Untitled #42

I submitted my poetry, and short stories, too 

With desire to spread my creativity,

And my lines were met by glowing review 

Of brightlyburning negativity. 

Untitled #41

A simply splendid shade of red
Has been spotted dead ahead
Despite how hardly it breaks through
The bottomless, crumpling blue
Into which you’ve now sunk
By all the weighted iron drunk
While washing down the plates of lead
That you ate to crush your dread.

Untitled #40

Most of “me” is stumbling sick;

Clenching stings in my chest. 

My stomach churns, my heart burns

With a temple prick. 

But fuck the rest. 

The world around me – constant spin.

A never-ending vertigo. 

No longer “if”,

Simply guessing “when”.

But I’ve still got some hurt to go. 

Untitled #39

I held my breath for thirteen days
Until the vacuum cracked my lungs;
Conveyed the pain in different ways,
I spoke in many foreign tongues.

Ich bin sehr müde;
Alas, no remedy inspired.
Estoy muy consado;
Alas, I am still very tired.

I wrote some lines to help me sleep;
Yet rest nor breath came rushing me.
Exhaustion is now mine to reap,
Exhaustion now is crushing me.

The sun rose, and I re-began,
The headache cannons fired;
I staggered, staggered, while I ran,
But still, I’m very, very tired.
So very, very tired,
So goddamn, fucking tired.


Untitled #38

A flickering florescent light
So bodes my short longevity;
It prances through this fearful night
With such a bitter brevity.

But if it dances through my dreams
And sinks me with its gravity
I swear, I’ll let fly all my screams
Until my wails shake lose this cavity.

The Garden of Peace

Carved away, in the midst of the city
There’s a garden as calm and lush as Greece.
A memorial to murder, watered by tears of pity:
Boston’s Garden of Peace.

Daisies push up rounded stones,
Each bearing an engraved name, and date;
But they’re not grave marks covering bones,
They’re pebble-reminders of violent fate.

While the garden itself is a thing of beauty,
Looping pathways, and well-kept trees,
It makes you think “Someone might shoot me,
And I’ll be nothing more than a stone like these.”

Though I doubt the garden is to warn us of crime,
Or to remind us that our lives, we merely lease,
Perhaps it’s to inspire us to live with desire
Before a dagger, bullet, or piano wire
Snips our time
And carves our names in the Garden of Peace.

But as I sit and think of how these souls decay,
Another truth burns, and fuck, it’s a seether;
Though the dead can’t hear us, it’s a lie to say
That we can’t hear them either.



Corner of Cambridge and New Chardon

When you think of an old man on a park bench,
One is wont to imagine him feeding a pigeon;
Not lying on his side in a sickened wrench,
Begging for kindness in a cent or smidgen.

You imagine his beard to be trimmed and white,
Not stained a ghoulish green-sick brown;
And you assume he didn’t have to spend the night
Alone, fetal and feeble on a bench downtown.

Alas, his movements are staggered and strained,
His “God bless” cries are hollow and raspy.
He calls the names of children, long grown estranged;
How deep his suffering has grasped me!

He hopes: “Crystal?! Laura?!” and “Thomas?!”
And he takes off his mildew’d cap;
He voice falters to a soft, calm hiss,
And his weathered face has wrinkles like a map.

But then his voice rises, and loses its calm;
He’s shook by past traumas which he can’t hide.
He screams “I didn’t fucking like Vietnam!”
And it tears me apart inside.

I finish a stanza, and approach the man,
And hand him a two-bite–missing muffin,
He smiles at me with what teeth he can,
Then says “Now listen, I ain’t bluffin’ –

Let me teach you a lesson,
Paint’ya a pict’chya;
If you ain’t got God’s bless, son,
Then the Devil’s bound to get’chya.”

The Death of Roscoe Buchanan

“If you’re around when I’m about to croak,
Please promise me it won’t be in Texas;
‘Cause I’d lose a bet to a blackjack bloke,
And in the end, a debt often wrecks us –
Bein’ dumb sons’of’bitches, you and me.”
And then with nothing but a puff of smoke,
That poor Kentucky kid joined long dead folk
While drunkenly daydreaming of Dundee.


Untitled #37


They were wrapped up within one another
Like tangled bits of twine;
Two threads stitching a single lover;
“I’m yours, and you’re mine.”

They embraced hard and fast,
Desperately trying to get closer.
With bed-sheets stained by nights of past;
Pillow-talk with echoes of “No, sir.”

For sleeping came with sublime ease;
They fit together like a rhyme.
And they both ink’d moments just like these
As they drifted into time.

(Sketch done by the immensely talented, outrageously artistic, insurmountably poetic, and, to be frank, drop-dead-sexy/best sex of my life, Brenna Lopes, IG: freshcantalopes)