Don’t Waste Your Love On Somebody Who Doesn’t Value It

It must have been the summer of seventh grade

when I saw my first Zefirelli film.

I dreamt of the day

that I would finally be thirteen

and able to die for the love

of that smoking hot Leonard Whiting,

scorning all the Don Johnson wannabees

back to their camaros.

The thought still haunts me,

even as youth fades

and I relish the saltiness of time.

But Romeos eventually turn to Benedicks,

who finally know how to use

their tongues to win a woman.



Wahe Guru Ginsberg


From Howl by Allen Ginsberg

“Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand
and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody’s holy! everywhere is
holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’s an
The bum’s as holy as the seraphim! the madman is
holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is
holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!
Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy
Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cas-
sady holy the unknown buggered and suffering
beggars holy the hideous human angels!
Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the cocks
of the grandfathers of Kansas!
Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop
apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana
hipsters peace & junk & drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy
the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the
mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!
Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the
middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebell-
ion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!
Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &
Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow
Holy Istanbul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the
clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy
the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the
locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucina-
tions holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!
bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent
kindness of the soul!”

The Arecibo Effect

Why should we write, anyway?

The world isn’t listening

to discourse about anything

that makes people rise up

out of their home theaters

and scratch their heads

or open their minds,

snapping them out of the

media anesthesia where there are skins

burning off of children in Syria

but so and so was a first round draft pick

and there’s a sale at Target

on the beer that everyone likes

because bravery is forged

behind auto glass and a horn

when people go too slow

on the commute to that safe suburb

where the brown people are moving in,

but they’re not like the Indians in the call

center because they have money enough

to buy the stucco palace

with the manicured lawn

that looks just like all the others.

a sea of spanish tile

and satellite dishes. Camelot.

And it’s only good to get angry

at the tv and the people

on it because talking about

anything except what’s out on netflix

might mean there would need to be

an expense of actual energy

or understanding of how this entire world works

or even, goddess forbid,

some idea of what has happened before

from the lore tellers of history

and literature.

Ignored, unprioritized,

turning to ashes in the libraries.

So what’s the point of writing?

Is it now reduced to the ceaseless optimism,

like the Arecibo message,

hoping that another being

with at least one small urge to fight

the culture of rampant, ignorant

consumerism and try to

make one thing better for someone?

someone we might never meet?

Or should I just toss the journals in the landfill

on my way to the sale

at Target for the next

Hallmark Holiday?


Apparition in Yoga Pants and a Scrunchie

no wonder ghosts are most often female

we are agitated so easily,

up in the night, wondering if there is enough

lunch in the fridge for the next school day,

are the favorite shorts washed,

could I have said that such-and-such

a different way?

Foreshadowing my own death,

I could see my neurosis

willing me from beyond the grave

to tell my daughter to brush her teeth

or it was the loose handrail

that killed me.

And to fix it already.

The Spiritual Benefits of a Spring in Your Step

The pursuit of love seems too often

mistakenly centered on the earthly connections:

the endless catalogs of posed candid shots

in online dating apps,

even the earthly sensations of

gripping flesh, the smell of fresh hair,

the humid wind of your lover’s breath,

melting the hairs on your neck.

Perhaps earthly bodies forget

the magic involved

unless they recall wishing on a star

to make the right match.

Love can be a physical reaction,

detected from the senses,

and truly, quite delicious.

It’s deepest ocean, however, is

the hidden intimacy,

which only exists

in an other-worldly plane,

a dreamtime,

a place

where even shadows are



and the beautiful

truth of togetherness

binds us closer

than even touch



write the change you wish to see in this world


why live in regret,

stewing in the juices

emitted by your

past lives, rotten

on the ground,

when you can just

draft a new ending,

you dumb, stuck writer?

It’s really all we can do

to affect this

backwards, heartbroken planet.

But writing will change things,

so write we must.

to finally get the ending

we all deserve.

Misanthropical Aisle or Intoversion Therapy

much of the energy

spent later in life

has been to eliminate

the presence of other people

in my day

all together.

Since I was a child,

I’ve dovoured stories of

great men who leave

the world behind to

achieve enlightenment in a

Himalayan cave,

or maybe I would just rest for a bit,

exhausted from all this contact

with other humans.

The trouble with disconnection,

though, is

that no matter how tightly

the shades are drawn

in home, in life,

no matter how aggressively

the actions to remove

oneself from the chaos of


there is one truth that

transcends everything.

We are all still connected.

through the curtains

across enemy lines

to those children jumping

on the restaurant tables.

We are all connected.

From the earth as

our solid foundation,

to the trees that

whisper into our lungs,

to the stars

that show the paths,

the dots we can travel

to arrive at one another.