Holy Motha Freakin Gosh

Cold 3am chicken over stainless steel sink. + Columbus quesadilla. You take the stuffing. I'll mash the potato. You say tomato, Or take one more step and I'll blow your fucking brains out! “And that's where ketchup was started by your old Papy Joe.” He taught the Indians to slave. And the young girls, ta’ hoe. Just seed one more aisle, Just cut Pa one more rail. There's Charlies arriving. It's a labor half sale! We thank all the men who made this country great! They fondle each other and call it debate. With statues erect all the way 'cross the land. There is one thing now, we all understand. That Chris was a do-er. A real boy's man! And she is liar. (Yes, that sounds like a plan!) So wonder bread, mayonnaise with sliced cheese and fold. We stand men before women. And dumb Trumps the bold. Harlem, NYC.

What if. The only 2 shows that you had to audition for and knew you'd seriously be considered for were shows about, A.) The Civil War B.) 9-11 Because all the other shows that were being posted by casting and brokedown by agents were shows about families, families with struggles, families who triumph. Or quirky young adults who find themselves in awkward life situations but through the course of navigating those awkward situations find love with an unexpected person. Or a coming of age story, based on beloved novels that all just happen to be about... Asian People!!! Now what? But every six months another breakdown comes around again for, Civil War: an American Musical. Or, 9-11: an American Tragedy. And you think, 'Oh my God, this is it. There are multiple white people in that show. I have a chance! Maybe a swing spot at least.' And you sign up, You get there on time. You sing your heart out. They ask you to dance. 'Oh my God they ask

A lot of half written poems. Because even the poetry isn't enough to keep me going.

You smell of plastic And concrete And moisture. My gut tingles and the blood rushes to my head. I know I'm home. Or the furthest from it. And the pool is churning. It literally never stops. And it's intoxicating. I could drink tonight. I could get so fucked up that all of my racing thoughts would finally shut the hell up and make sense. Or just get ounces of peace. There are beautiful men. I see places I've been. I want to run into the night. Like a runaway dog. A dog on the run. All because your windows, on Your small streets. Your fucking smell. Always is. When it's good, It's so good. The ride home may only be a few stops, On the 3. But the personal space I get to witness, As people end their work days, Just wanting a cooler space, A cold drink, A smile, waiting On a friendly, familiar face. Is small, And quiet. Like small children sitting on a bench, After school. It's a beaut

It sucks reading Bukowski sober. I mean... 'I guess I'll have to'... Cuz, I am sober.  But how much better would this be,  With a couple of Dad's horse pill Vicodin. Chemical clouds of crystal synthetically fogging the room. A shot of round whiskey- washed back by a Corona with a fresh lime off the tree in the backyard.   All smoothed out by some of that California, recreational, above board- Mar-i-juan-a.  It's not called weed anymore! It's "marijuana".  And I'm not sneaking out of the house to drive mom and dad's passed down Ford station wagon to meet some guy in a truck that some guy at school knows who gave me his number and told me to meet him in this parking lot and to bring fifty bucks.  For an eighth,  An eighth of what?  Don't worry about that, Just bring fifty bucks.  I get in his truck, Or did he get in mom and dad's car? It's been so long, I can't remember. All I know is I gave him the money; '

We might as well live with our hearts on our sleeves. Our pink + purple hearts… Because we've been through the war. We were the ones pushed through the door, Held up in sacrifice, To tease, To shun, To fuddle. When all anyone young and growing wants, Is someone to cuddle; Someone to lie next to, Laughing so free. Made so complicated because His one, Is a He. And this! In the last page of this diary. You have to know I feel you as you walk through the door. Like, a tidal wave on dry land Salt jammed in a sore. Like lavender breeze You make me feel so fine. Like jazz to a poet You illuminate my mind. So, We might as well because, hell, What have we got to lose? We did all the drugs! We drank all the booze. We left each other and all the good ones to die. So I lay here silently laughing as you lie weeping on your side. I'm not a beautiful lover And can be so unkind It's the tragedy of this gay (That baffles y

One morning the Little Bird awoke. Still, the trees. Still, the seed on the ground. But the sky- he noticed the sky… Felt, Different. Or maybe it was he, Who could see himself less clearly, In this patch of the Great Quilt. Where would he fly, If not here? That cloud, This bend of earth and wind, Seemed to outline him in a way that felt less like a hold, And more like a shove. Could other birds see? Or was it just, he… To work! This is home. This is the place that… is… known. Then why? Does it seem to pull? This “sky”. Why, Am I so small, then yet, able to fly, If not to follow the sky? He stood on the brim of his nest. The sun whispering over the edge of the world. The wind battering at his little bird heart. To write it all down. To jump, Soar, Start.

Sudan, the last male white rhino on the planet Earth has died. His two female offspring are the last to survive. His sturdy white Tufts, And thick oceans of leathery skin, Wore like that of a dino. How could we not know, Where this would go? And even when we did. Still more. Never less. We must improve, repeat, impress. Be the best? Sudan, may you rest.

He does airports well. He stands with purpose and finality. His voice stretches because it has to. Like, his life depends on it. He talks to me. Just to me. Like, Lee Harvey Oswald must've felt. In that musical about Assassins. I could dance with him singing in front of me. To a simple empty chord being almost mindlessly vamped. ‘If we hadn't spent 10 years finding it.’ He does airports well. So the planes will fly. The passengers will sit. And the birds will continue to wonder what it is that invades their God given skies.