. Graves needing bodies.
Doctors needing patients. Pixies needing wordsmiths.
Leprechauns being told, they are not as ugly
as they appear. There are no other souls
to verify, why the mirror lies. To such a small
and terrified being, such as I.
thinking I’ll never be man enough, or pretty enough
to keep your attentions, for more than
a few minutes here and there.

Spellbound, seeing you there. Like never before.
as we are now under different terms.
Having exposed weakness, giving me such
literate greatness. Equal. If not better.
I see your mind as a place, a million, unanswered
questions could search for and find new solutions.
New routes. That would give us.
Mornings with intentions, weeks
Without fear, much less care.
Those aforementioned questions, no longer
holding court hostage.

Yet, those still holed like Swiss cheese,
riddled with doubt. Leave me alone, to think twice.
What big disappointment’s I build for myself, the stack of stuff
I’ll never send. For fear
of it’s outcome.

TrsexiT’97

FOUL EXPRESSIONS

So this is what it boils down to,
the flash in the pan feeling of
fucking everything off, tossing it all away.

To the wind, just for a second of
drinking, shooting, fighting.

Fuck everything she thinks, how she thought it.
What the exact cause is…

From the rich bitches in BMW’s in her head
to the curb our car sat after the wreck…

Broken pieces of vapor containers
To broken relationships.

What happened to the missing us coasts away?

Remember the Marina?
Remember the Music City Motor Inn?
Remember each time you suspect and I react.

Now the futon has become my best friend,
my right hand responsible for hours not minutes
of never-ever ending agony.

Stress release turned major problem.
Go take your ass to the bed.
Get yourself off and forget everything ever…

From now on it will be me and the typer.
You laughing, tossed veggies, and self-destructive
unbroken patterns. Neither of us want to break.

Fucken Veteran’s shrinks.
Fucken dumb ass meetings
Fucken fingerprints.
Fucken all that’s missing
is the drink.

Who am I writing to? Who is writing me?
Who are you with?

Most of the fucken time.
Most other people in my life are lucky if they get five minutes
much less everything but the space between
six and four, where I wage to break my brain and back.

Now the idea of outisde intervention, by authorities
bigger than both of us, sounds so fricken appealing.

Either stay fucken mad or be in love. You don’t wanna be happy,
neither will the therapy or twelve step groups help you.

So if your gonna have a boyfriend, obsess on what the fuck
he’s doing not thinking. Looking. Twitching. Writing. Hating.
Foaming. At the mouth.

No dear God, don’t separate the cats.

You have this I’ll have that, and my amount paid
will be worth the time I drove, and the one
who wants to break up will be the one to leave,
and their manifesto’s and finger gestures and concerts
and time spent will be a blueprint for things not worth
the drop of a hat, amounting to this I believe, this
we deceive, and this we shit all over, every time
you think or I act or we even breathe.

So what if some fucken guy who lives in
some fucken other state, who sold me some cd’s over E*Bay,
decides he wants
to write. To ask how I’m fucken doing,
maybe you should redirect you fears
to where they really belong.

Fuck your Dad, whatever he is now.

Mutual counseling lasted a half hour.
No I prefer hate and anger and dislike,
I appreciate it’s consistency.
Instead of the up and down
and we’re sorry and it takes time.

You can slip into your delusions, like I could slip into
a bottle of bourbon.

How I wish with all my might I could drink to get back at you.
only hurting myself, and all the fucken apologies in the world
won’t do a damn bit of good.

All my integrity doesn’t amount to jack.

Final drafts for fucken bitches
who are not emotionally involved, and neither am I.
Fucken call Carlton or Keith or Bill or write that prick Linn,
how you love to string that fucker along, never writing back,
or maybe you are. Your just as big of a blank,
how bitch has become quite a common word
in my vocabulary, and our conversations.

TrsexiT

EXITUS IN JOB’S SHOES

There came a day before the sons of man, when Satan applied for
ownership of the earth. Filling out all the proper paperwork, in
triplicate,
one for the Father, two for the Holy Ghost, and another for the king
himself, no not Elvis, but
Jesus the son.

Having already been given the innermost parts, the Lord asked him,
"From where comest thou, and what on earth makes you think you
deserve it?"

Satan with a smirk grinned from ear to ear, and with much chagrin,
saying,"
I have been here and there, and everywhere, not to mention to
and fro and
down below."

Here he paused with a moment for reflection, keeping a patient God
impatient, but quickly beginning again, "There is not one among
them who
doesn't' find it easier to believe in me then you."

The Lord taken aback summoned his angels for counsel. After a
quick huddle
and a few pats on the ass, God made some calls and paged his
number one
Fool.

Asking him if it was true. However, before Exitus could answer he
was smote
on the lips by darkness itself. Losing not only his speech but health.
So
God sent him back.

"Why?" Asked the Lord.

"Cause sin for sin, everything in his power will he give you for his
blessings, lie for truth." The great accuser argued.

While back on earth, Exitus was approached by his most regarded
companions.
While his wife packed up all her belongings and left, sick of him
playing
the joker, and not answering her questions.

"Where have you been?" She screamed.

He could only point up and down, and wave his arms like he had
wings. While
his comrades stood by and found this game of charades quite
amusing.

"Birds!" One said.

"Flying!" Another said.

They went on guessing, and in his forced silence, he still couldn't
curse
god and die.

TrsexiT’99

ONE QUESTION

My emotions are human and served raw.
My whole life up to this point,
like a platter of hors’d’oeuvres’, spotty.
The best parts of me eaten, my favorite appetizers left rotting.

Thoughts collect like dust into this dilemma unfolding.
Taking on epic origami proportions.

I’ve always been left.
I’ve always been at fault.
I’ve always heard it’s over.

Now there seems no mutually sound way of blowing the whistle.
Calling for time out, grasping for space, while all the while
tangled up into the fish hooks of things I’ve never done before.

Curled up in a kitchen
screaming ear covered
earthquake emotion.
Numb to the one you’re with.
Going through the motions.
Scripted cryptic sentences.
Explanations on nonsensical behaviors.
Lines like accusations, and tones in voice
and hovering plain-clothed badges at ruined events.

Where hands with broken pinky’s, point swears and promises
at each other and the stars.
Come along Destiny; blow off the countertop of my brain.
Scatter the thoughts into pick-pocketed hearts.

In contrast were all unfinished pieces of art.
A stroke or word away from too much or too little.
Improvement. Growth. Dissension.

How about free association.
How about the abstract.
How about dropping the gloves,
when the bell rings.

Funny now how my words are thrown in my face.
Along with other options I had at some point, that begin with all
and end with wanted, and have
nothing somewhere in between.
Which is the way it begins to feel. When months back,
my words had no power at all. When I needed them most.

I’m trying to trace it back, pinpoint
at what exact instance the ball got rolling.
It’s hard now cause even words can be incriminating.

If fear is the root of everything. Right now,
my trunk just wants to be yanked from the face of the earth.
Cut off in biblical metaphors. Hollowed hearts. Empty doubts.
Faceless
faith.

Did it start cause I was always broke, or was it before that?
When the rock monster reared it’s ugly head, and reminded me
who has more power than love.
Not once, not twice, not even the third time charm
could make me believe, things weren’t going to change.
Cause they wouldn’t. Not now. Not never. Not ever.

All the twisted methods of a madness formerly called co-
dependency.
All the unanswered cell phone calls and weekends in binge doubt.
Watching as she threw her life about. Making you a safety net of
default.

Add that too the Denny’s dinners and silent hours of treatment,
where we said nothing and ate anger.

Being so in love with someone, as others had said.
To wonder if she’d take the life preserver with her when she drown.

One hallowed question could have no obvious answers.
Taunt the definition of searching, and tease fearlessly.
This is what who has done for who, you and you.
When where and why beyond me at this time.
Struggling for one item that wouldn’t be a lie.

Solo inquisitions into the nature of this thing.
Empty heart and hands, done. Dumb. Numb.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

HAVING MOMENTS

Will have our moments with the Gods,
the silences that will drive us, to think
how bad we fucked up, again. Who can give us
that element of forgiveness, that might
make it possible to actually enjoy breathing, again.
Amends and still he descends into those
ever immaculate spirals. Claiming victims,
will soon not see, on the stretchers
or in the straight-jackets. Foaming
at the mouth. Jumping from those tenement rooftops.
Suicidal overtures. Symphony’s straight from hell.
It was all just mayonnaise on those reality sandwiches.
Sculpting something you forgot to mention,
in the passing.
Through St. Peter’s gate, having nothing to do with
the sixteen tons of shit. You had to carry
Your whole life. Surrounded by sin, drowning in guilt.
Who would’ve thought. Not a cigarette in the house.
Much less a paper, just an article,
I’m supposed to read. I got cut off and so will he.

TrsexiT

HOLD THE STRANGLE

How now the clock turns its hands against us.
The happened in what.The twist of the other thought.
The work in out. Almost home.

If I was a horse,
I’d have blinders.
If there was something, by now.
Surely, there must be.

When the meetings
become the center of the strife, when the hand
jerks the penis twice, to shake it off, after a piss.

The deliberate execution of any good feelings.
The decision making process of the caged rat.
The polluted waters of the bay, the razor blade nicks
on our conscience. The mutual visits to shrinks.
The upper hand in life, and who’s got it, at this point.

Neither. How now anger flows like dope, through the brain.
How now is how.

Can’t tear his ear off with this bullshit anymore.
Can’t drive away those who are not involved.

The sick dementia in our heads has begun a stranglehold.
Tightening over time, when there should be release.
I can feel the fingers clenching my heart, ready
to squeeze what bit of life is left out.

Smile, pretend, bend over backwards one more time.

Where are the guys to hang out with?
Where is the time to yourself?
Where is the beeper and cell phones of possible suspicion?

Take what away to show who what they had.
You’ll never, I’ll never.

In our demise we have become so clever, spite to spit.

Hey now paper, in print you’ll remember.
How long? When? Where? What? Why?
No closure in heaven, better off will be left
for dead.

The giving all is not enough and there isn’t much left,
like previously stated.

In the metaphor about the grip she has on my central organ.

Just collages, posters, ticket stubs, chains, and pet peeves.
When will the despair of desperation,
bring them back again.

Find Mr. Perfect. I know he’s out there somewhere.
This is as good as I get. In such short time.
You deserve better, because I’m doing the best I can.
When that isn’t enough, the one hundred percent
becomes doubt. Will it ever be?

Is there a start or stop> A broken record, trapped
in your head. Pace your way to some presence.
Ignore the side of your street that needs to be swept.
Problems on my side of the court, they look
so much better, before they become spots
which you can blow up, balloon-size.

Something        to fixate on as your way of saying,
I can’t deal with the content.
I don’t want to be happy, I don’t have a choice.
Like other people.

I’m only happy when your foaming at the mouth,
tossing vegetables, stomping out.
It’s my fear coping mechanism.
In that I find joy, in that I have something to live for.

How now I say the word bitch, and wonder if I must
move onto cunt, and you can use dick and bastard,
and flicks of the wrist can come short of the face
As my fist hit your shoulder, and if there isn’t
something else in the next few minutes,
I will do my utter best to create it, cause even rage
is the bittersweet attention on which I feed.

Now the steps toward begining or finish or what?
Now there is no alternative song or card or poster
or gesture or method or plan
or brand of cigarette…

TrsexiT

NO JAILHOUSE GODS

You who hold my words, you who knew what
I once was. Tell me again,
that I might never know. What I had,
where it went. Cursing Eastern Fables,
and raping Christian Parables. In jail
I won’t find God, but I hope
He finds me. Hitting my knees.
Banishing my disease. Afraid of
liking incarceration. As this
long abstinence, is returning me
To human, or something like it.
In whispered prayers. I ask for
The strength, if and when
I get out of here, to never
Come back again.

TrsexiT’98

NOTES FOR SFJ#9

Sick of writing about my life, it bores me.
Want to publish her stuff, it makes mine,
look and smell, like crap.
Spin Cycle Productions Inc.

The Polish guys next door are incarcerated vegans,
proud of their heritage. Paczowski and Zblweski?
They always offer you a shot of coffee, remind you
not to flush.

Everyone thinks I’m with the Aryan Brotherhood.
Since I shave my head and sport of goatee.

Little do they know I’m a Zen Buddhist Monk,
in the making. I make it Zen, cause
being just Buddhist is a little extreme. Lame. Plain.

Just as Tich, he writes about stone boys and gathas,
whatever the hell they are. The Zen means
‘Now and then’, I might find pieces of Nirvana.
Never all at once. That might be too much.

Back to the Pollock’s, I get their sugar packets,
and camaraderie. One of them is a post-Jerryhead.
The other an Op Ivy house punk. Who says:
“They call me Fork Boy!”
I’d never heard of him.

Me I’m opportunistic, if there is such a word.
Will act accordingly, like a head or crusty.
To get my hustle on.  I sure can talk good shit.
Squat or rot rain-blow brother, pass the syringe.
Brother bear, bro, haven’t  I seen you in the Mission?

Like Ronnie used to drill into my head:
“You don’t have to lie to me, I’ll still be your friend.”
I think he was Polish as well, he shot himself
in the head, years ago. So the story goes,
When heard from these lips. Actually I don’t know
What the fuck happened to him.

We saw Wang Chung in ’87,
at the River Parks Amphitheater, T-Town.

My new bunkie is Hispanic, he knows little English,
he teaches me new gang signs. As well as Rodriguez,
his other friend. Who is from Honduras, he’s my dog,
o so we say. He calls his girls “bitches’”,
and I’m sure they call him bastard, or “Bendaho”
behind his back.

The things I’ve heard, they’ll do for a rock,
Crack, they call it.

That OG Crawford swears he knows me, from somewhere.
He’s vintage ’47 model, and his memories going. Cause,
I’ve never seen that man before in my life.

Then again I’m a defective ’69 model, that’s been
flooded with so many different kinds of dope,
I can no longer tell wrong for right, much less
right from left.
Then again, we could’ve worked together at Sally house,
but then again, I can’t see myself passing
A drug test.

Most of the A.M. kitchen crew despise me
for my foul habits, rash mouth, and punk attitude. Their just coming
to
work, and have just woke up.
I’m just about to get off, and have been up all night.
They’ve seen me picking my nose, and scratching my ass.
Maybe they think twice, before eating breakfast.
I’ve got one word: Gloves. Enough said.

TrsexiT’99

LONG NOW

It won’t be long now,
till liposuction of the soul.
Mad scientists with modified dental tools.
Performing excavations of defects and regrets.
For some price ending in ninety-nine.
At some strip mall in mindless retail America.

We’ve turned outties into innies.
Augmented the teats, nipped and tucked our vessels
beyond recognition, all in the name of attraction.
I don’t care if it’s a chic now, God meant for it to be a dude.

It won’t be long now,
till they’re drilling into our coconuts.
Plucking those elements of our minds that we find displeasing.
There will be all sorts of reasons and methods.
The ones court ordered, or arm twisted
by a significant other. Bought and paid for
with a sugar daddy’s check card.

I can see me now strapped down now,
restraints and bandaged straight-jackets.
Foaming at the mouth. While the gumball machine diploma
on the wall stares me down.
As some overnight doctor finishes the portal he’s drilled into my
head.

An entrance to the madness. Reaching for an ice cream scoop
to remove the lust. There’s so much of it.
Oozing out of my skin like bad sweat.
A cum drenched fool stumbling over his own drool.
Leaving a saliva snail trail all along the broad avenue
to the corner of sexy and beauty.

Cause after all it’s conditions and causes
that are the root of our problems.

It won’t be long now,
till we are just feeling less drones,
examples of before and after.
Shackled to ghosts of memories of what it felt like.
to think for ourselves.
All the horrors that resulted from our decision making process.
vanquished.

I can see the adverts now. Commercials about removal.

Had it with dishonesty?
Sick to death of fear?
To proud to make this call?
Stuck at the all you can eat buffet
at the franchise known as McGluttony?

Have we got the cure for you, most insurance accepted,
financing available, evil credit seeps everywhere.
In our quest for the perfect human being we’ve altered the genes,
spliced the soul with our sick science.
Modern day psychological Frankenstein’s.
Walking blindly to a psychotropic pace.

It won’t be long now,
till all original thought is outlawed,
banished to a pile of schisms.
Burned with books that once meant something.

There will come a day when reading will be punishable by execution.
There will come a day when writing will be a guaranteed death
sentence.
There will come a day when rogue literate minions
will open the shades on this ill society, unleashing the tyranny
of truthful pens and fateful pasts.

It won’t be long now,
till the rebellion is herded like Jews in Hitler’s Germany.
Dosed with meds and straddled to the operating chairs of are new
improved
America.
Till then I will scribble with all my might of what it was like, to write
when
somebody actually read.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

ITEMS OF INTERNAL CONTENTION

There are things I no longer inflate with the trappings
of false hope. Of them I have made a mental list;
Most of them I can't easily forget. First and foremost.
Domesticated unmarital bliss in eastern states. A love,
no longer fucken alive. In her eyes. Second,
Without hesitance, that if the first half
of this forsaken life, was so fucken rotten, surely
the second half would make up for it. Twenty-nine
and four months and twenty-seven days from thirty.
Third as in C, see this number on my wrist? Staying out
of incarceration for more then seven days
After my release. Missed my date
with an Alameda County judge.
Locked up in SF doing my SWAP time.

TrsexiT

Missed Connections

Trixie that Pixie, and Misses B, no longer with us:

Peddlers of table dances, taking dead presidents
in exchange for, glances of flesh.
Bi-sexual tendencies. Had fifth of vodka, in route
to house by tracks. Ten dollars closer
to getting weed, when Johnny Law intervened.

Me: Looking like Charles Manson in orange county pajamas.
You: In the audience at the arraignment,
laughing your ass off.

9/10 to 7/27 on 5/26: What happened?
Not rid of who? Separate summers.
From SW 20th to Telegraph. Long distance
telephone pole crucifixions. No charity,
in the live fucken love.

Sometimes is what you always said:
Pulling sunflowers from your ass.
Hope your middle name.

Me: Looking halfway to dead, passed out
in the back of a green Buick.
You: I know why you left. Did you really
burn all the letters in the basement at Shartel?

Fabio looking messiah named JC: Forget your dad
and his Holy Ghost, get with me. Skin for skin
I can give you the keys to kingdom. In 30 minutes or less.
Mimic the Memnoch.

Me: Bald dome, red skin, perky horns, hot breath,
tail to match. Will shave the van dyke if you like.
Piercing optional.

Mr. Exit, where is the product?: Those two tabs of X.
That we’re supposed to be in my mailbox.
Will slice and dice, if no cash back.
Psycho Greg and Allison. Not so ok in the city,
nor the ‘burbs.

Todd Robert, this is your father:
You we’re supposed to call when released from jail.
Has been 3 months. Mother thinks your high  again.
Brother wants to know, is it safe
to use his name in California. Don’t bother calling collect,
we won’t accept.

Adrienne with 2 N’s and an E:
Supposed to hold up fence at Haste.
Got all caught up in Dope Opera Drama.
Can you forgive and forget?
Didn’t mean to stand you up.
Me: Bewildered and dizzy leprechaun.

10/16 Hottie on the Latte with shaved head, goatee,
and green eyes: Being shoved into the back seat of a Berkeley
squad car
after being handcuffed, in front of Amoeba records.

Me: Cherry red lips, fire engine red hair, matching eyes, and slim
figure.
Looking like Harlequin, the Joker’s
girlfriend. Can you make bail?

Long abandoned daughter seeks real Dad:
Will give up Barney, but not Iguana.
Sick of step father high on crank,
and Mom spending more time with his kids,
not me. Sincerely, Jesse.

Vampyre to Mad Typer: Why the fuck did you leave me,
in Los Angeles, with all these reformed
Hell’s Angels?

TrsexiT

NO JAILHOUSE GODS

You who hold my words, you who knew what
I once was. Tell me again,
that I might never know. What I had,
where it went. Cursing Eastern Fables,
and raping Christian Parables. In jail
I won’t find God, but I hope
He finds me. Hitting my knees.
Banishing my disease. Afraid of
liking incarceration. As this
long abstinence, is returning me
To human, or something like it.
In whispered prayers. I ask for
The strength, if and when
I get out of here, to never
Come back again.

TrsexiT’98

THE EX'S

Stoned at the emergency exit, my list of profound ex’s.
Those relationships which most altered and changed
my definition of love, existence, and reason for
Living. From birth to now.

In the 6th grade Katie Jones kissed me
behind and between the vending machines
at the local YMCA, after swim team practice.

Maria Lulewitz, the forever grade school crush.
Who I would bombard with stuffed animals,
brought all the way from Vegas.
Circus, Circus side shows. In anonymity.
Anonymously. We would go bowling once,
and subsequently I would get beat up
by her Jewish boyfriend Bluestien,
and his pal Banting.

Amy Fischer, sophomore psychology infatuation,
that never went anywhere but endless words,
and never a hint or suggestion or response.
Just Long John Silver’s. How she liked to eat there.

Nancy Gayle Sapp. No longer Scovill. Abandonment
on both parts. The word divorce, marriage, and childbirth.
Jessica Anne. Unless she’s changed that too.

Gwendolyn Hope Johnson, saw the sober boy
turn into an aged beast.

Daphne Leigh Porterfield, Miss Peanuts and Popcorn.
A 27,000 dollar trust fund, one hurricane named Andrew,
and a place called New Orleans.
Pronounced ‘Nawlins. West End. Lake Ponchatrain.
French Quarter.

Drenched in sweat. Pretty voices of unknowing girls,
and a whole posse of ex-loves.
All with their own opinions. The ever was I there:
Irving, Martel, State, Haight, East Dr. Date Pl., Charlotte,
101st, Telegraph, Ashby, Rose, Speedway, 16th and all the Mission.

Tracy Erin Parker. The Hunter Virus.
Silk was never so smooth, till the tables
we’re turned over. Sixty bucks worth of chiva,
heroin to the floor. Dope spilled. Recent kisses
in Schwillard Park. Reminders
there was nothing there, anymore.

Kelly DeMartino. Shooting Star of 8th & Irving.

Laura Scaramastra. Envy of words and letter.
Familiar and wanting, to never have, because of:
Orientation. Speculation. Reiteration.
All of my desire now spent.

The Peanuts and Popcorn, forced themselves
on the Pixie with not yet an exit. From there
things got a bit unpleasant.

Nothing ever really quiet on the West Coast Front.
Morbid writings of sinister angels,
who says they can’t be bad?
All with the glare of unfed desire, to take but never give.
Nothing but heart, corrupt since innocence was around.

Elaine Charity Levy, live fucken love.
Or the element there of. Miracles
in a place called Gain-less-ville. Rains all summer.
Sought and surrendered, something to live for,
More than. All that. Not rid of who?
Like STP and the things we said. Bicycle rides,
And magazine stand arguments.

TrsexiT

PARTS OF MYSELF

Different parts of myself, revealed
tonight.

Passing through homes I’ll never own.
Watching women I’ll never fuck, pass by.
Witnessing car wrecks, with full coverage,
cell phones, and directory assistance.

Driver’s panic over scratches on Lexus bumpers.
Again rides I’ll never experience, luxury
forever out of my grasp.

Families I’ll never be part of.
So much taken for granted.

Different parts of myself, revealed
Tonight.

What big rooms they must have?
How that shit must smell like roses,
and be wrapped in Victoria’s Secret.
Wonder what their premiums cost?
Is there any dysfunction?
Slowly the plastic façade
of credit and mortgage
sheds it skin.

All these desires for more.
Were found satiated
at the end of a syringe.

It is there this tale must begin.
Unwind. Spires of things
they couldn’t live through.

Different parts of myself, revealed
tonight.

A grand opening of sorts.
Red bricked and shingled into personal hellholes.
It won’t make a bit of difference.

Hope you cry out loud at the scratches,
your Lexus suffered.
Hope you husband cheats on you.
Hope your have to re-finance.
Hope your kids beat you.
Hope you remember where you haven’t come from,
nor will ever be.
Hope you get some hustle.

Cause one day you’re gonna need it.
Like the less I am and always will be.
Divisible by zero.

The parts of myself you’ll disdain.
Are the very things that kept me going.
When all else had failed.
Here the Lazy-boy of the mind makes ready a seat,
for false pride. False prizes. False endings.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

RAGE ANGELS

We rage against the angels.
Hit the gas instead of the brake pedal.
Never know slow like caution and all of those things
lost in the winds of our kind.
Storming the beaches of our demise.
Standing there dripping in the doubt of what’s left.
Of us, them, and the world that surrounds us.
Stripped of our gimmicks and substance.
Bare and embarrassed.

Never enough for a photo op.
Never enough to write off.
Never enough to stand out.

Where are the visionaries?
Where are the mad men?
Herded like cattle in the subways of tomorrow.
Brainwashed in three-piece suits with psychotropic answers.
For a chemically better today. All their visions
have been renamed delusions.

PC terms for a shattered scribblers.
Gatherings of three or more,
considered terrorist activity.

We rage against the angels. It’s in our duality.
We scream and wave at balance as it swings by.
The pendulum of our penultimate emotion.
Something to strive for in the paints and pens of creation.

Foul-mouthed with sinister story telling on our minds.
Making caffeine the nectar of conversation gods.

We rage against the angels. As if we had nothing better to do.
Better than any tuition paid education.
Complete with laughter and humiliation.

He sat down time and time again to rally around the obscene.
He found something intriguing about our shtick for shock.

We were pushing limits on an audible level.
While you were at home doing the same with oiled color,
and bound canvas. Like your subject matter.
Bondage. To each of the boredoms and pains.
That can only be driven back to their caves with a sick sense of
humor,
and a pledge not to take yourself so seriously.

It is here that time remains to remind us it can be frozen.
It is here we claim days and brag about years, but wake up
and put our pants on the same. One leg at a time.
Our shit stinking all the way to the bank.
Where in lies the last ego of need.
Much like women, you can't live with our without it.

We rage against the angels. Cause we've been given an option.
Lighten the fuck up, or die drowning in the seriousness of it all.
This piece has no agenda, nor explanation.
It came off my head, and found a place to rest.
Sick to death of feathers, halo's, and newly skin pressed judges
in the guise of peers.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

SKID ROW MERIT BADGE

This is where my hate begins:
scratching, certain lettered meetings
out of the guide. Directories.

Woman aren’t the only gender that backstab.

You understand, missing
like a face on a milk carton, tolerance
like the word powerless, and all the philosophical
bullshit, that follows it.

(Remind me after writing this piece of shock
to toss the pen and move along,
there’s nothing to read here)

This is where my hate ends:
Kneeling, both morning and night,
it’s the in-between that kills, praying
for patience, and begging
for forgiveness.

This is where we change, this is where we
are allowed to abstain. If you were like me,
if I was like you, we would
find some common ground.

Yet I am and your not. Your mouth keeps building words
into overheard clichés, and mine
keeps going to the book. Text that hasn’t been changed.

Who becomes more religious?

This I continually ask myself, weighing
out the differences, between the gutter
and one hour a day for the rest of my life.

The other twenty-three I’m allowed to breathe.

Escaping to my headphones, Turkish cigarettes, and
Star-fucked caffeine. Running to
my God buzz and Sky Boss, it’s all so incorporated.

This is where we separate the spiritual from religious.
This is where the priest is accredited with confessions.
This is where the defected find victory in defeat.
This is where we brag about how bad it was.

Like it was some sort of Skid Row Merit Badge.

If you could hear the things I’ve heard, in my
magnificent ego in reverse, not only have
I listened but I have spoken. Them. These. Things.
In my self-deprecating manner.

If it was only one and a half inches, it would still be better than,
the man who had to have his sewn back on.

And I’m not returning my integrity, much less
the bronze medallion, I didn’t ask for in the first place.
What do the digits rising on the calendar signify?
Another twenty-four seven I could’ve fucked up at an instant.
Given what’s between running things up here, and
what it’s concluded before.

If my hate ends and begins, why on so much does it depend?
Power given and returned in the face of the obvious.

If there was a position of neutrality: It was
the equal counterpart friendly nemesis, who met me
on the playground, clenching fists, talking shit, acting as if
we were both going to do something. Yet, in a split second
were captivated by the predecessor of all action,
internal and external, Fear. Running the opposite direction
as we always had done. Our whole lives, it was what stared back
from the mirror that met us halfway. Scared us most.

These are the times of redundancy in departments dead lined.
Seats earned through dues paid a long time ago. I got my scars,
how about you?

These are the times of cotton in mouths or ears.
These are the times no one tells them to shut the fuck up,
stroking them with stories of the golden age.
Tease them with the: “If I wanted to know how fuck up my life,
I would ask you.” line.

Exit Trs0? Hopeless

STRIDE

I am hitting my stride.
I am reaching out and taking words from thin air,
making them hostages.
For my own demented use.

I am up and down in a mixing bowl of sound.
Where the occasional scream for help escapes,
caught in a flurry of fuck’s and shit’s.

Do you remember the first time you felt love?
How tainted now is it?

All these years later
a tambourine of recognition
on an album not heard
in almost two decades.

A felt tip crushed syndrome, of pushing down and suffocation.
Trying to make the square round.

I’ve got great phrases. Like spoiled baker’s dozen.
Not one single shell cracked.

Does all your doubt amount to jack?
At the end of the day.
As you wipe the regret,
from the ass you’ve been,
and may be again.

I am hitting my stride.
I am doing cartwheels down the median on Veteran’s boulevard.
Through my oncoming past, to my Mardis Gras future.
Never know what’s gonna occur,
but it will be chaos for sure.

I’ve found new material in scaring them off.
I’ve found it’s better when they don’t like me,
Cause when they do it’s fake as fuck anyway.
I’ve found they are words in passing hinging
on an opportunity to climb the ladder of fraudulent bravado.
Our merit badges withstanding. Our warrants outstanding.
Our fields a barren mindscape of do’s and don’ts and did.
Worse than. As you can imagine.

I am hitting my stride.
Taking a body count.
Keeping a walk off clock.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
So I can smoke the last cigarette, call it a night,
exit to my measly existence
between Lockheed Boulevard and Del Ray Avenue.

Just another drunk. Without a drink.

It’s funny, they need me as I need them.
To continue this chain of days at a time.
Shackled to slogans as old as the walls.
So we might have a chance
to take a stab at some sort of life.

If you could picture the fire in St. Elmo’s eyes.
That solid night the avenue looked endless.
Life held some sort of tangible purpose.
The citadel of sobriety was waiting for me.
As it always had been. Shifting locations.
Like I change resentments.

Do you remember the first time you felt there was,
a way out?
Chips melting in your mouth, knees breaking as they bend.
Motives like the wind.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

GOT IT I

I GOT IT.

All the clutter of our material existence,
chained to whatever belief system we’ve been force-fed.
Shattered like rice and pop cans across three-piece suits
and ticker tape hysteria.

I GOT IT.

All the paper dropping visual images of oriental persuasion,
and dead end tradition. Silk screen haunting of a writer drowning.
While heckler’s become part of the opera.

I GOT IT.

Animated executions of what could’ve been, an idiot savant
all dressed up with somewhere to go, actually pinching himself,
to convince himself he wasn’t sleeping.
Cause this once nothingness of a heartbeat
was escorting a gorgeous moon pie to a trace of a performance
of a glimpse of spirits eventuality.
At the picture perfect Kennedy Center Coca-Cola vending machines.

I GOT IT.

Of all the people on this planet, I understood
as only a few could. The equation of displacement.
The confusion equals A plus doubt equals B, minus C
which is no physical proof, results in D.
Human’s defining characteristic, defiance.
Then along comes the Big G. God.

I GOT IT.

The insanity of stability, and sha-bang of a piece heard.
Or performed. Or Read. Or Spewed. If there is such a word.
For the first time.

I GOT IT.

The building of a presentation that might not of meant
jack shit, to everyone but us. In our black and white surreal
snapshots
of life as we lived it. Life as we know it.
With him, her, it whatever you want to call it.

I GOT IT.

Like a convict understands the knock of a judge’s mallet,
and the emergency room technician hears the sound of a flat line.
The shattering sonic boom of bad acid.
The liquid sense of shit not only floats but it washes off.
Filthy as we are. In our heads lacking the thinking before reaction.

I GOT IT.

The epilogue, prologue, and interlude of love.
Tossing the sheets aside presenting it’s own primal dance.
Physical manifestations aimed at relief, with chewing lips,
darting tongues, grinding hips, interchangeable parts.
Not included are the Oh! God’s! and Jesus Christ’s!
All to the tune of erratic breathing.

I GOT IT.

As did she at the second. Leaving behind
an echo of an experience, that I had actually been there.
The displaced among the despised.
A gutter punk like me,
at the JFK center for performing arts.

At least that’s what the recorded announcements
over intercoms repeatedly told me,
While riding the escalator.

A stage old millennium.
A whole neighborhood of trash waiting.
A god awful meeting in Arlington, where I had never heard the term.
Morphine suppositories. Wished I never had.

I GOT IT.

Wondering if that would one day be me. Walking off,
after leaving flowers for a female, he could have no more.
Though I had pointers for suicide. That one day
might come in handy.

His name should have been despair not Dave.
It’s all his frown shouted to me silently.
As we crossed paths for the second,
And probably last time.

Heard he too was a writer, living in his parent’s basement.
Along with the adjective loser.
What a terrible lot the literate have to bear.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

IT’S AS IF

It’s as if
The only one in the audience has left
and management asked me to leave the building.
All the signals you were sending, I would’ve landed anyhow
I’d run out of fuel circling the control tower.

It’s as if
We are writing to appease the gods of self.
Caked in the dust of our discontent.
Pigpen has nothing on us.

It’s as if
We had taken the Pepsi Challenge,
but it was rigged. They were both Coke.
The host shuffling Dixie paper cups,
like a street hustler on Vanderbilt.
Can you guess which product will satiate our taste,
for the extraordinaire.

It’s as if
These are echoes of letters.
Resounding with words we’ve never heard.
Mere utterances in cadence with our low self-esteem.

It’s as if
The replacement in remedy became exclusive.
Nothing could take place of you.
All the methods and manner in which we attempted
to break from the truth that wouldn’t work.

It’s as if
Another poem won’t make a fuck.
You keep writing cause it’s in your bones,
and you drank too much fucken milk.
Scattered sentences. Fragments of our past collapsing.
Keep licking the envelopes sticking the stamps and returning
to the same address, like that will make a difference.
Long runs and short runs and re-runs. Will all end up where we are.
Tied to that same dread that did us in so long ago.

It’s as if
God made it a habit of breaking our balls.
Whether we we’re right or wrong. Leaving us to figure out
The eternal enigma of everything happens for a reason.
When we can’t even find somebody in Burbank, how the fuck
are we going to find the Almighty and his Omnipotence.
Drowning in a sea of
pill popping erection remedies. Impotent as baby’s at birth.
Fresh from the womb. Both physically and spiritually.
Distance does its damage.
The U.S. Post office only serves as a means to an end.

It’s as if
Every time I jump the gun, I shoot myself in the foot.
Forget putting it in my mouth.
Something’s still in there, it’s perpetual.
It spans time and distance and persistence.

It’s as if
The metaphors ran dry, the silence
spoke up, and the fat lady had sung
a Lee Hazelwood/ Nancy Sinatra song about
some velvet morning.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

ME IN PIECES

They are all pieces of me, that jigsaw inside.
Twist and turn, grind and yearn.
Every time you talk that way, say those things.
Those certain words. The flip flop in the gut.
The uncertainty in entitlement.

I think back to what I was like then,
at that amount of days away,
from what it was I normally did.

How everything was awe and wonderment.
That I wasn’t locked up, that I wasn’t coming to in the bushes.
Then came the anger and rage, and constant change.
Consistent to this day.

How the food got me high.
How I couldn’t keep the soap out of my eyes.
How I would mind fuck myself with what order,
to use personal hygiene products.

Again the phrases she uses, the things I can’t do,
to make everything all right.

An algorithm of Euclid’s and mine, love.
For this that. The pieces of us. The repetitive calculations.
The greatest common divisor of two numbers.
The special method of solving a certain kind of problem.
Through prayer and honesty and tolerance.

The solution I know, and the fucked if you do or don’t,
it some times gets worse before it gets better syndrome.

They are all pieces of me; I can’t arrange to fit,
the not actual size as seen on TV dream.
In which she is a piece, that if I had my way
will bend, break and shuffle to fit next to me.
As it feels so complete, away from the uncertainty in entitlement.

Must we all have careers?
Must we all renounce the respected title of barfly?

Where the man Chinaski asks, or thinks, to himself
which at this point, or when it occurred, is not really clear.
Who made up this rule, we all must be
mailmen, milkmen, factory workers, secretaries, lawyers,
doctors, hang glider pilots. The genius in insanity.

They are all pieces of me that I will surrender,
at her simple touch, or cocky look, the whimper
and her priceless facial expressions. Asking are you not
the tough roofless ruthless gutter punk,
you only thought you were.

If I could make the floor tiles ripple.
If I could make the folding chairs buckle.
If I could make the roof collapse.

Then Utopia would burn us with boredom,
and kill us with it’s routine.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

NOTES FOR SFJ#9

Sick of writing about my life, it bores me.
Want to publish her stuff, it makes mine,
look and smell, like crap.
Spin Cycle Productions Inc.

The Polish guys next door are incarcerated vegans,
proud of their heritage. Paczowski and Zblweski?
They always offer you a shot of coffee, remind you
not to flush.

Everyone thinks I’m with the Aryan Brotherhood.
Since I shave my head and sport of goatee.

Little do they know I’m a Zen Buddhist Monk,
in the making. I make it Zen, cause
being just Buddhist is a little extreme. Lame. Plain.

Just as Tich, he writes about stone boys and gathas,
whatever the hell they are. The Zen means
‘Now and then’, I might find pieces of Nirvana.
Never all at once. That might be too much.

Back to the Pollock’s, I get their sugar packets,
and camaraderie. One of them is a post-Jerryhead.
The other an Op Ivy house punk. Who says:
“They call me Fork Boy!”
I’d never heard of him.

Me I’m opportunistic, if there is such a word.
Will act accordingly, like a head or crusty.
To get my hustle on.  I sure can talk good shit.
Squat or rot rain-blow brother, pass the syringe.
Brother bear, bro, haven’t  I seen you in the Mission?

Like Ronnie used to drill into my head:
“You don’t have to lie to me, I’ll still be your friend.”
I think he was Polish as well, he shot himself
in the head, years ago. So the story goes,
When heard from these lips. Actually I don’t know
What the fuck happened to him.

We saw Wang Chung in ’87,
at the River Parks Amphitheater, T-Town.

My new bunkie is Hispanic, he knows little English,
he teaches me new gang signs. As well as Rodriguez,
his other friend. Who is from Honduras, he’s my dog,
o so we say. He calls his girls “bitches’”,
and I’m sure they call him bastard, or “Bendaho”
behind his back.

The things I’ve heard, they’ll do for a rock,
Crack, they call it.

That OG Crawford swears he knows me, from somewhere.
He’s vintage ’47 model, and his memories going. Cause,
I’ve never seen that man before in my life.

Then again I’m a defective ’69 model, that’s been
flooded with so many different kinds of dope,
I can no longer tell wrong for right, much less
right from left.
Then again, we could’ve worked together at Sally house,
but then again, I can’t see myself passing
A drug test.

Most of the A.M. kitchen crew despise me
for my foul habits, rash mouth, and punk attitude. Their just coming
to
work, and have just woke up.
I’m just about to get off, and have been up all night.
They’ve seen me picking my nose, and scratching my ass.
Maybe they think twice, before eating breakfast.
I’ve got one word: Gloves. Enough said.

TrsexiT’99

LONG NOW

It won’t be long now,
till liposuction of the soul.
Mad scientists with modified dental tools.
Performing excavations of defects and regrets.
For some price ending in ninety-nine.
At some strip mall in mindless retail America.

We’ve turned outties into innies.
Augmented the teats, nipped and tucked our vessels
beyond recognition, all in the name of attraction.
I don’t care if it’s a chic now, God meant for it to be a dude.

It won’t be long now,
till they’re drilling into our coconuts.
Plucking those elements of our minds that we find displeasing.
There will be all sorts of reasons and methods.
The ones court ordered, or arm twisted
by a significant other. Bought and paid for
with a sugar daddy’s check card.

I can see me now strapped down now,
restraints and bandaged straight-jackets.
Foaming at the mouth. While the gumball machine diploma
on the wall stares me down.
As some overnight doctor finishes the portal he’s drilled into my
head.

An entrance to the madness. Reaching for an ice cream scoop
to remove the lust. There’s so much of it.
Oozing out of my skin like bad sweat.
A cum drenched fool stumbling over his own drool.
Leaving a saliva snail trail all along the broad avenue
to the corner of sexy and beauty.

Cause after all it’s conditions and causes
that are the root of our problems.

It won’t be long now,
till we are just feeling less drones,
examples of before and after.
Shackled to ghosts of memories of what it felt like.
to think for ourselves.
All the horrors that resulted from our decision making process.
vanquished.

I can see the adverts now. Commercials about removal.

Had it with dishonesty?
Sick to death of fear?
To proud to make this call?
Stuck at the all you can eat buffet
at the franchise known as McGluttony?

Have we got the cure for you, most insurance accepted,
financing available, evil credit seeps everywhere.
In our quest for the perfect human being we’ve altered the genes,
spliced the soul with our sick science.
Modern day psychological Frankenstein’s.
Walking blindly to a psychotropic pace.

It won’t be long now,
till all original thought is outlawed,
banished to a pile of schisms.
Burned with books that once meant something.

There will come a day when reading will be punishable by execution.
There will come a day when writing will be a guaranteed death
sentence.
There will come a day when rogue literate minions
will open the shades on this ill society, unleashing the tyranny
of truthful pens and fateful pasts.

It won’t be long now,
till the rebellion is herded like Jews in Hitler’s Germany.
Dosed with meds and straddled to the operating chairs of are new
improved
America.
Till then I will scribble with all my might of what it was like, to write
when
somebody actually read.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

ITEMS OF INTERNAL CONTENTION

There are things I no longer inflate with the trappings
of false hope. Of them I have made a mental list;
Most of them I can't easily forget. First and foremost.
Domesticated unmarital bliss in eastern states. A love,
no longer fucken alive. In her eyes. Second,
Without hesitance, that if the first half
of this forsaken life, was so fucken rotten, surely
the second half would make up for it. Twenty-nine
and four months and twenty-seven days from thirty.
Third as in C, see this number on my wrist? Staying out
of incarceration for more then seven days
After my release. Missed my date
with an Alameda County judge.
Locked up in SF doing my SWAP time.

TrsexiT

Missed Connections

Trixie that Pixie, and Misses B, no longer with us:

Peddlers of table dances, taking dead presidents
in exchange for, glances of flesh.
Bi-sexual tendencies. Had fifth of vodka, in route
to house by tracks. Ten dollars closer
to getting weed, when Johnny Law intervened.

Me: Looking like Charles Manson in orange county pajamas.
You: In the audience at the arraignment,
laughing your ass off.

9/10 to 7/27 on 5/26: What happened?
Not rid of who? Separate summers.
From SW 20th to Telegraph. Long distance
telephone pole crucifixions. No charity,
in the live fucken love.

Sometimes is what you always said:
Pulling sunflowers from your ass.
Hope your middle name.

Me: Looking halfway to dead, passed out
in the back of a green Buick.
You: I know why you left. Did you really
burn all the letters in the basement at Shartel?

Fabio looking messiah named JC: Forget your dad
and his Holy Ghost, get with me. Skin for skin
I can give you the keys to kingdom. In 30 minutes or less.
Mimic the Memnoch.

Me: Bald dome, red skin, perky horns, hot breath,
tail to match. Will shave the van dyke if you like.
Piercing optional.

Mr. Exit, where is the product?: Those two tabs of X.
That we’re supposed to be in my mailbox.
Will slice and dice, if no cash back.
Psycho Greg and Allison. Not so ok in the city,
nor the ‘burbs.

Todd Robert, this is your father:
You we’re supposed to call when released from jail.
Has been 3 months. Mother thinks your high  again.
Brother wants to know, is it safe
to use his name in California. Don’t bother calling collect,
we won’t accept.

Adrienne with 2 N’s and an E:
Supposed to hold up fence at Haste.
Got all caught up in Dope Opera Drama.
Can you forgive and forget?
Didn’t mean to stand you up.
Me: Bewildered and dizzy leprechaun.

10/16 Hottie on the Latte with shaved head, goatee,
and green eyes: Being shoved into the back seat of a Berkeley
squad car
after being handcuffed, in front of Amoeba records.

Me: Cherry red lips, fire engine red hair, matching eyes, and slim
figure.
Looking like Harlequin, the Joker’s
girlfriend. Can you make bail?

Long abandoned daughter seeks real Dad:
Will give up Barney, but not Iguana.
Sick of step father high on crank,
and Mom spending more time with his kids,
not me. Sincerely, Jesse.

Vampyre to Mad Typer: Why the fuck did you leave me,
in Los Angeles, with all these reformed
Hell’s Angels?

TrsexiT
NO JAILHOUSE GODS

You who hold my words, you who knew what
I once was. Tell me again,
that I might never know. What I had,
where it went. Cursing Eastern Fables,
and raping Christian Parables. In jail
I won’t find God, but I hope
He finds me. Hitting my knees.
Banishing my disease. Afraid of
liking incarceration. As this
long abstinence, is returning me
To human, or something like it.
In whispered prayers. I ask for
The strength, if and when
I get out of here, to never
Come back again.

TrsexiT’98



THE EX'S

Stoned at the emergency exit, my list of profound ex’s.
Those relationships which most altered and changed
my definition of love, existence, and reason for
Living. From birth to now.

In the 6th grade Katie Jones kissed me
behind and between the vending machines
at the local YMCA, after swim team practice.

Maria Lulewitz, the forever grade school crush.
Who I would bombard with stuffed animals,
brought all the way from Vegas.
Circus, Circus side shows. In anonymity.
Anonymously. We would go bowling once,
and subsequently I would get beat up
by her Jewish boyfriend Bluestien,
and his pal Banting.

Amy Fischer, sophomore psychology infatuation,
that never went anywhere but endless words,
and never a hint or suggestion or response.
Just Long John Silver’s. How she liked to eat there.

Nancy Gayle Sapp. No longer Scovill. Abandonment
on both parts. The word divorce, marriage, and childbirth.
Jessica Anne. Unless she’s changed that too.

Gwendolyn Hope Johnson, saw the sober boy
turn into an aged beast.

Daphne Leigh Porterfield, Miss Peanuts and Popcorn.
A 27,000 dollar trust fund, one hurricane named Andrew,
and a place called New Orleans.
Pronounced ‘Nawlins. West End. Lake Ponchatrain.
French Quarter.

Drenched in sweat. Pretty voices of unknowing girls,
and a whole posse of ex-loves.
All with their own opinions. The ever was I there:
Irving, Martel, State, Haight, East Dr. Date Pl., Charlotte,
101st, Telegraph, Ashby, Rose, Speedway, 16th and all the Mission.

Tracy Erin Parker. The Hunter Virus.
Silk was never so smooth, till the tables
we’re turned over. Sixty bucks worth of chiva,
heroin to the floor. Dope spilled. Recent kisses
in Schwillard Park. Reminders
there was nothing there, anymore.

Kelly DeMartino. Shooting Star of 8th & Irving.

Laura Scaramastra. Envy of words and letter.
Familiar and wanting, to never have, because of:
Orientation. Speculation. Reiteration.
All of my desire now spent.

The Peanuts and Popcorn, forced themselves
on the Pixie with not yet an exit. From there
things got a bit unpleasant.

Nothing ever really quiet on the West Coast Front.
Morbid writings of sinister angels,
who says they can’t be bad?
All with the glare of unfed desire, to take but never give.
Nothing but heart, corrupt since innocence was around.

Elaine Charity Levy, live fucken love.
Or the element there of. Miracles
in a place called Gain-less-ville. Rains all summer.
Sought and surrendered, something to live for,
More than. All that. Not rid of who?
Like STP and the things we said. Bicycle rides,
And magazine stand arguments.

TrsexiT

PARTS OF MYSELF

Different parts of myself, revealed
tonight.

Passing through homes I’ll never own.
Watching women I’ll never fuck, pass by.
Witnessing car wrecks, with full coverage,
cell phones, and directory assistance.

Driver’s panic over scratches on Lexus bumpers.
Again rides I’ll never experience, luxury
forever out of my grasp.

Families I’ll never be part of.
So much taken for granted.

Different parts of myself, revealed
Tonight.

What big rooms they must have?
How that shit must smell like roses,
and be wrapped in Victoria’s Secret.
Wonder what their premiums cost?
Is there any dysfunction?
Slowly the plastic façade
of credit and mortgage
sheds it skin.

All these desires for more.
Were found satiated
at the end of a syringe.

It is there this tale must begin.
Unwind. Spires of things
they couldn’t live through.

Different parts of myself, revealed
tonight.

A grand opening of sorts.
Red bricked and shingled into personal hellholes.
It won’t make a bit of difference.

Hope you cry out loud at the scratches,
your Lexus suffered.
Hope you husband cheats on you.
Hope your have to re-finance.
Hope your kids beat you.
Hope you remember where you haven’t come from,
nor will ever be.
Hope you get some hustle.

Cause one day you’re gonna need it.
Like the less I am and always will be.
Divisible by zero.

The parts of myself you’ll disdain.
Are the very things that kept me going.
When all else had failed.
Here the Lazy-boy of the mind makes ready a seat,
for false pride. False prizes. False endings.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

RAGE ANGELS

We rage against the angels.
Hit the gas instead of the brake pedal.
Never know slow like caution and all of those things
lost in the winds of our kind.
Storming the beaches of our demise.
Standing there dripping in the doubt of what’s left.
Of us, them, and the world that surrounds us.
Stripped of our gimmicks and substance.
Bare and embarrassed.

Never enough for a photo op.
Never enough to write off.
Never enough to stand out.

Where are the visionaries?
Where are the mad men?
Herded like cattle in the subways of tomorrow.
Brainwashed in three-piece suits with psychotropic answers.
For a chemically better today. All their visions
have been renamed delusions.

PC terms for a shattered scribblers.
Gatherings of three or more,
considered terrorist activity.

We rage against the angels. It’s in our duality.
We scream and wave at balance as it swings by.
The pendulum of our penultimate emotion.
Something to strive for in the paints and pens of creation.

Foul-mouthed with sinister story telling on our minds.
Making caffeine the nectar of conversation gods.

We rage against the angels. As if we had nothing better to do.
Better than any tuition paid education.
Complete with laughter and humiliation.

He sat down time and time again to rally around the obscene.
He found something intriguing about our shtick for shock.

We were pushing limits on an audible level.
While you were at home doing the same with oiled color,
and bound canvas. Like your subject matter.
Bondage. To each of the boredoms and pains.
That can only be driven back to their caves with a sick sense of
humor,
and a pledge not to take yourself so seriously.

It is here that time remains to remind us it can be frozen.
It is here we claim days and brag about years, but wake up
and put our pants on the same. One leg at a time.
Our shit stinking all the way to the bank.
Where in lies the last ego of need.
Much like women, you can't live with our without it.

We rage against the angels. Cause we've been given an option.
Lighten the fuck up, or die drowning in the seriousness of it all.
This piece has no agenda, nor explanation.
It came off my head, and found a place to rest.
Sick to death of feathers, halo's, and newly skin pressed judges
in the guise of peers.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

SKID ROW MERIT BADGE

This is where my hate begins:
scratching, certain lettered meetings
out of the guide. Directories.

Woman aren’t the only gender that backstab.

You understand, missing
like a face on a milk carton, tolerance
like the word powerless, and all the philosophical
bullshit, that follows it.

(Remind me after writing this piece of shock
to toss the pen and move along,
there’s nothing to read here)

This is where my hate ends:
Kneeling, both morning and night,
it’s the in-between that kills, praying
for patience, and begging
for forgiveness.

This is where we change, this is where we
are allowed to abstain. If you were like me,
if I was like you, we would
find some common ground.

Yet I am and your not. Your mouth keeps building words
into overheard clichés, and mine
keeps going to the book. Text that hasn’t been changed.

Who becomes more religious?

This I continually ask myself, weighing
out the differences, between the gutter
and one hour a day for the rest of my life.

The other twenty-three I’m allowed to breathe.

Escaping to my headphones, Turkish cigarettes, and
Star-fucked caffeine. Running to
my God buzz and Sky Boss, it’s all so incorporated.

This is where we separate the spiritual from religious.
This is where the priest is accredited with confessions.
This is where the defected find victory in defeat.
This is where we brag about how bad it was.

Like it was some sort of Skid Row Merit Badge.

If you could hear the things I’ve heard, in my
magnificent ego in reverse, not only have
I listened but I have spoken. Them. These. Things.
In my self-deprecating manner.

If it was only one and a half inches, it would still be better than,
the man who had to have his sewn back on.

And I’m not returning my integrity, much less
the bronze medallion, I didn’t ask for in the first place.
What do the digits rising on the calendar signify?
Another twenty-four seven I could’ve fucked up at an instant.
Given what’s between running things up here, and
what it’s concluded before.

If my hate ends and begins, why on so much does it depend?
Power given and returned in the face of the obvious.

If there was a position of neutrality: It was
the equal counterpart friendly nemesis, who met me
on the playground, clenching fists, talking shit, acting as if
we were both going to do something. Yet, in a split second
were captivated by the predecessor of all action,
internal and external, Fear. Running the opposite direction
as we always had done. Our whole lives, it was what stared back
from the mirror that met us halfway. Scared us most.

These are the times of redundancy in departments dead lined.
Seats earned through dues paid a long time ago. I got my scars,
how about you?

These are the times of cotton in mouths or ears.
These are the times no one tells them to shut the fuck up,
stroking them with stories of the golden age.
Tease them with the: “If I wanted to know how fuck up my life,
I would ask you.” line.

Exit Trs0? Hopeless

STRIDE

I am hitting my stride.
I am reaching out and taking words from thin air,
making them hostages.
For my own demented use.

I am up and down in a mixing bowl of sound.
Where the occasional scream for help escapes,
caught in a flurry of fuck’s and shit’s.

Do you remember the first time you felt love?
How tainted now is it?

All these years later
a tambourine of recognition
on an album not heard
in almost two decades.

A felt tip crushed syndrome, of pushing down and suffocation.
Trying to make the square round.

I’ve got great phrases. Like spoiled baker’s dozen.
Not one single shell cracked.

Does all your doubt amount to jack?
At the end of the day.
As you wipe the regret,
from the ass you’ve been,
and may be again.

I am hitting my stride.
I am doing cartwheels down the median on Veteran’s boulevard.
Through my oncoming past, to my Mardis Gras future.
Never know what’s gonna occur,
but it will be chaos for sure.

I’ve found new material in scaring them off.
I’ve found it’s better when they don’t like me,
Cause when they do it’s fake as fuck anyway.
I’ve found they are words in passing hinging
on an opportunity to climb the ladder of fraudulent bravado.
Our merit badges withstanding. Our warrants outstanding.
Our fields a barren mindscape of do’s and don’ts and did.
Worse than. As you can imagine.

I am hitting my stride.
Taking a body count.
Keeping a walk off clock.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
So I can smoke the last cigarette, call it a night,
exit to my measly existence
between Lockheed Boulevard and Del Ray Avenue.

Just another drunk. Without a drink.

It’s funny, they need me as I need them.
To continue this chain of days at a time.
Shackled to slogans as old as the walls.
So we might have a chance
to take a stab at some sort of life.

If you could picture the fire in St. Elmo’s eyes.
That solid night the avenue looked endless.
Life held some sort of tangible purpose.
The citadel of sobriety was waiting for me.
As it always had been. Shifting locations.
Like I change resentments.

Do you remember the first time you felt there was,
a way out?
Chips melting in your mouth, knees breaking as they bend.
Motives like the wind.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

I GOT IT

I GOT IT.

All the clutter of our material existence,
chained to whatever belief system we’ve been force-fed.
Shattered like rice and pop cans across three-piece suits
and ticker tape hysteria.

I GOT IT.

All the paper dropping visual images of oriental persuasion,
and dead end tradition. Silk screen haunting of a writer drowning.
While heckler’s become part of the opera.

I GOT IT.

Animated executions of what could’ve been, an idiot savant
all dressed up with somewhere to go, actually pinching himself,
to convince himself he wasn’t sleeping.
Cause this once nothingness of a heartbeat
was escorting a gorgeous moon pie to a trace of a performance
of a glimpse of spirits eventuality.
At the picture perfect Kennedy Center Coca-Cola vending machines.

I GOT IT.

Of all the people on this planet, I understood
as only a few could. The equation of displacement.
The confusion equals A plus doubt equals B, minus C
which is no physical proof, results in D.
Human’s defining characteristic, defiance.
Then along comes the Big G. God.

I GOT IT.

The insanity of stability, and sha-bang of a piece heard.
Or performed. Or Read. Or Spewed. If there is such a word.
For the first time.

I GOT IT.

The building of a presentation that might not of meant
jack shit, to everyone but us. In our black and white surreal
snapshots
of life as we lived it. Life as we know it.
With him, her, it whatever you want to call it.

I GOT IT.

Like a convict understands the knock of a judge’s mallet,
and the emergency room technician hears the sound of a flat line.
The shattering sonic boom of bad acid.
The liquid sense of shit not only floats but it washes off.
Filthy as we are. In our heads lacking the thinking before reaction.

I GOT IT.

The epilogue, prologue, and interlude of love.
Tossing the sheets aside presenting it’s own primal dance.
Physical manifestations aimed at relief, with chewing lips,
darting tongues, grinding hips, interchangeable parts.
Not included are the Oh! God’s! and Jesus Christ’s!
All to the tune of erratic breathing.

I GOT IT.

As did she at the second. Leaving behind
an echo of an experience, that I had actually been there.
The displaced among the despised.
A gutter punk like me,
at the JFK center for performing arts.

At least that’s what the recorded announcements
over intercoms repeatedly told me,
While riding the escalator.

A stage old millennium.
A whole neighborhood of trash waiting.
A god awful meeting in Arlington, where I had never heard the term.
Morphine suppositories. Wished I never had.

I GOT IT.

Wondering if that would one day be me. Walking off,
after leaving flowers for a female, he could have no more.
Though I had pointers for suicide. That one day
might come in handy.

His name should have been despair not Dave.
It’s all his frown shouted to me silently.
As we crossed paths for the second,
And probably last time.

Heard he too was a writer, living in his parent’s basement.
Along with the adjective loser.
What a terrible lot the literate have to bear.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

IT’S AS IF

It’s as if
The only one in the audience has left
and management asked me to leave the building.
All the signals you were sending, I would’ve landed anyhow
I’d run out of fuel circling the control tower.

It’s as if
We are writing to appease the gods of self.
Caked in the dust of our discontent.
Pigpen has nothing on us.

It’s as if
We had taken the Pepsi Challenge,
but it was rigged. They were both Coke.
The host shuffling Dixie paper cups,
like a street hustler on Vanderbilt.
Can you guess which product will satiate our taste,
for the extraordinaire.

It’s as if
These are echoes of letters.
Resounding with words we’ve never heard.
Mere utterances in cadence with our low self-esteem.

It’s as if
The replacement in remedy became exclusive.
Nothing could take place of you.
All the methods and manner in which we attempted
to break from the truth that wouldn’t work.

It’s as if
Another poem won’t make a fuck.
You keep writing cause it’s in your bones,
and you drank too much fucken milk.
Scattered sentences. Fragments of our past collapsing.
Keep licking the envelopes sticking the stamps and returning
to the same address, like that will make a difference.
Long runs and short runs and re-runs. Will all end up where we are.
Tied to that same dread that did us in so long ago.

It’s as if
God made it a habit of breaking our balls.
Whether we we’re right or wrong. Leaving us to figure out
The eternal enigma of everything happens for a reason.
When we can’t even find somebody in Burbank, how the fuck
are we going to find the Almighty and his Omnipotence.
Drowning in a sea of
pill popping erection remedies. Impotent as baby’s at birth.
Fresh from the womb. Both physically and spiritually.
Distance does its damage.
The U.S. Post office only serves as a means to an end.

It’s as if
Every time I jump the gun, I shoot myself in the foot.
Forget putting it in my mouth.
Something’s still in there, it’s perpetual.
It spans time and distance and persistence.

It’s as if
The metaphors ran dry, the silence
spoke up, and the fat lady had sung
a Lee Hazelwood/ Nancy Sinatra song about
some velvet morning.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

ME IN PIECES

They are all pieces of me, that jigsaw inside.
Twist and turn, grind and yearn.
Every time you talk that way, say those things.
Those certain words. The flip flop in the gut.
The uncertainty in entitlement.

I think back to what I was like then,
at that amount of days away,
from what it was I normally did.

How everything was awe and wonderment.
That I wasn’t locked up, that I wasn’t coming to in the bushes.
Then came the anger and rage, and constant change.
Consistent to this day.

How the food got me high.
How I couldn’t keep the soap out of my eyes.
How I would mind fuck myself with what order,
to use personal hygiene products.

Again the phrases she uses, the things I can’t do,
to make everything all right.

An algorithm of Euclid’s and mine, love.
For this that. The pieces of us. The repetitive calculations.
The greatest common divisor of two numbers.
The special method of solving a certain kind of problem.
Through prayer and honesty and tolerance.

The solution I know, and the fucked if you do or don’t,
it some times gets worse before it gets better syndrome.

They are all pieces of me; I can’t arrange to fit,
the not actual size as seen on TV dream.
In which she is a piece, that if I had my way
will bend, break and shuffle to fit next to me.
As it feels so complete, away from the uncertainty in entitlement.

Must we all have careers?
Must we all renounce the respected title of barfly?

Where the man Chinaski asks, or thinks, to himself
which at this point, or when it occurred, is not really clear.
Who made up this rule, we all must be
mailmen, milkmen, factory workers, secretaries, lawyers,
doctors, hang glider pilots. The genius in insanity.

They are all pieces of me that I will surrender,
at her simple touch, or cocky look, the whimper
and her priceless facial expressions. Asking are you not
the tough roofless ruthless gutter punk,
you only thought you were.

If I could make the floor tiles ripple.
If I could make the folding chairs buckle.
If I could make the roof collapse.

Then Utopia would burn us with boredom,
and kill us with it’s routine.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

POETIC HERE SAY

I crafted a poetic heresy between me and myself,
things we only thought we felt. Contriving
the conspiracy.

Against the rational. Against the normal.
Against our souls and what they have to say.

Bits and pieces of a tragedy, branded in the flesh
by the scars on the wrists of arms, held open wide
before thee. To bear witness too, this living, breathing,
walking, talking, atrocity.

Excuses too far from perfect. Alibis not present,
in the ever so tense present.
Another cigarette. Another seven minutes taken.
So they tell, for who were they give?
Wherever. Whenever. However.
I am losing rhyme to reason, sometimes
I think I never had it to begin with.
Guess that’s why they call it, common sense.

TrsexiT

ONCE BURDENED

We were burdened once,
with good looks, luck, and charm.
It didn’t take us long to get over that.
Our insincere youth, quickly became the noose
of old age, strangling us with
that perfected accomplice, Time.
What was taken for granted, was disposed
like hand-me-downs, and MTV.
Never to be cherished in the passing day.

I am the flaw in the kin.
I am the pestilent need,
Feeding the black cloud of mishap.
Rain now, Rain then.
When it will stop, is beyond me.

How I would like a drink so much for:
Lifted obsessions.
Quickshot recovery.
Ninety-day wonders.
The on in so and on.

Spiritual relief and Ex-Lax.
My girlfriend can tell you about that.
Now pondering the run, stuck in the still.
Life photographs. Wrinkling in scrapbooks.
So much to lose, nothing to gain.
That agony of anxiety, has become
my best friend, matching pace
with Father Time.

The solutions seems to have packed up,
left town, the prayers
have rearranged themselves,
ordered in advance by necessity.
Nothing is new about this, hanging on
by the hangnails.

All my efforts have amounted to something.
That is out of the range of description.
Sell this, sell that. Money is just money.
But everybody needs it, that’s why they call it
money. Easy for some to say,
hard for others to hear. Dole out dead presidents.
Toss mint paper at problems. Skip work.
Fear has me paralyzed.

TrsexiT’02

PISS CLEAN

Now the sugar in instant tea gets me buzzed, even on it
I binge. Staying up all night, getting goofy the next day on sleep
depravation. Now I read big blue books
and new and improved versions of King James
Basic instructions before leaving earth. Barely able
to take a joke. Giving the wrong person, the wrong term. Those are
fighting
words.
Nose shoved in paperbacks. From Cervante’s to Grisham.
Whatever else I can get my hands on, as long as it has
a last page. A majority of them don’t.
Now I keep a journal. On the backs of crossword puzzles. I’ve
entitled it,
“Piss Clean”.

TrsexiT

ENOUGH SMILES

There were enough smiles to make the weekend magnificent.
There was this feeling it could get better again,
and a subtle hint of greater things to come.
From new glasses to breakfast anytime,
and five dollar oral propositions at Indiana University.

There were enough smiles to make me believe again, what I saw
that made me fall. For you and all your antics.

From cabinet construction to side work to taking lives.
These are the memories that will become dreams about us.

I know it's in you to shine. I know I believe in you one more time.
I know I can also see the distractions and the way you stray.
I know holding your plastic won't stop you.
I know these measures we implement can be called enabling.

Inside I don't give a fuck. I saw enough smiles to make it all
worthwhile.

I beg of you to do what you don't want to when it comes to
meetings.
I beg of you to call Amy and others everyday.
I beg of you to give yourself this one last chance.

Before there are no more,
and circumstance swallows you whole.

Each time the water gets a little closer to our toes.
Each time you come up for air, one time there won't be any there.

So I beg of you, cherish those smiles, and five hours we had.
Like there was no tomorrow and only today.

I see you dashing towards greatness and doubling back in doubt.
I see you smirk, and frown, and smile all around.
I see these things in you I want to believe and do.

Like get published, as you would have showings.
Like fuck them all with your continued sobriety in spite of it all.
Like hand them their doubts on a silver platter
engraved with the inscription:
“I know you didn't think I'd make it, yet here I am!”

In their face, in their heads, in they’re after meeting
cigarettes and banter, and fellowship.
Fellow crap. Longfellow shit. Fuck a bunch of this.
.
There was enough smiles to bring back the scribbler.
There was enough smiles to make me wish the weekend never end,
and look forward to the next one.

Monday has come to give us reason to see Friday.
All those are days in-between, which we must take one at a time.

There will be dates, and dinners, and movies and bad concerts.
There will be cats, and paintings, and scraps of something’s.
There will be ashtrays, and coffee, and Splenda the sugar
substitute.
There will be good and bad encounters of the intimate kind.

But there will be none of that if we ever pick up again.
Thanks for the smiles this weekend. Thanks for the reminders.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

FALLING OR SHOOTING THEY'RE STILL STARS

Thought a lot about the role of victim, and whose shoes best fit.
Thought a lot about the night she screamed at me in front a group
of my
peers.

Never heard an apology for that. Aside from all the things I could
hang over
her head.
Aside from all the who's done who wrong? We have these absolute
moments.
Where we just get along. How is this to be explained, and who
defines love.
As now the pendulum swings back to my side of the court, and
where I'm at
fault.
For obviously my behaviors around other guys have reached new
levels,
hurting her feelings. So I take this silent vow to myself to admit
this character defect.
And not act in such a manner around her. Again. I've never taken
myself
seriously,
why start now?

Thought about how much we want this to work, that we almost
strangle it to
death.
Thought about the other night, and how what was supposed to be
blank
was ripped out and violated. A simple sacred trust.
Thought about how I can look past this.

Remembering the way she scolded me about my time, and merit
badges,
and how I'd asked her to just get out. Out of my life.
She's hard headed like me, and that wasn't going to happen.
So despite all the warnings of all the peers in my fucken network,
I'm giving it another chance.

Now am I getting into the victim seat, or is it always her that's being
hurt?
These are questions for the eight ball analyst sitting at home on
the shelf.

I did make an attempt, and vow to make more. I can't always please
everybody.
Sometimes you’re the best boyfriend in the world.
Other times you've got the market cornered on asshole.

Thought about those glimpses of her inside happiness,
like that Saturday night in Philly are first time round.
Like that night at Nick and Mary's when she saw the falling star,
which she
later claimed
was shooting. One in the same I guess.

Momentum. Like us. Either falling or shooting we are still stars.
What we make of this depends on are willingness to sacrifice.
So I'll leave the lewd and crude crass Todd somewhere else,
when you're not around.

EXIT TRS04 HOPELESS

GLINT

The glint in my eye, the flames surrounding all the exclamation.
The commitment and follow through and walk through and curse
through.
Kicking and screaming, dragging your sorry ass
to another one of these hourly reprieves.
That doesn’t make sense and goes against the puzzled pieces, and
how they
fit.

The glint in my eye, the explosions of though on how I can,
twist the glum lot when absolutely insisting on:

sugar, caffeine, nicotine,
sex, CD’s, clothes, shoes,
DVD’s, porn, coffee, truffles,
Simpson’s, movies, poems,
typewriters, blow jobs,
cunt-licking, profanity,
cigarettes, masturbation,
gossip, apologies, regrets,
phone calls, digits,
whole networks collapsing,
change, problems, situations,
friends, pigeon’s, therapeutic,
(and not in conjunction with),
relapse, and laser pointers,
and committees, and foxhole
prayers, and Gideon’s Bible,
and concerts, and tattoo’s,
and piercing’s, and comics,
and car wrecks, and running
red light tickets, suits, and
checks, and jobs, and ATM
cards, and E*Bay, and
OCD, and anxiety, and dumping,
and supernumerary, and
love, and lipstick, and
a nice cup of shut the fuck up.

And anything but, yet…and…if
was where why.
The glint in my eye.
Slipping on the banana peel of my
yes, my alcoholic mind.

Rationalizing.
Just how I can, do it, one more time…
Fifteen years of tolerance for fluff, building.

The glint in my eye.
One more reason, to show up, have inventory taken
Or take someone else’s.
Spit…spit it out…whatever the fuck.

Oh Yeah! Which brings me to the inspiration for this drool.

My commitment to the word obviously.
The theory of the shortest sentence.

To not die in excess.
To not flounder in redundancy.
To thrive among the bees, them not even knowing
my words can be the honey, with each second
I am one more breath close to never arriving.
Which is fine by me, as standing still
was confused for running
and another adjective stuck.

The point of the journey is departure.

So my presence for whatever reason, ulterior motive, excuse
can sheerly, surely
Equal:
fucked X (times) obviously
creates Grace.
That never-ending paragraph of momentary hole fillers,
were necessary and served their purpose, in our moment
of could’ve been collapse, fall back.

Give me the Crown of Retread Goodyear Tires.
Give me a merit badge for the most,
“We didn’t think you’d make it’s”
Give me a house shingled with desire chips,
and I’ll enlighten you with the sledgehammer of what if,
all the walls came down and we started anew, each and every day.
Cause that’s all we really have.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

ALWAYS ME

Why's it always me that's gotta change.
Woke up in a good mood.
Made it to work. Only hit two
Jehovah witnesses on the way in.
Still can't get the tie and bible out of my grill.

Why's it always me that's gotta change?
Here's a two shot espresso salute to inconsistency.
Especially in those around me. Walking around
looking like a munchkin with my new Philly haircut,
sporting some new Adidas. With cool shoes come new egos.
Ears plugged with the Lagwagon against the world. Angry days.

Before my mentor reams me out in his office
for a fifteen-minute eternity.
All about my meeting behavior complete with
unfounded old-timer accusations.
Involving middle fingers and racial slurs involving skin tones.
The color of anger, if could and would.

Why's it always me that's gotta change?
The push up, pull up session. There goes my good mood.
Tell me I hate them cause I could be just like them.

So then I visit my girlfriend, to give her a key,
and plans for tomorrow night
are no longer necessary. Again the inconsistency.

The ties and bible in my front grill, and the two strapping young lads
who once carried the good word of some Lord
via bicycle to all the heathen.
Except me with my ears plugged with Beastie Boys
against the world. The brouhaha.

Why's it always me that's gotta change? Just once can't it be them?
Why's it always me that's gotta change?

I'm glad you asked, because if everyone else needs to change
for me to live on this planet in harmony,
I'm for a lack of a better or more profound word, fucked.
It accentuates the demise, puts some weight in the meaning.

Catching drifts, fucked, cause that's not going to happen.

They are not going to change cause they are infallibly human.
Those screaming Jehovah’s hoping heaven was open to them alone.
They we're not heard as they were dragged
underneath a two-door sea green sedan.
The munchkin-looking driver had earphones on
and could not respond with brakes. Maybe he just didn't want to.
His brain was plugged with Slayer against the world.

Against the Christianity.
Against the odds.
Against the shortcomings.
How's that for consistency?

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

CLOTHED IN CLOUDS

There came a day
Both Men and Women alike
Were Poisoned by choice
Public Parks became front lawns
and plants were illegal, thus increasing their value.
The boys were called land lizards, and girls became toss-ups.
Every practitioner a liar, and the anti-hero a fool.
It is in those times moments came along that crucified men.
Left them hollowed in heart to think long and hard, about what is
and isn't.
Matching scripture to experience, hallucination to physical evidence.
Chasing light into the darkness, and back out again.
When fools see clouded angels, and find boxed magic sets.
Where ponds were cess pools, and valleys held hostage the
shadow of death.
There came a day
when the pain measured his steps,
and the trunks hidden presented portals.
One long obsession became one perfected crafted delusion.
Complete with foreshadowing, protagonists, and antagonists,
and recurring themes. Beyond the nightmares that held vague
memories
of the figures of childhood terror present.
It is in this moment he went mad, with what he saw
and considered and found and happened.
Asking mad elders and preachers alike.
Asking about the words and the text and the style it was written.
Where none had no answers only Jesus and even he told Satan to
get behind
him.
There came a day he visualized what he had let out of the box.
There came a day he walked away from it all after hours, days and
nights
of pondering that bordered on lunacy and put shame to madness.
It was in this brilliance he accidentally dropped what it was that
drove
him.
Knowing there were no more answers just more questions like
random lottery
numbers.
Even now in the decade that has past. Even the mere mention.
Unfold his heart like tarot cards and trees of life and shadow people.
The whole cast of characters that stretched the limits of his
imagination,
and held him captive in a play he didn't even audition for.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

DAYS OF END

At the end of the day what’s it really about?
That we came and went. Made our mark upon society.
Met the quota. Exceeded the standards. Punched the time clock.
Added digits to the bank account. Succeeded where others hadn’t.
Parked our luxury automobile it a two-car garage.
Came home to a warm meal, and the loud voices
Of children breathing.

At the end of the day what’s it really about?
The white picket fence needing a new coat of paint,
Perhaps it will suffocate the termites of doubt.
Sharing the days events with your spouse.
Complaining about the promotion or bragging about it.
Whichever way it went. What in the fuck is it really about?

The funeral plot. The crematorium. The hearse.
The wedding. The reception. The premiere.
The graduation. The anniversary. The birthday.
The three day weekend and barbeque neighbors.

At the end of the day what’s it really about?
Do you hit your knees? Do you find a cubicle priest and confess?
Do you thank or beg or complain to a God beyond human
comprehension?

Is it really about how, you beat the snot out of that brat,
left your wife for the receptionist, filed for divorce,
citing the pre-nuptials. How you found yourself, empty
and soulless in the offices of a nine to five hell.
Beauty as American as it gets.

At the end of the day what’s it really about?

That we had helped someone selflessly, and didn’t say shit about it.
That we had pulled over the assist the stranded motorist.
That we had opened the door for someone in a hurry.
That we we’re patient with the language barrier at the fast food
restaurant.
That we let someone in, instead of laying on the horn, and flying
the bird.

Here I get the glimpses the Hindenberg going down.
In the back of my head the echoing sound of the radio broadcaster,
“Oh! The humanity! Oh! The Humanity!”
As a hundred or more souls fall to the ground and burn.

I am reminded of why they say life is short,
but it feels so prolonged.

Exit Trs04 Hopeless

What of my Life

What of my Marriage? Divorced, Ex-wife, kid included.
Things I couldn't maintain besides liquor consumption. Daughter
bear witness
to violence, domestic as it gets.

What of my Past? Keeps looking back,
as if the shadows could keep track.
Tragedies. Locked in the closet of circumstance.

What of my Youth? Petty theft of innocence, rebel
finding independence. Being bad kept the cadence.

What of Sex? Misplaced virginity,
behind the local bowling alley. Traded my cherry
for a bad case of poison ivy.

What of the Present? Incarcerated for the moment,
Again to be roofless. Warrants forthcoming.
Terms of my freedom.

Excuse for lifestyle choices, mere quotes
from chic movies, about northwestern junkies.

What of the Future? Follow the arrows,
Love, how it rhymes with nowhere.

There are no yellow brick roads in Northern California,
only Kansas.

What of my Ex's? Every single one of them.
From sometimes hope to maybe charity.
The one who had too much faith.

What of the 7th, 27th, and sixty-nine?

What of Creation? Without substance, mind-altering
and the like. The art form of rationalization.

What of Unrequited Love?
What of undereducated street trash?
Pretending to be Tumbleweeds, all along
drifting. To this victim and the next.

Dream dates with house chic's, who only make
monthly visits.

What of the biological clock ticking?

The penitence of sinners, plastered
across the walls in the bordello's of saints.

What of pulled teeth and extracted charisma?
If I had them, I'd be a babe. Dentures, that is.

What of biodegradable halo's? Winged waxed angels.
Certainly not folded up to represent anything
close to mortal. Me and my fabled excuses,
now called Alibi's.

TrsexiT

WRITTEN APOLOGIES

These are the things I can’t accept, they are
tight little knots. Reality has tied into existence,
ours. In each others thoughts as well as space.
Space being defined as rented. Thoughts what we think.
When we consume, what others have wrote.
Never apologize for what’s been written,
only for what’s been read and misunderstood.
So someone said; Who? I do not know.
Me with my street savvy lingo, and rationalizations
to last a lifetime. You with your wit, a thousand plus
miles of it. So these things I come to terms with.
Fall under labels such as, lust, infatuation, and envy.
My apologies for being a hopeless drug-addled romantic.
Lest the hope, now the now hard part,
making beds and lying in them.
Fixing my plate to eat it. Regurgitated old wives tales.
For post-apocalyptic philosophical mechanisms.
Coping with it, logic, logistics, etceteras.

TrsexiT

SEEKING WATERS LEVEL

Stranded now in past images perfecting themselves
to fit these things called pain’s. Dire need.
What vague satisfaction is gained,
from such pointless strolls.
Down avenues and streets, places they used to meet.
Wherein victim or criminal pretends again
to relive, the scene, the event,
how it went down, from step A to step Z.
Distinction between actual and remembered memory.
What shared second sparked interaction? How now,
am I not worthy of reply. Response becomes
a vintage isolated feeling, now cherished
even though you felt abandon, were better off.
Was water not seeking it’s own level?

TrsexiT

SOFT SPOKEN LIES

Where are the soft spoken lies
of that Cinderella that cries. Here,
without a glass slipper, nor charming prince.
To make her fee like something. As the hours are
as empty as she, and the nothing she thinks she is.
Who will rant and rave about visitation, and vanity?
Spring, the Harbinger of Summer.
Reveal colour, where there was lifeless limbs,
birds prey tell. Out the window, who was who?
Where did they go?

TrsexiT’97

SPITTING

Now even the trash cans are red white and blue.
Post nine eleven, handprints and stars, and what we were
when youth hadn't burdened us before.
Don't worry nothings the same anymore, and
the only guarantee is we get older.
I can feel the rust, as if it's a memory
you can't simply grind off. A treasure trove
of what if's. That being my new thing. The if onlys
falling by the way side.
So yours are gone, and mine are spreading.
In the wake of ink, something to commemorate,
those who have passed, and those who last.
Time etched it's father's curse, eternity
into the vocabulary of the hearts of men.
So that they might curse Wilde, and praise
Shakespeare. All along myself considering,
him and King Leer are fucken queer.
Look now to Webster for new words,
as you are bound to be the teacher
with the most pets. This I can foresee,
remembering my education in right, left,
brain things, and rejection above all.

Tell us where these things end, and begin.
I hope you make Miller, Henry that is
required reading. So I can call sobriety
my gig, but it beckons in me a change,
the other side of me, whispers in silent ears
these words, ‘it is not possible’.

Biting tongues, yet tossing vegetables.
I have some hateful words for the one I love.
Spectrums of resilience. In spite of.
Spit.

TrsexiT

STICKLERS

These writings returned, sent back. Glimpses of the past.
They have all just become outlines, skeletons
to later be filled in, with the finite detail of memory.
They have no order, just flexible truth,
that doesn’t even adhere to chaos.

They show my redundancy, what some might call
a common underlying theme, in
destitution, prostitution, prosecution,
execution, incarceration, or another institution.

How I thought I was so prolific,  Boy! Did the booze
have me fooled in more ways than one.
How I, pronoun imperative, thought it my destiny,
to be an author. Coward I was, to think
such great thoughts could be got
for the mere price of a six-pack.

Monumental sickness. Refined. From one sentence,
to the next, from this drink to that one.
to the Gray Bar hotels of Dublin and San Bruno,
beaches bushes buildings alleys gutters roofs
wherever you might lay your head, or your head laid you.

Maybe now I can polish off the dross, turn the truth
into friction. Fiction. Imagination. Give the silver
some lining, make the clouds forget the rain.

The travels of our future, the expense of our present.
Now you wear this burden so well, custom made.

Now she scolds me before dawn, yet
loves me at dusk.

How she gets more of me, than I could ever give them.
How she doesn’t realize this, in her vast
zenith breaking
brilliance. Often given to
the fears of secrets, scars, and things
that don’t go on behind the curtain.

Nobody does, not me, nor you.
We live with these sticklers, the best we can
encounter unfolding, ones that harbor
a darker today, in hopes of
exchanging it for a brighter tomorrow.

If I could give her the key to my brain,
it would be the master, so she could
walk through the cobwebs of my history,
some have called disaster.

Dust off the shelf filled with the past, salvage the heart
that is in here, in our hereafter.

TrsexiT’02

SYNONOMOUS

Ever felt like they had you by the balls?
And there was nothing you could do, all your sins
Said that you would pay for them.
Wonder if redemption has an installment plan?
Here, as the mind unravels conspiracy and fear,
the ultimate who’s planning against who,
was it just a little bit more than coinkydink?
Ever felt like no matter what you did, it was bound
to fuck up, lost in the consequences of those actions.
They have me by the balls, or it feels
like there is this vice, and this little cage
won’t be, a sanctuary anymore. Since, I brought
the poison back again. Had to have the moment.
Him huffing balloons. Had to have the rush, and sweat
one more time. No matter what.
Now instead of morning after physical ailments,
a result of excessive consumption of alcoholic beverages,
liver throbbing, head aching, guts churning, instead
we get to spend way too much time
thinking about, how the faith has went blind, and
the heart is soured and poisoned.
Still by the stalls, wondering why
stray dogs get put to sleep, like stray humans.
What no one to care for him? Still pouring out the ink,
Still having the curse. Still having the snakebite,
and madness that accompanies it. Tangents,
with inconclusive evidence, ranting and ravings
that no longer sound epic. Having lost, or worn off
the pristine sound of desperation, that made them
cling to. It is all just a bad rewind.

You will go there again. With your mad thoughts,
nothing to be done with them.
Voices, he kept saying. I didn’t believe him.
Did you name them, Sam and Max?
Exit and misfit are synonymous.

TrsexiT

THOUGHTS FLEEING THE INTERVIEW

THOUGHTS ON LA KIDS.
WHEN YOUR STUCK IN A LAND OF PLASTIC
IT’S JUST TO DAMN HARD TO BE REAL.

UNTIL THE PUMPKIN MASTER ARRIVED
THERE WOULD BE NO VALENTINE’S
JUST AN ENDLESS MASSACRE OF EMOTION
PLASTERED FROM HERE TO THERE TO THE BOULEVARD.

STRETCHED OUT FACES IN THE PERPETUAL DISTORTION
ANGST OF A NEW AND BOUNDLESS PROPORTION
WE WHITTLED AWAY OUR INSIDE’S FOR THIS THING
SOME CALL LOVE, RELATIONSHIP WITH A TWIST.

THOUGHTS ON DC KIDS.
IF THEY KNEW WHAT THE FUCK PUNK WAS
THEY WOULDN’T BE HERE. GADZOOKS & HOT TOPICS.
HE WAS MORE COOL WHEN HE SACKED GROCERIES
AT THE LOCAL SAFEWAY. THE MALL JOB
WENT STRAIGHT TO HIS HEAD.

SHE PERSONALIZES THE WORLD,
AND I GO DOWN WITH THE SHIP.
I’M NOT EVEN A CAPTAIN YET.

THAT REMINDS ME OF ROGER WILCO.
THE ORDER. THE WEEKEND. THE GIMMICK.
THE YELLOW TEAM, AND IT’S PLAYERS.

TrsexiT’02

TIME UPON A ONCE

Once upon a time there was me,
But I  got lost, you see.
Myself weak to begin with.

Wherever. Whenever. However.
Became my return address.
Incase you hadn’t noticed, stability
was never my thing.

So all those dreams of stories not written,
were all so meant. Just as lost as me myself and I.

There we went into this world unseen.
Happy endings sold separately.
This we began scribbling.
Who? Why me myself and I.

Somewhere in the Land of the Return Address.
A redundancy of selfish actions, and their one time
noble intentions.

Always falling short of anything close
to what they were supposed to be.
This in a place of high expectations.

This state defines as normal, measure like cycles,
washing machines and dryers, constantly spinning.
Waiting for something to happen like shit,
how it hits the fan, or just happens.

The random acts of Murphy’s Law.
The inevitably probability.

If it wasn’t for me, there wouldn’t be
anyone to blame. This I will entitle shame.

A thousand regrets and their hesitance.

Me myself and I. Working with
the physical, mental, and spiritual.
anyway it can.

A systematic chronic depression,
with side orders of suicidal tendencies,
a severe axiom on which to base their diagnosis.

Once upon a time, when I didn’t pee my pants
in kindergarten, waiting eternally in the office.
Mom, her paper bag, and the change of pants.

To weigh a million children’s laughs, knowing
a frozen cold creek bed awaits my face,
as well as fate, shouldn’t have played the part.

The anonymous admirer from afar.
All those stuffed animals from Vegas.
The mezzanine of a circus circus.
A  date bowling to be held a lifetime.

Like where I lost my cherry, and caught
a bad case of poison ivy, private parts.
Scratching away my foolish lust.

Does your God allow forgiveness?

I can recall being in trouble in the 2nd grade,
I Had a Marvel Fantastic Four notebook,
they we’re supposed to be plain covered.

Twenty-eight years later, I can see now
where I went crooked. But, I don’t remember
the cookie jar, my mothers swears and says
for time eternal, she caught my hands
red and full of change.

That was Time Upon A Once.
Then and now, with Me, Myself, and I.

A history of memories, opening
like a book falling apart. Binding weakens with age.
Pages are not what they seem.
Reading time and time again.

The mind has wore the body thin with choices of vices. Nooses
imagined
tying. Breaking necks like hearts
and where they went wrong.

Me and Myself discussing with I how things should be.

Playing God doesn’t work, neither do
the drugs or booze.

You remember that poster?
Nobody likes a quitter.

All the contradictions in assumption.

Perfection of justification. Nonsense.
You can imagine where I was.

Whenever, I fit the picture.
However, pointing one finger at them
three at myself.
Wherever, my life was laid in the balance.

Only to be found eternally wanting, never getting.
Wanting this, wanting that.
Never enjoying what you have.

Letting someone else take out a lease, rent the space
in your head between your ears.
The time upon a once, when I was innocent.
Me myself and I excluded.
Left to their own intentions.

You know where that got them.
So lets go over this again.

Me myself and I.
Wherever, whenever, and however.
Mind, body, and spirt.

The three sides of a triangle,
some might call it a trinity.

All these impressions of divinity.
All this scaffolding for Heaven.

The stars shooting not seen.
The fools heard but not believed.

TrsexiT

WEAK FEBRUARY

One week in February, that’s what it all boiled down to.

Not the one weekend in December, that might’ve
been a great romance novel, if it wasn’t for
the noise level to loud in the upstairs apartment.
I can see them now getting their groove on,
to like Barry White or Al Green.

Disrupted by:
The white couple above them, thrashing
in domestic bliss, or arguments,
depends on whether it’s a.m. or p.m.
or any other monthly syndromes, his included.

So this continually drove the lady below,
to file complaint upon complaint.
Till some action was taken. Wooden floors padded,
like the cells of institutions, we are only
drinks away from.

Blown head gaskets, carpet inspections, background checks.
In no specific order.

I could stake my whole twenty months, of you know what,
Against the odds, shit doesn’t happen,
all of these dilemma’s our of my own concoction.
Decisions made somewhere down the line.

Matters most the walking through the fire.

Complaining for help, and a grand plus for auto repairs.
To think I haven’t even wrecked the car yet, at this point.

So with the representative for the land lady, some title
like leasing agent, coming over, one cat to hide,
we only claimed one, so we wouldn’t have to make
an extra deposit. Sort of like income tax crap.

One week in February. It always seemed, or maybe just
the year before, it was a bad year. Still seeming.
Things will come full head, circles of sobriety.

What do you have to say for yourself?
Do you know the precise definition of the word abscond?

One week in February. The stress triples, the fuck it all
thoughts begin to grow strong and want to run.
Taking on a new dimension, the idea of
recreational Mary Jane excursions, option for
significant other, but not yours truly.
To busy figuring out how they pre-empted my thoughts
with the conspiracy of a post nine-one-one
rigged patriotic Superbowl, extravaganza.

One week in February. Not a lead to be found,
and I’m no gumshoe.

The trash needs to go out, the Q-tips
at a record running low.

One week in February, I was pouring boiling water
and I burned the fuck out of all four fingers
on the left hand side. This after the insecurities
Sabotaged me. While in the bathtub, as they often do.
If you do this it means this. Where does she
get her information from?

One week in February. It all comes down to this,
The ankle-biters forming a union, with the major crisis’s.
The antibiotics and OTC’s, the looking the other way.

TrsexiT’02

NOW AS IT’S ALWAYS BEEN AND WILL BE

Stepping out into the abandoned killing fields
inside these visions of bullet pierced skulls,
under the Sun’s supervision. Those fragments of red mist
captivate me most. If they could only be mine.

It is here that it dawns on me, just what I’ve become
and all I ever will be, without her.

How all this time, I fucked this, fucked that.
Carried the charade of love with mangled limbs
and broken facial expressions.
All the while my heart destined
for either San Quentin or San Rafael.

It was a morning like none other, besides the fact
I called out. Sick. With something. Physical and Emotional.
I sat in front of the torpedo factory, staring Maryland and the
Potomac
River down.
Knowing what I never did, that I would probably never be able
to love another like I did her.

This clarity shatters myths of clouded angels and magic kits,
sober triumphs and milestone events,
in our lifetime apart. With nothing but mere words to stitch together.
Conclusions. Assumptions. Decisions.

Not a single poem, nor letter, nor hint
strong enough. To sway what was never meant to be.

I remember the band Empty, as I was.
I remember when she parted with nicotine, and Italy.
Those beaches where gender specific people crushed you once
more.

Can’t believe it’s sixty in January.
Out here, way right of those avenues we stomped
with our literate impressions of ethereal executions.

Find me a morgue where I can identify these feelings.
Give me a forensics expert to do the autopsy, and identify
a cause of death in something that never experienced birth.
Then I’ll be able to stop the drizzle. The moisture of words
that’s etched my heart with her and all the was after.

Exit Trs05 Hopeless

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
-Alexander Pope

WHENEVER WHEREVER HOWEVER
EXIT TRS05 HOPELESS

THE STRUGGLE

In moments like these,
not even staring at the carpet helps.
The overwhelming personalities arrive with the warm weather,
springing upon us, formerly unseen body parts.
Which were best left without witness, nor were they gender specific.

For all my resolve to act my way into right thinking.
The cynical and ornery side of me supercedes any will to do the
right thing.
Having done my good deed for the next millennium, I am without
recourse.
Things best left unmentioned, as not to glorify their selflessness.

The staring at the floor routine has helped before, helped me hear
instead
of see.
All these pathetic fucks, and why they drank. Or better yet why
they still
aren’t.
I suppose that last line is a bit dark, but if you’d heard some of the
things I’ve heard.
You’d tend to agree a majority of these clowns need another drink.

In moments like these, I remember how each and every day
I woke with a fierce and gritty determination to get something in
me.
As soon as possible. As quick as the abbreviation.
It didn’t matter what it was as long as it wasn’t rock.
The only difference between then and now, is I wake each day
hitting my knees, and trying to get some spirituality in me.
A.S.A.P. That my friend is the true struggle.
Now if that’s not a contradiction in lifestyles I don’t know what its.

Watching as the asses and tits are sprung on the sickened.
As the gossip mill hits full tilt, filling the air
like the mindless drone of the hummingbirds.
What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall at certain
Gender specific meetings. The one’s I’m not allowed.
Now here ego manifests itself in ways not seen before.
Showing my ass and thinking I’m that important.

In moments like these, I recall how she knew
each and every girl I’d been with since we broke up,
and a few I didn’t know about, and one that didn’t admit.
Tell me people don’t talk, I’ll be the first to admit, I do. So why
wouldn’t
they?
I am to the fingers pointing as blame is to someone has to be.

What miracle asks of you such tolerance?
Still staring at the floor, trying to get more.
What double standards hold denial accountable? In my personal
belief,
there is nothing worse than the sober drunk who thinks he knows
something.
I’m surrounded by them, I have become and been one of them, and
despise
each and every last one of them.
Why can’t I get an ounce of forgiveness, and pound of letting go?
Why do the scales of my head always tip over with disgust?

Sure these words sound witty and clever,
but what do they really mean, and to who.
That my friends, is another part of the struggle.

In moments like these I ponder, how many more before the magic
kicks in.
Twenty-nine out thirty is the ratio. The amount of them I have to
attend
before I hit that lucky one. That saves my ass and brings it all back
home.
Why I came in the face of the obvious. Shaking my head,
bombarded.
With their incessant need to share. With their fraudulent smiles.
How they try so hard to pretend they like me, I’d respect them a
whole lot
more,
if they were real. I don’t hide my dislike.
Hate being such the strong word these days; I have to selectively
choose to
use it,
for when I really mean it. See them with their hands out
in an attempt to look like they are reaching out. The vanity and
vexation
of scripture would be proud.

It is here we must weed the garden. A good thinning of the herd,
by relapse
selection.
Grace skipping stones over the abyss of shit happens.

We must, Ughh! I hate this word. We must network, we must reach
out.
We must find common ground while dancing
amongst the snake charmers, step Nazi’s, and regurgitators.
A whole classification system in my head to keep them out.
Cause they have no right to act so grandiose, when they’ve done
such
atrocious things.

How they abuse the word crazy and do truly insane people an
injustice,
with their flagrant use of the term, in excusing there behaviors.
Like young lovers abuse what they are in, during that state of bliss.
When neither can do no wrong, and the world is a bright fucken
sunshine of
rainbows.
Till the character defects creep out and make their presence known.

Then there is this whole we thing, and since it is the first word,
lets analyze the fuck out of it
While not considering God or a higher power, might be part of it.
All focused on the us. Them, you, me, and how we all tragically
reach for the reeds while drowning in the river.

Exit Trs05 Hopeless