Tag Archives: original poetry

Irish Code of Silence

Of course the bottle is empty

And the job is steady

You never break promises


You never make promises

It feels like violence, this silence


To Aurora, from the Protector

Let me protect you from the bastards

I think I’m serious

I’m never shy about disgracing myself

Someone has to vomit on the hip messiah

While mumbling Aurora

Then the lines

Aurora’s a half awaken angel

Drunk on the salty dust of the morning

Those lines, again and again

From my masterpiece unwritten

Because I get distracted by the emanation

Arising from the antiseptic disinfectant towelettes

My more patient, graceful custodial self

Utilized to sparkle the floors

Of my aggressive monkey mind

After the vomit

Burst from my lips

Like erupting lava


So don’t waste your time in these bars

That the bored liberals romanticize

Because the neighborhood’s not gentrified

And they can annihilate their inhibition

In the bathroom stall

Then inform some unwashed Internet contemporary

That Time is the new God

And love died inside their broken

Dreams of Christmas


Bar, bars

The barriers trapping the prisoner

A word

An object preventing freedom

Also the place where we’re supposed to be drunk

Happy believers in the flag

That the stone statue died for

That you should want to fuck on

Because we’re the best dressed meat

Bobbing our heads to the bass line

No, damn it no

Don’t think there’s uniqueness

Some old time touch and feel experience

Tongues of deliverance

I’m just sitting in the bar waiting to protect someone

In the bar, behind our bars

Endy Chavez in the World Series

I was feeling low

In front of the machine

That’s smarter than me

Watching an old baseball game

In an attempt to subvert

A detailed personal thesis

On all the reasons to panic

Including fears of inexplicably

Eating pen caps, AA batteries

And more generalized madness

Already covered by certain episodes

Of The Twilight Zone

Meanwhile, the game is rolling

And Endy Chavez stepped to the plate

Seeing Endy Chavez in the World Series made me think a lot of things

He made that stupefying catch that time

Defying Sir Isaac Newton and keeping the glove open

To deny that should have been Scott Rolen home run

But that was not the World Series

And the Mets lost, and that kind of mattered

I also thought

Endy Chavez is fun

Graceful, fast, full of effort

He’s a hitter like I’m a person

Good for a line drive once in awhile

Mostly trying to leg them out

The rollers and choppers and quails

That can be stretched for doubles

It reminded me of us

The way we’re fighting to fight

Denying our luck by entertaining the pressure

The pressure I picture as the spike pit from that arcade game

We played in the pizzeria back in ‘95

With our garlic fingertips

Kaleidoscopic child minds cycling candy pixels and floating gold rings

You get older and your head gets filled with other things

The desire for a soul quelled by the rationalization

That nobody has a face in the comments section

That everybody has a personal identification number

And explaining what makes us special

Would make them suspicious

We have appointments to uphold

And a diligent sadness to impart

Through all the love we reserve

And all the words of love unsaid

Hey Endy, do you ever feel the wall with your fingertips

After nabbing one at the warning track?

Ever feel the padding meant to preserve your ribcage?

The warmth from the summer sun absorbed on the wall

Like the tinfoil trapping the heat from the hot dog unwrapped

In the upper-deck

A wall clarifies

This is where the game exists

This is where the game is observed

Outfielders collaborate with the barrier

Their foot spikes leveraging a leap

Against the hot padding

Their bodies rising


Arms extending into the audience

For a moment of helpless waiting

Humans have always made walls into art

Endy and his brethren

Working with the object

Like the kids in the skate park

It’s only supposed to be a railing

It’s only supposed to be a ramp

It’s only supposed to be a wall

And Endy, ever stop and say

I am Endy Chavez, I am a part of it all?

But oneness is elusive

And everyone’s obsessed with protection

I’m supposed to be me, like a shield

I’m supposed to be me

But who appreciates Endy Chavez taking a low and outside fastball

Flipping his wrist to produce fortuitous backspin and whistle a line drive straight above the cap of the third baseman that was ready but unable to counteract serendipitous placement with his own precise muscle memory

While Endy cruises into second base like an assured surgeon

Parking her Lamborghini in the reserved space

Before saving someone’s life in the morning

The mind perceiving the double

Belongs to me

Yet I can’t answer

What that means

Except that maybe an individual

Can be better known

By the specificity

Of what they believe to be


So, that’s what I thought when I saw Endy Chavez in the World Series

Texas lost the game

They lost and they could have won

With a little more fortuitous backspin

But hey, they could have not been there to begin with

The Texas Rangers could have been sucked into a state of

Nonexistence due to a reversal of time linearity

Caused by an unexpected miscommunication

Between the offices of the fifth and sixth dimension

About where the meeting was supposed to take place

On May 16th, 2011 when the Rangers Professional baseball club received a complete game from Colby Lewis, who honed his craft in Hiroshima

To bump their record to 22-19

Endy Chavez had three hits, including a double

And compared to a serious mishap

Cosmic or otherwise

Losing the World Series doesn’t really mean anything

Like, isn’t crowning a Champion just an arbitrary demarcation

Separating one season from the next

Partially camouflaging the fact that sport is absurd

And the true pleasure is in a moment of forgetfulness

Instead of everything we want anything to be about?

Control, domination, the victor and vanquished

The disgraced and satisfied

The separation we knife into existence

So I should relate to a shark

With a weeping, bleeding seal between its teeth

Joe DiMaggio played for the San Francisco Seals

Nobody ate him and he had a glorious career

Well good for the Champions, anyway

Good for them and their lucky tongues tasting the champagne

There’s supposed to be a winner and loser

There’s supposed to be Endy Chavez

He’s supposed to do everything Endy Chavez does

And we’re supposed to breathing

We’re supposed to be feeling, too

We’re supposed to be in love, aren’t we?

We’re supposed to appreciate this moment

Is This How It’s Supposed to Feel

Amber, forgot how to smile unconsciously
She ran into grammar school friends asking
Remember me, her life shifted into a maddening, subtle frequency

Bobby never considered interior anguish
Then his leg broke on fourth down in the afternoon when his
Dream was vanquished, and alcohol suddenly felt like a pile of warm blankets

They met beside a keg on top of wet grass
It was Friday night and the moon hung low and red
Skeleton romance, the confused youths they do a desperate ghost dance

They sing
Is this
How it’s
Supposed to

Was what I felt
Was it something real
Is real
How we’re supposed
To feel

Amanda, hoped to impress strangers with a false sense of certainty
She considered herself on trial, engulfed in shyness and shame
Permanently, and when they whispered in a crowd she wondered ‘’are they plotting to hurt me?”

Bobby ripped confidence from an invisible cloud
In front of his imagined enemy’s face
Proud and pumping violent grace

They kept each other company atop a soft bed
It was Saturday morning and Bobby
Caressed her pounding head, nothing was delivered and nothing was said

But they were both thinking
Is this
How it’s
Supposed to

Was what I felt
Was it something real
Is real
How we’re supposed
To feel

In a dream
How often are we
In a dream
Our expectation and reality
Are they independent
Or part of the same the same the same the same the same
Or is it a dream
is it a dream
Is it a dream
A scene
A dream
A scene
A dream

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Waves in Waters

Old companions in the memory mind 
Like islands dotting an endless ocean of time 
Traversed by a ship sailing a transparent sea 
Pushed onward by an easy breeze breathing free 
Captain’s compass needle spinning aimless 
Onboard philosopher pursuing the lovely and nameless 
Within every eye was a swirling celestial system 
Within every breath was the secret to infinite wisdom 
We are simply washing upon each other’s shores 
Like waves in water 

When Bridges must be Crossed

This bridge was shrouded by fog 
And ancient electric sparks 
Floating overhead like fireflies 

This bridge was swaying violently 
Entrapped within a jetting breeze 
Wood stepping panels rumbling 
Hand gripping ropes tearing 

This bridge hung over a smoky silver abyss 
Which hid a crystal clear blue lagoon 
Where sea scented mermaids circled empty treasure chests 
Dressed in the abandoned sails of sunken ships 
Floating amid the drowning shadows 
Of sword wielding buccaneers 
Still consulting useless maps for a direction home 

This bridge lay beneath a growling grey sky 
Overcast clouds permanently lightening scarred 
Empty air paths traversed by transcendent tourists 
Telling legendary tales of sun splashed horizons 
Existing just beyond the most incredulous comprehension 
Of an open and receptive imagination 
These were winged adventurers floating in packs 
Passionate thinkers attempting to defy outer walls 
While neglecting an inner-strife 
Unfurling creative diversions 
Interrupted by occasional pockets of hard rain 

This bridge lay in front of a human 
A man slight in stature 
Posture lowered by slumping shoulders 
Face buried into the buttoned collar of 
A black raincoat being pelted unmercifully 
By chunk blocks of hail due to a storm 
Beginning once the gravity-defying poets passed through 
And oxygen independent mermaids slunk into their seashells 
For their daily hours of peaceful sleep 

No, this human could not fly 
Could not breathe underwater 
Did not possess a special power 
Or particularly impressive intellectual prowess 
His natural beauty could be beaten merciless 
By the wild conditions of his temporary existence 

The man knew of eternity 
But was not sure if he believed 
The man knew of inevitability 
But was unconcerned with its personal application 
He simply had a bridge to cross 
A path to tread 
A burden to haul 

Here was a postman 
Two folded cards in his pocket 
One expressing love 
The other forgiveness 
His boss had been understanding but stern 
The notes were urgent 
Their delivery absolutely essential 
So as the man took stock 
Feeling the vicious wind 
The wicked hail 
Watching the rickety structure swinging 
Terror clawed at his guts 
The skeletal finger of doubt tapped his spine 
His heart beating furious 
Where were the poets with advice? 
Long gone distracted by paradise 
Where were the mermaids to provide calming beauty? 
Resting and not to be disturbed by fear 

The man was alone 
In this moment 
His mission painfully plainly 

Electric Ghosts

My hand flowing over wheat fields 

Racing aboard an early train 

Kissing a wispy April rain 

My eyes analyzing the pockmarked moon 

Flirting with matchstick fire 

Devouring delicate desire 

My feet stomping on misplaced flowers 

Face smiling at dour poets summoning electric ghosts 

Ego pitying plastic dolls selling sinking boats 

My arms caressing a sweet June wind 

Eyes searching glass shards for tangled sunbeams 

Heart floating secondhand visions of saline daydreams

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