Thursday, March 27, 2014

Heavier than Remembered

The funny thing about infatuation
 is how heavy it is.
There’s a definite
weight to it.

It bears down on the shoulders,
pressing and shoving,
your neck twitches with
pressure upon it.           

Your mind is awash with
deeply dreamed imaginings
that weigh more than the sum
total of yourself.

The weight of if bruises
its way through your
more rational thoughts,
making you lower your head.

The only way you think you
can lift that weight is by
her hands upon you. Or her
smiling eyes, twinkling at you.

Infatuation is a cruel state of
living. It’s unfulfilling and bare.
It’s an anvil crushing down on you
as you heavily tread the streets.

It’s compounded by the number
of years that weight is upon you.
A brick of infatuation that turns
into a boulder of frustration.


Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Every Kiss

I want every kiss
to be better than
the last one.

It’s pretty simple.
A lover’s kiss
should only improve
with each attempt.

The early days
of awkward kissing,
of not knowing how,
are a faint memory.

If I’m remembered
for anything, it’s that
people thought of me
as a great kisser.

It should be on my

Great Kisser.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014


My heart is only
loosely based in
my chest.

I mostly wear it
on my sleeve.

Night after night,
I think
about her.

Her of ever flowing
hair, and smiles,
and kind eyes,

Soft lips,
and Wisconsin

And what it could

Sounds boring, I know,
but it might be
better than now.

Which is
mundane and

Yet it goes
on and I can’t
help it.

The nightmares,
and the booze make
it so.

The paper is
wet with what
I splashed.



Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Hey Kids

Why are you screaming
with such exuberance
and joy?

It’s very early for us
and yet, not you.
In fact, it might be
late. For you.

The shortness of
your little lives
deserves your joyful
chasing screams.

We scream in bars,
at the inadequacies
of our lives, you scream
on a playground
because it’s fun.

We pout about,
you shout and laugh
and I stand in my window,
jealous of it.

The sun on your face
is newer than it will
ever be for me.

Your high pitched screams
as some other little one
scurries about behind you
trying to tag you is something
I’ve forgotten.

I don’t remember what it’s like
to be that small and full of
absolute innocence and wonder.

My head is clouded with older person
nonsense, while yours is clouded with
what might be. And you scream and shout
with un-tempered joy at
the very action of running.

My feet hurt and I groan
at the prospect of sitting up.

Don’t ever let the world
quiet your screams of defiant

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Almost St. Patrick's Day

             When you wake up on your couch, in your Irish pajamas (which for the uninitiated are the clothes you wore the previous day, often including shoes) and you wonder why your wallet is lighter than you recall, you just experienced the tiniest taste of life; the sort of life that all those Irish writers and poets mumbled about, a life in the pursuit of a modicum of smiles and laughter along the hard pan of actual life.  

             It is not easy being Irish. I suppose it’s not easy to be any ethnicity or nationality and I’m certainly not comparing one to the other, but when your culture has its own holiday, there are some standards that must be adhered to. The most important thing about being Irish is to fill every heart with laughter. Every culture has its own humor, but none is so filled with true stories as the Irish. (Of course, there are no Irish jokes, they’re all true stories.) But there is a certain responsibly upon the Irish to make you laugh. The awesome sense of wry and or blatant hilarity is a long and tough cross to bear out but we do it in spite of ourselves.

             I like to think that the Irish invented cerebral humor. That is to say, we made you think about what is actually funny. I know that others may disagree with this opinion and they are certainly entitled to do so. We Irish are nothing without our incredible capacity for forgiveness and open mindedness. See, there you go, an excellent example of the type of humor we Irish blessed the world with. You’re welcome.

             The other important thing about being Irish is how huge the heart on our sleeve is. We are a very passionate culture and if she doesn’t come over here and talk to me right now I swear to Christ almighty I’ll take a flame thrower to this place and burn every last Mother Fucker.  Maybe it is a strange passion, but in all seriousness, we do have a terrible heartache in our souls. Which, we can often only cure with excessive blathering over a few pints of whiskey. It may all sound like nonsense, but we remember that you listened and that you cared and we’ll do it again if you give us the chance. We Irish are persistent in the vocalization of our passions, right in your damn face, whether you want to hear it or not. It’s your fault for listening.

             Irishness is a blessing, for sure. As much as it is a curse. Our passions drive us to acts of complete and utter insanity, or sometimes they drive others to insanity, but if we never did it, where in the world would you get all that awesome romantic stuff from. Do you think John Cusack would have ever held that boom box up out in front of Ion Skye’s place if it weren’t for the Irish? Really, the British or the French would have done that? Okay crazy, whatever. I’m not even sure if he was Irish in that movie, but I think you get my point. Acts of utter ludicrousness for love are certainly an Irish invention. And if they didn’t actually invent it they certainly perfected it.

             Being Irish also requires you temper you humor with a tinge of sadness. Because all the Irish know that one day we’re going to die and if you didn’t have any fun while you were living then you truly wasted your life… that the Irish God granted you. Of course God is Irish, c’mon, he lived with his parents until he was 30 and then became a “carpenter”, but really just hung out with his pals all day, drinking.

             I know that sounds like I’m referring to Jesus, but if you’re Irish then you would know that we came up with the whole Trinity thing, that God, Jesus and the Holy Ghost are all one in the same. Hence the clovers. Again, you’re welcome.

So, as this St. Patrick’s Day arrives and you put on all your greenery, dye your rivers, drink until your kidneys fail, and generally make an ass out of yourself for the sake of a few laughs or the affections of a certain girl who just won’t freaking acknowledge you in “that” way, remember that with great Irishness comes great responsibility. Be funny, not cruel. Be honest, but not rude. Be humble, until humility is no longer appropriate, then be awesome.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day. I’ll see you at the pub.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014


Tell me what is
Tell me what is
going on.
Tell me what is

Analyst, Analyze,
Opinionize, Objectify,
Posit, Propose.
Just tell me the
Just tell me how
terrible it is,
how sad,
how great,
how amazing,
how crushing.

Headlines, after this,
This will kill you, after the
break, what your heart might
be telling you, coming up.

More on, moron, this
in a moment, but
first, let’s look in on
Chef Reynaldo in our
studio kitchen.

Meanwhile, the world
spins, sunsets, sunrises,
madmen, despots, martyrs,
rise and fall, but let’s talk
about a local restaurant.

Just tell me,
I just want to know,
What’s the weather like?
Forget it.
I’ll just open a window.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

How Fat is your Tuesday?

Mine’s on the couch,
snoring. Loudly.

He barged his way in
sometime after midnight
after stumbling up the

He tossed his shirt
on the floor for
me to pick up.
Knocked over an

He asked for some water,
but I was afraid he’d spill
it. But he forgot he asked.
He’s covered in beads.

He dropped a bunch
somewhere. Said he fell
down some woman’s
stairs. They went
every where.

He just farted in his
sleep. I think he
crapped himself.
There’s a woman’s
phone number on a

How’d he get that?
He’s a party God.
He’s an Ass.

I can’t wait to see
him again.