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Americana California cartography coffee geography history local color love Ohio punk

pinpoint

Hell

is conveniently situated

between Ohio

and California

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poet husbandry

I’ve done my share. Coast to coast.

I’ve done my share of poet husbands, too.

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Americana art beauty behavior belief communication happiness human behavior Jazz journalism life literature love mindfulness muse museums poetry travel travel writing Uncategorized

The Secret of My Traveling Crystal Necklace

Back in 2012, when I had my first book release in Los Angeles, I had a crystal beaded necklace that pulled apart in my suitcase. It seemed wrong to rid myself of the estranged gems, and I harboured unlikely notions of restringing the beloved baubleĀ one day. As I was packing to leave, some of the beads accidentally rolled under my voluptuous bed in The Biltmore Hotel. I suspect they may still be there, as things seem not to change much there, except the sheets, and I liked the notion of leaving a part of myself behind in the City of Angels.

The beads remained in my suitcase as I drove and flew to poetry gigs all over the country for the next few years. In keeping with the precedent set in Los Angeles, I started purposefully dropping them in places I stayed. I would toss the pea-sized stones into locations they were unlikely to be found: down antique brassĀ filigree air vents in byzantine hotels, behind cabinetry permanently affixed, through imperfectly sawed holes cut for plumbing to climb and dive through plaster, beneath the loose floorboards of my friend’s apartment, into the chasms of airport elevator shafts. You get the idea.

There are pieces of my secret crystal beaded necklace hidden in Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, Redondo Beach, Berkeley, Venice Beach, San Francisco, Oakland, Salt Lake City, Chicago, Cleveland, New York City, Elyria, Canton, Nashville, Lexington, Dallas, Cincinnati, and even pitiful Little Rock, Arkansas, a place I didn’t care for at all. I consider them amulets to protect people and cities with whom I fell in love, and talismans to keep away those whom I didn’t. The faceted baubles keep me tethered, connected through minutiae, in the smallest of ways.

More beads remain in my suitcase to this day, an impossible amount hidden within the satin folds, certainly a greater number than my finite crystal necklace was ever originally composed of. It is as if the universe is telling me that I have more journeys to take, love to make, and fine people to meet. So, if you’re staying in a heat wilted hotel by the Pacific Ocean, enduring a vaulted matchbox overlooking the Hudson River, standing by a tuneless luggage carousel, or renting a beautiful two bedroom flat nestled near Lake Erie, and a magical crystal bead finds you, that’s just me…and I’ll be seeing you.

 

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big trains through small tunnels

it struck me
as funny
that free condoms
handed out in
New York City
had subway maps
on the wrappers
in case you were erect
and desperately needed
to get
to Yonkers

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Uncategorized

the sort meant for kissing

he told me
i had the most beautiful lips
heart shaped
the sort meant for kissing
so i showed him
they were capable
of so much more

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activism affectation Americana art belief humanity poetry punk shitty shit sociology Uncategorized

struggling mites of the planet

standing in the shower

this morning

i saw a spider die fighting

against the current of water

and i thought to myself

i could write a few lines for that lost arachnid

his own rime of the ancient mariner

an ode to the minutiae

the miniscule struggling mites of the planet

but what’s the fucking point of flowery conjecture

regarding what does and doesn’t matter

i can’t save him with words

or write an appropriate memorial

nor can i save

a gassed syrian baby

or a woman standing

in the way of an exploding madman panel truck

the waning poet in me cries out for a god

who stood us up

who split with our luggage

who never checked in

at the hotel airport

yeah, i could write a poem

if i remembered

what a poet is

what’s more poetic

than a poet

who doesn’t

feel like a poet

anymore

 

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if you’re reading this

if you’re reading this
you must understand
that every poem
is a message in a bottle
set adrift
on an ocean of lifetimes
looking for
a happenstance
recipient
i am shipwrecked
on my island of savage words
i do not wish to be rescued
please
place the scroll back in the bottle
cork it
toss it back to the sea
this poem has more traveling to do
thank you for conspiring with me

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writing

i wore blue

i remember it was a sunny day

the bridge was yellow

the river was green

i wore blue

and even the soft cream color of your hat

was a lie

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art cartography

the world at your fingertips

Travel and Tourism

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happiness literature love poetry relationship studies romance sex shooting stars travel

arrivals

forever keep the one

who insists

on picking you up

from the airport

this is

the love

of your life