The American Virgin

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Rekindling America & her spirit, her lust for sprawling adventure.

a note on poetry

poetry came

     on the dark nightstand beside my bed,

poetry came

    as my former lover, a mother,

poetry came

     as the final and last of my friends.

poetry came

     to me, cloaked in black, slow and cautious,

     feathering the air, breathing into my lungs,

     and concerning my head.

poetry came

     on the night before last with pain upon the heart,

     a sentence or two, a line or few, just before

     i laid down upon my bed and bled.

poetry came—and poetry comes—

     wistfully, brisklfully, stern more than not,

     a pain in the groin,

     a wondering mind, a generation consumed—

     and enslaved—by a house full of blitherings,

     blown to pieces, into smithereens.

poetry comes

     with my back to the day, casting a shadow of

     haze amongst the fallen-down, moth bitten

     drapes languishing in my den.

     a day before now, i was shrouded,


poetry came

     and i was found


it comes

oh! it comes

     for you, my lord, sick&stricken upon

     your bed of lies! head of thorns! mouth so


it comes for solomon, victor,

it rains

and sings my lord

for meaghan too!

lying, dying, crying,

poetry comes

     as poems,

     as songs,

     as love letters

     it comes

in the words, by the mouth,

from the eyes i speak of you!

so i venture and

i vanquish all through

the night, myself

upon, myself scared but not yet


for poetry,

poetry comes

     quick, inverted, amongst and about the

     populous she criticized and vandalized

     and fantasied for better use.

poetry comes

     to me by the word of mouth, in the head

     of a crazed son of a migrant;

     ravished by age, by what he had,

     by all that came undone.

so we languish, lament, and burn all

of our burdens to relieve a ton,

yet they repeat

and dishearten

the young.

but not worries, for poetry comes to me

it shows everything. everyone.

in the deep. washed out.

in a town by the sea (i remember)

by the sea,

as a child (i remember)

poetry coming

on my bed,

facing towards the world;

standing alone.

I stand alone.

oh christ,

I stand alone.

     until the stars fade into light,

     and a new day, a rebirth,

     raises up

     and shines all throughout

     the night.

(&i forget what poetry

has done for me)

April, 19th 2014 @ 23:06 / 2 / Permalink
April, 19th 2014 @ 13:35 / 1 / Permalink

I’m still convinced that Her is the best movie in at least the past 20 years.

April, 18th 2014 @ 21:38 / Permalink
April, 18th 2014 @ 01:23 / Permalink

Loop ✨


Loop ✨

I don’t know what to call this

I have been considering the oddities 

involved in meeting someone new.

Perhaps a dinning hall your sophomore year,

or at a frat party down a few blocks away

from your dorm, that house where rumbles

can’t be told apart from a passing el or a deep

base line. And the approach, an awkward intro

that inevitably leads me to shake, twitch my smile,

and say something just out of place enough to

make her uncomfortable. I regress, wish I hadn’t

said a thing and wish I never met her as soon as her

GPA becomes apparent. I wish I never met her

the moment I approached, when I realized, 

for a brilliant spilt of a second, that I am not

the man my father was. I am the man that lies

beyond a crowded dance floor, gazing gently 

into a passing girl’s eyes, just drowning for

a smile in my careful direction.

April, 17th 2014 @ 00:18 / 1 / Permalink



—ambling through the hall

ways in 

her graceful manner—

discovered something

positively marvelous today among the


among the pupils,

among the plaques

and chipped pain of t

he ol

d catholic school.

she saw the 

tramps, and niggers, homosexuals

, and sadists.

she saw the

priests basking in sin

, she saw the lonesome birth

of a child,

the death of a nation.

she tilted her head

to the side,

and began to convulse 

—it was such a time

ly manner

just as the poor

little son of christ

approached her ear and whispered 

‘marry me,

my sweet


April, 16th 2014 @ 23:47 / Permalink


midnight loves, forever,


the stains of saints

fallen behind the clouds

mouth-off the 

old anthem 

of charlie and I’s

lost romantic novel,

garnished by

the sanctity of throats.

(garnished by

the insanity 

of horror and

insomnious apathy. )

so close your eyes,

my sweet yasmin,

(for I too am enthralled

by the 


April, 16th 2014 @ 23:40 / 2 / Permalink

I don’t have a drinking problem. I have a sober problem.

April, 15th 2014 @ 23:48 / Permalink


telephone pole


             out of

the great

      barren lot—


the cracks

            in blacktop 

&sending the






       talk (&

some small



      on end,

    a stretch to sky,

she is slightly 


                              my reach.

April, 13th 2014 @ 14:03 / 1 / Permalink