The bounty of spring turns summer

turns fall and you'll lie beneath

the stars drowning

in guilty words.


Praise be the liars.


In the summer

I'll be wretched; I'll be

broken in two like

bread between the living


and the dead, but entwined

with string, the frayed thread,


the bow that drives sun

to building's peak


and falling behind the crested

twins, the pillars of men, fell

and glowing with the eternal


sheen of sunfall.


As summer turns fall,

I will be with you always


waiting for barren tombs

to writhe below your belly,

kissing scars that


tumble along stretched skin,

my skin broken and bleeding

below the asphalt moon.







One Up fell down.

He'll rise,


we'll all rise in

steeples piled below

refuse and crooked psalm

of latter day saints,


those that waltz avenues

with broken teeth and

crusted lips,


tired eyes and swollen jaws,

broken hearts and shattered oaths,

wailing below a tired sun

falling into winter praise as

the tired sunset


turns gold in the trimester

of morning.







What shall we mourn?


What will we absolve ourselves

of on quiet sundays


on triumphant weekends

bleeding love into healing scars,

the keloids of a life spent


on heavenly mischief and ebuellient



Shane, the beautiful torment,

come closer in my memory


the beautiful Gypsy on

the shoulders of the grand

Sirriani, the shoulders


of straddled mountains in graves,

shallow and tear brimmed.


Release me from my falsehood,

release me from myself,

my greatest enemy,


the shadow of night.


My land, the timid glory,

blood and fire

triumph and dawn.













Girl-child, beautiful heaven,

timeless glory, broken

night; fall softly on broken

boughs beautiful


drenched in rain and watered

trenches for the dead


and the beautiful mad;

fall softly on my wicked soul;


fall haunted on weary shoulders,

weighted with the tired heartbreaks

of a world weighted sorrow.


Giraux, break my hands

and bind my heart


so that I may never again breathe

my love into the lips of another,


blonde platinum misfortune,

a two tongued lie in the tumbling

winds, blowing over


verdant hills and spirit

possessed treelines.


I am but a figment of a swollen

mind; be free of me,


my weary falsehood and

my wicked name.










Rest, in quiet groves, oaks lining

silent night, tread softly

on beaten paths


with no name but a false promise,

by a useless tyrant


a prophet of an ancient rage.


Wicked water rises.


Waste not the fetid sacrement,

love your famished soul, for

I cannot love a world so merciless

and cruel.


Forget what I have said.

I will drown the roses.

I alone will praise the night.




All is one in the eyes of the most high;


there is no division in the eyes of the eternal, there

is no boundary born of sand.


The lust of eternity shines in the eyes of the foolish,

the men in love with their hands, mighty

yet scorched with the flames of the unrighteous.


This land is free; all land is free.


All is one in the eyes

of the most high,


the power of knowing winds

draw chaos from the sand,

the primordial broth of nations

rises; water cascades on


the breathless empires,

wasted and unashamed,


whose repentence for death

is death, drying dreams

brought to the living

by burning embers,


the cool of the shade hiding

the faces of the wealthy cowards,

the men of science.


The roots will once again grow great:

the roots will tumble through the

sewer grates, the homes

of the restless vermin

rising to the seat of the righteous


and basking in the glow of freedom

as the foolish breezes carry

songs of homelands


now demolished, their flags

flowing null.

our lady of herkimer

burnt    sage  and wine, companion
  prarie father  of Brooklyn all
covered in smoke.

the altar- boy was vanquished,
   a  skeleton now  remains,
putrid  faith,  fetid hallway doom.

back from hamilton,  firm and clean and
 wanting for a dollar;  nothing four-fifty can't solve.
he's a   broken  song shouting and
  no  one knew where he came from.

some say she's  as old as the tenement flat she haunts,
  a force of nature forcing children to their 
calling,    a bag of white out  and dust-borne prose, she:
listed some fury, scrawled out on a wind paper, tumbling to a home
she,  spat  out old  heartbreaks  after whiskey poetics met with
    filterless  cigarettes and broken waves of everlasting sadness collided;
oh woe,  woe unto the watchers
and cast them to the darkness,  the call rings true to broadway
    and no farther.

i was listless and lazy and stupid and the gutter was my home
  on  a thursday  dawn so silent, the  dawn-birds flew  to the poplar trees.
so impossibly sad and happy and manic and fallen,  i fluttered  from the j.
jackson cooper  called on a payphone wet with tears and i followed.
up three flights  of stairs to a bottomless mishap and no  chalk-tongued laughter

"there's no home in these hills,"  and he was right.
no church in this ancient wilderness of winos,  water-mouths and sobs
    so i waited to til  a sicilian armed sunday
  to make my move.

a   bread-loaf covered in sin is no meal.

we  are the lucky ones,
the holy ones,
the soulful ones, blessed in dispicable madness and she told me so.

so impossibly sad,  a distraught lullably rang through the clouds,
   like  a bird-lung shriek and reckoning.
so haggard and filthy, trailing a cape of sin shining with the 
    sweetest     grease  a city-boy would ever taste.

black out drunk and lulled  to sleep, i followed on the bloodline of this
   wicked city,  dribbling saliva  and sulfur on a
 youthful,      empty  chest, open with no cover for st. christopher.

     the lady, both great and terrible,  proudfooted and bile-bellied
  broke the silence.
"there is no home in these hills" an echo called.  she asked me for my last dollar
	and i balked, booted.   but these hills are just a shadow
     of    an   illuminated city, with a thousand eyes and
   vocal chords made of    ash   and sand.   she,  the archangel  of a
  mispent  adolescence    turned from  me,  red-eyed and reeling and i
    left that   broken toothed beauty  in shame.

years have passed.

i am a man now, more in looks than character, but mannish, a fool all the same.
   from my home i walked, a thousand,  no
        one million steps  to sit  at the lighthouse and cry.

there is no home in these hills.
no echo in the call.
we are bountiful meal for the mouth of a quiet malice.
when the summer turns to shadow and the winter of my years remains,
    i'll return to that  beautiful hellmouth
   and   give her my hand,
  for that is all     that  i've 
	not squandered.

The Golden Dawn of a Twilight Year

The Golden Dawn of a Twilight Year


In the endless choirs, the bells of new years day,

the ball slowly falling to the ground like a cheap dream



in the meadow behind the courthouse wall,

in the words so frail that they crumble in

mouths like too much flesh, rotted and rancid;


in the eye of a needle you can see it.


A land where all is just and equal, where women

pass freely, their words on their breasts


and where toil has been abolished in favor of truth and good fortune.


In this field all is free,


no black bodies with hair like mine

and eyes like mine face down before

the twisted fingers of the beast,


ready to cage all dreams and abandon faith with hands

that are not it's own. The world played

with strings of steel, no,


forget the white eyes of sorrow.


Forget all that should be remembered;

on New Years dance the night away


with spirits high with wine and pheromones,

lust and heartbreak,


you cannot take those with you.


The women will be free,

the animals will take flight,

the cages shall release the

orphans of a dream


to dawning's light,

a golden morning.


The bells ring foolish, blistering,

earsplitting but they can hear

you too.


When fools run the world the bells shall weep

and in the armaggedon of our days, they will



Until then we must march;





until the women lose their girdles and

their hair is wild and new,


until the animals have found new homes in ancestral

forests, caves and trees untouched by man,


until my people have left this world and found

a hallway of kings, well above the foolish clouds

at the throne of a weeping nebula, tears

of joy throwing star showers for

an ebullient throng.


We must march: let the bells chime glory in our way.

In the golden dawn of a twilight age, we must

march until all mankind marches together.

the ambrosia of fools

The Ambrosia of Fools


A heartsick giant, the truest hand;

a scion of hatred, awful night;


in sickness and in health the stalker wraiths,

his own shadow an ailment before him.


Lest he fall, fall with him. Lest

the pillars of men crash loudly in the

abandonments of natural mysticism,


lest your soul be lifted to the cloudless sky,

the stars in love with the mirrored lakes

a haze of fog, smog and death.


A heartsick piriah, no; forget him not.


The birds cast shadows on their line,

the birds cannot see but meals of gnashing

spiders; the birds cannot love


with arms flailing to embrace a brokenhearted

someone in the coming of the dawn.


The empty abyss is staring, waiting for it's prey.


What will you say when the last poet dies?

When the music has left on the black moon

sunset dancing over wicked peaks of sky scratching

masouleoms in the belly of the heartless city?


What will you say when your fathers fall from the

heavens with the weight of murder? They will leave

an imprint of a white hand marking ties that have

unthreaded under the microscope of the opaque moon.


When you will lust, you will find a beautiful damnation,

the withering taste of nectar, the ambrosia of fools;


when the satelites of men crash from the sky like meteors of

love, only you will count the bodies that you

have left behind in age and only you

can twine the threads of fraying reason;


the world is more than love,

a timeless, wicked thing.

the god-loved drunkard

The God-Loved Drunkard


So you may list careful, sow the seeds of boon

the deathly twine; the quiet lovers wail.


Praise be to the martyred saints, the timid watchers

the burblers of crooked verse, the wretched children,

those with star crossed eyes, bleating for the


sacred Child, the one whom I have forgotten.


Lust preys the foolish, the careless;

the twisted womb plagued with horseshoe stricken

creatures. Pray not the tired obscenity,


intoxicate the spirit.


Of lust, of wine, of poetry;


the grandest sacrement is a wasted hour,

the sour of broken promise, the fire next time.


The grandest hour awaits with flags twin ripple

ragged, thrust coldly in the autumn sky like

a secret accord rolling hills of green screaming



So you may be in love, be intoxicated.


The lifeless spirits roam helplessly with tired moan, death,

death, dishonor, roll, righteous teachers with dried tongues

in the winter of their years.


Locusts swarm, their wings beating a sonata of love and haze,

wasted days wither as a swan song to the spring and

a call to arms for the homeless rays of a pirouetted sunshine,

the one whom I have forgotten.


For the love of the most high, intoxicate the spirit,


bless the quiet lovers unafraid in their sin,

bless the wicked liars, the petulant and the wasted.


Bless the brokenhearted in a hell-hole gomorrah, their twisted

fingers gnarled in the crooked embrace of an undefeated love

and triumph, those who a livid hellmouth will swallow


in the last days of men before the coming of the Lord.


When all fails, when all falls and wallows, bless them with an

inebriated tongue singing poetry from the bellows of a God-hearted

nowhere and praise, be forgotten.


Be forgiven in your sin. For transgression is the path to God;

the sinless shall be shunned for their grave impiety to the Lady

of the wandering spirit and the suffering mad will rise from

their foolish ashes; only they will be fit to kiss the feet

of the Lord.

Who Loves the Sun

Who Loves the Sun


Who loves the sun?


The hungry shade of a mist glowed dawn,

who told the tales of timid hills,

who chained the beast with thousand eyes,

who brought the light of evening on?


Who loves the sun?


Who brought the feast of all the Saints,

who spread the waves across the beach

who tamed the fury fingered sky,

and rang the message through the streets?


Who loves the sun?

Who loves the sun?


No one can love a mother true, all things will return to the sea.

No one loves the sun.

The Geniuses and I

The Geniuses and I


In the mist of noontime tide, the prayers that greatest lovers make

Soon bore they're way through life shaped holes in branchless trees to break

No lovers mourn the listless clouds, no lovers mourn the sky

No lovers mourn the handsome liars, the Geniuses and I


The deathly waltz beneath glare of candy windowed shame

The truthless call of hungry winds, the beast without a name

No mourners wailed, no true assualt on fiery handed lies

No mourners grieve as we depart, the Geniuses and I


The Geniuses and I one day went for a walk to stroll

When starry eyed young lovers balked upon the freezing cold

The Geniuses and I one day soon halted into prayer

No one can love the Geniuses, they only reap despair





If words should keep my name on tongues

and always sharp to mind

I'd build a ship of gentle psalm, if I only had the time

A prayer of day to guide the night

as smoky clouds subside

I'd laugh the tune to restless friends

I'd return to the sky


Look forward to the break of dawn

Look forward to the sky

I'll laugh away and face the floor

I'd return to the sky


Stay Awake

Stay Awake

Inside the heart of darkness lies the blinding spirit light 
Beneath the wires and cables running deep
Inside my heart still pumping blood up to my falling head
My love is dying, I'm falling fast asleep
The fields of verdant pleasure, bound magnificence of God
The oceans kissing shorelines on the beach 
To push away the innocent, to stay a quaking hand 
My heart beats slow, I'm falling fast asleep

But wait for the dreamland muse of slumber soft repose
Her poisoned primp of perjury and plush
The hushing low of innocence, now floating on the bay
Into the fiery clutches of the dusk

Please don't fall asleep

Don't call me on my bullshit, I'm a loser and a liar
No words can match the frailty of my trust 
Beneath the guise of chickenwire and candy coated angst
lies broken bottle bliss and haunted lust
Don't wake me from this dreamtime howl of nighttime cloaked in black 
Don't listen for the words to make me blush
I've seen the serpent prowling in the grazing fields of home 
I've watched the world and shuddered in disgust

I've waited for a lifetime for this endless crown of fire 
I've longed to see the seagulls in the air
The zephyrs catch my face and my life has been a waste 
Don't fall asleep for ages of despair

Please don't fall asleep

A Song for Freedom

A Song for Freedom

It's not right to eat spring chickens when they're born inside a cage
with clipped wings in their alleys while we sing the grapes of rage
Every city lost its soul when the hoisted rag was rung
Every suburb, every countryside where freedom songs are sung

For every senator with power, apple pie to feed the poor
Every judge that never read a book that hasn't mentioned war
Every countryman with polished guns that's seen but never known
Every child must plant a quiet dream in fields where poppy's flown

Light creeps over gentle fields still wet with silver hope
and falls to warm a quiet child, of whom poets have spoke
Never in the days of man has life meant so much more
and never has the word of mouth had proverbs in it's lore

All the children in the alleys making light in dim railyards
aren't the villains jailers victimize in tales told with stale cigars
The only criminal is age, bleeding wisdom in it's trail
as the vulgar birds flap dirty wings and haunt the blackened sails

The heartland never saw it's shade, only the borderline;
the farmers, workers, artisans with freedom on their minds
Cast away like looseleaf because of scribble on a page
forsaken from the promise of the trail our fathers made

David slung a quiet stone with decibles of weight
that flew into the head of wrath and helmet it did break
Every president and congressman is doomed to keep a vow
To every little speck of life in every quiet town

I am just a city boy, Brooklyn born and bred
I'll never learn the etiquette of English figureheads
But to the fields of freedom by the seat of an accord
I'll roll til dawning haunts the land and grapes no longer stored

I just wanted so much more but never should I take
I'll learn to eat the words I spew, the promises I make
The world is smaller than we think but greater than we know
It holds a mass of dignity that flags can never show

Morning stalks the black of night that hollows on the trees 
to laugh into the hold of dawn and golden every leaf
What will make you burst in tears will make you love your life 
Every city, every countryside is blessed with freedom's light 


Midnight Girl at the Bar

midnight girl,all covered in sleetin the wombs of day
 askingforthesummer to return it's love to faceless statues
ofthe unknownNorth and pagan child, blessed with boon.
 sometimes,sometimesisn't quick enoughand dreams rot to
ruinand late-lightconfessionon painted sidewalks, the sky
rustredand rollickinga blue wind.

makes me feel and feeling is good!but feeling good is bad unless
 the goodfeeling is for goodness.Birds-
crunchedup deadin thetriangle of Williamsburg on 
Conseleyea streetand the barroom hero poured, panting spineless,
all in an old, old and ancient lumberjack, lumbering away.

the lazy collaredcoloured man sits, sipping some four dollar disaster
 scheming on anold Jewish tradition, bundled up and beaming, things
neverlookedso good!Butthe midnight girl stood
 firm andfortunate, likeanimpossibleevening, stars scratch
throughsmogand lightyearsto illuminate an ignorant flat,
 whereBig Bill O'Reilly liesonthe big screen.

shesaid i made her night, but nights aren't for making.
they come like a prepackaged five gallon bag, but the 
 gallonsneverfail! justooze on intoa
 forgottenlifetime, and everyone thinks that's alright.
 strongas i can,a man must weep cause man is born of 
woman's life,and all things need water to bloom.

the midnight girl is a figment of my imagination!
 i saw her spying on Delancey ,dancingdervish derelict
and doom, flowers flowingfrom an empty hand to
 pollinate thoseproject buildings and the sun
sawherwithold ivy, laughingand girl giggle, summit
peakpeckputrid, perrierin funny, all things
 laughed butsunshine isthe moon sometimes.

isaw her in the mirrorwhen all was too ugly to start
andmy eyeswereclouded, like a rheumy drunk whiskey-bum
 likedaysof future found flirtatious.
butshe'sin the old north, where the streets are clean and
no onespits, and i'mgoing to detox, if the detox
 doesn'ttake me.

i'll call and let the word ring true, andall things fall,
and the midnight girl knew.
summer'sgoing to come again, and when it does, midnight
will be bright in it'sblackness and the void
willtakeall sorrow, to call it home away from here.

Dan Goldman

Dan Goldman ,		in a beat up, water 
worn old peacoat, parlie perched on rip-skin
 lip chap, asking for his meaning;
never had less than twenty but was always broke,

		[stop tosmoke with the old
shit and sodom at thewishing stone.]

no one, no thing looking.

saw him looking all drench mouthed,laughing like a
 iheld him up and he held me down,
clovescradled by the dead-skin fingernailson a run
down the decrepit banister,never looking away.

so impeccably vagrant and caught up in a 
homelessdervish,smiling through
 	the scene.

stole some stoli,butas a man of gods
	smoked the sacrament of the bible with the great Sidharrtha
choked under the willow treethatwhined about its lover,

never seen an anthill living undersireable.

Dan Goldman,
 wholicked the bowl cleanand asked for seconds always
 finding gold in acold arctic
		lockbox, dreaming in the noon.
Construction Site Columbus,lookingfora 
	late-light comrade and he found a
 way in the dark in the cornerin the back
out on frontstreet, witha
big blue ribbonand a 

wejust wanderedthrough the avenues, all 
 ambush and 
 "the world is a whirl wind sometimes,"
 jones joked with his three dollar smokes
and a jackal under his tongue.
 i,all long mouthedmashed a five in my pocket
bum-box basking in his fifteen.

Damn, rotterthat jones
rolls raising in the pockets
 andi, all leaf-turned and bowing.

"if i shouldfall from grace;"
 mock englishgentlemen, strolling stupid
 stooping stmarks ave, back fromprospect.
40 and hashish ona rooftopbeaming
 dreaming ofa better
yesterdaywhen the chains of tomorrow reach fruition.


i'm better these days;
i was a force of nature
with hands red fromglass made by
the great fire of '07.
Never leftwhen i'mgone,
justdip downthe roadway
 withthe ghosts and the gust,
Jackson Cooper to the rescue,
andi rise.

Atthe apex,the lowestdip,
th e slowest trip,
 trippingballs in the rec-room.

i always hatedthat
dumb-face angel,ha'sand ho's
 dripping off arolling,wettongue.
 shit always had a knifein his pocket;
 he described it as love.
got caught up in a sonnet
pullingcigarettes from an ashtray
 wondering where he left his smile.
we just gurgledpleadinglyand caught a whiff
 of American Pie and Big Mac,
	the American Hero

[How do you think that's cool?
Cause it's all i got.] ,
my world crumbles insometimes
 like old papyruswith too much pressure
 spilling an impossibly black
void of ink in my sky, but
 praise, reminisce repeated
 for guilt is the twin sister of laughter,
 and all roads lead tolife with a sigh and a shudder.

Dan Goldman, the epithetscrawler
 racked withritcher scalecognition
wants to write me a love note only
blood-brothers can understand.
 inthe bloody fingereddawn
gripping swollen cloudsof chicken grease 
and grossness,your worldis just a bottle of wine.

Pour lightly, myfriend.
Let this dark shade cool your tempers, or do nothing at all.