dead lifts

dead lifts today why are they dead

i guess because the weight starts on the floor

and you put it back on the floor when you're done

it was snowing i ran to the little park at the end of grand

did a little stretch and a con-ed man wearing a back

support thing took a picture of the river

i said you can't even see the buildings

he said i didn't even notice until you said something

i said yeah usually there's a big one right there

and then another one over there

running up grand the snow was deeper right 

next to the building it felt like stepping 

on a gym mat

Yuengling

What’s up

did I receive a determined person in the mail

it looks like a weird conjunction of some kind

It would be better not to use them

He just wrote a poem

He's on my computer now, caring for the files

He was thinking about the article about too many babies

Thinking about eggs falling from the crooked arms of god

I think people are traveling around the country more on foot

What do I mean when I say people

Seriously, it is a new discovery to just ask myself

What people are these do you speak of?

the hoffman essay in retrograde 

i have taken offense today september

in october the plan is to fall from the tree

smiling because i'm a fool

a man takes blame for the small blue plane

this ski run enervated the bark-less house

we pass with poems our house in fear

is there another poem for you?

strange allies of faith///\\\\

the car slows to a halt through a window

dirty sleeves reach the blue atmosphere

prediction of the new older roll blind

eroded beliefs to the soil of our coins

southside of whiteface mid-june

i am so out of shape

adam stands in his red shorts

mike stands under his safari hat

mark sits on the rock his heels on the rock

he shares his clif bar

something stalks

the campsite that night

mike wakes up to a trail of blood

descending from his ear

i know this guy who's all about coffee drinking and it's really kinda gross. he has a gross beard - coffee stained - and dirty clothes - coffee stained. but he say this funny thing all the time and it makes no sense, he says 'the longer the steep, the harder the press'. just outta nowhere he'll say it and then leave with his dirty newspaper and his dirty newspaper hands. 'the longer the steepte the harder the press'

one ten thirteen

i'm having what i guess is ennui

sadness, breakfast

pasta at 9am

the hobbit

like gandalf finding it amusing 

to entertwine bilbo's fate

with the dwarf's, someone 

has put something in my life

that makes it more exciting

since the odds are quite so unreasonable

i am bad at the musical instrument

in my room

i started to feel better in the bathroom

my second shit of the day

reading that doctors could

easily cure more deaths by

practicing medicine we already know

works around the world

*

i wore a t-shirt and nike shorts

across the bridge

it was 47 degrees

my penis was cold

coming back

i had to hold it it

hurt i tried to run 

faster than this guy 

was shorter red hair

when i got back

i used apricot scrub 

in the shower

and put shampoo

on my loofa by accident

used the loofa on my hair

the city is so loud

or am i becoming more 

sensitive to the sounds

i want to speak the poetry

to myself when i'm

not home that's already

happening there are condoms

in my sock drawer they've

been there too long

and the belt i don't use

that often just to match

the brown shoes i never wear

i'm never reading the book

i want to read i'm reading

the one i need to finish

before i start the better book

about the romantic poet

shelley a real interesting

person who probably did 

not spend this much time

on the periphery the motor

sounds open somehow

the mechanic didn't 

close the motor it's spinning

i imagine not idle

i can hear it accelerate 

you lack the determination

my body has good genes

you are more pretty and

delicate other things

about you are that you 

get what you want

and it's not not important

what you've accomplished

drinking alcohol

drinking alcohol

on my bed

i shoot men off their 

horses in slow motion

with my controller

a digital flock erupts 

from the desert brush

and switches

direction innately

adam looked inside

the empty green stroller

i took a picture with 

my cellphone camera

said it 

fell out of the tree

The drunk and happy 

laugh below my window

Like the pigeon flock

together turns above the factory

to scare away the sunrise

Then rest on their usual ledges 

in their poop and the other

Goonies wheel in unison

Their flying performance

scratch details 

in the "get set" of it

Eternally the midnight shone

in the midnight and her

heels come knocking past

11 57

I'm waiting in the third or fourth car of a train on track 27, Grand Central Terminal. A Hudson River Line train to Croton-Harmon. My plan is for Slide Mountain tomorrow. It's supposed to be warm. My banjo sits on the rack above my head. This pad rests on a Guy Waterman biography on my lap. I'm off tomorrow night, a Monday night. The train ride will last 53 minutes, stop in Harlem and a few other local stops. I sit in a left-side, window seat, expecting to look at the river and roll north. The sneeze I just release sounds very loud. A louder metallic noise occurs between the cars. Girls seated closest to the door laugh at their own surprise. A man nearby stands and tries to close the door. He hits the inside of the frame when it only comes an inch out and stubbornly retreats. A man across the aisle from me sings to himself in Spanish. Now a woman in black with short hair tries and fails at the door. We have been slowly rolling for five minutes. The train accelerates. The wheels skipping the rail joints sound close and the dim blur of the tunnel's interior walls abruptly give way to soft glowing orbs frozen in the wet Harlem night. The man singing in Spanish is now able to make a phone call. He speaks to his phone loudly, interrupting himself to say "Hello," frustrated with the reception.
The train stops at 125th street. Over the PA a masculine voice says Marble Hill will be next. The wheel system wrenches and the breaks hiss as we cross the East or Harlem River. I don't know which one for sure. A few voices in conversations with phones or other passengers float up over the seats. I begin to notice the droning blow of the fan in the ceiling. I remember hearing it turn on but not sure when that was.  I confirm it's the off-peak period with the conductor as I hold out my ticket. He grins, nods, "of course."
"I got you if it's not but I don't want to break a twenty," I say.
"I hear you man," he says, chuckling and moving on to collect more tickets, hole-punching them with his clicker thing.
He tries the door. It seems jammed for him too. The train slows at the Marble Hill platform. Water makes the signs more shiny and darkens the concrete. I look up and see the collector has succeeded with the door. It's closed for only a second. A girl's face in the hood of a sweatshirt looks in at me from outside. Her eyes hold some kind of emotion. The train stops softly. The collector floats down the aisle, from the direction he came. Worried it won't close again, I wait for some action from the door. Then it appears from the wall on its own, with a gentle rattling, like beads rolling with little room for themselves. Outside it appears we're moving again. Dots of light on the blacked out bridge fall on the water and stretch down in unfading trails. They taper abruptly on waining ridges of rippling water.
I feel sleepy. The windows reverse a reflection of the inside of the car. My eyes are mirrors. They make contact with a man sitting next to the door that's now closed. He's seated facing oppositely of the train's direction. The Greystone platform crossfades in the window. The inside of the car solidifies when we leave the platform behind. My ass feels the last vibration of a 'missed call.' Chris left me a typed digital message and waited through the unanswered rings of my phone.
"Yes Yes," I type back. Then, "Donna Ferry Next." Correcting the mistake my third consecutive message reads "Dobbs Ferry". It's a place I may have never been to. The phone automatically capitalizing the 'D' and 'F'. Chris will not respond. He drives the dark wet double yellow roads, I assume. A man in a fleece shouldering a duffle chews gum. He walks through my door. The door works great by the way. Never broken, I confide in myself. Dry docked boats, Terrytown. The PA, "Ossining next."
"What you doing? With who? I just got on the train." A young guy sits across from me. The spanish guy now gone. The young guy might just take a taxi. His last word into his IPhone. "Alright."
"Tickets." The collector says in a way that surprises me. He punches a ticket.
Occasionally and randomly the car drops an inch or two. It shakes. I look through my own reflected eye at a light across the black river. Another red beacon glows nearby. Maybe somewhere floating on the Hudson, anchored