songs from the lobsterpot

NEW SITE

2010-12-13T18:36:00.000-05:00

Please visit songsfromthelobsterpot.tumblr.com for the new site/poetry :) :x

a.m. switchboard

2010-11-17T17:26:00.001-05:00

her arm fell the weight of sleep
to my chest;
the gasping organ in
brief exhalations
sounding just enough to
turn a breathing body towards
my own.
Through cracks of this settled
home, winter found its way
in, crowding from paintless
walls inward
to where heat
representing mortality
imprinted on white egyptian
cotton sheets.
a.m. switchboard,
electricity burned at the wires
of this brain,
kept self from sleep.
These connected tongues
begged attention
from ears finely tuned
internal
and with heavy language
resurfaced, widened
glassed vision.
Fear spoke, bland
on my palette, without word.
Took company, the twitching
limb, like fire to
calm this
chatterboned soul.
A distant bell rang out
hollow, vibrating memory
from rested states
while night shadowed
the cornered streets
outside my window.

tried/true

2010-11-14T23:51:00.001-05:00

She’s crying in her bedroom
and you’re acting strange cuz
her friend just told you about

last week when she got molested
outside the appt. as we sat inside,
and talked about some old conversation,

listened to Pinkerton. The tears
I don’t understand because I’m ’ just a guy.’
I just want to lay down and wonder

about my shitty job and ignore the reason
why I’m too scared to call it anything but
‘molested,’ thinking about my new 3 piece

Ralph Lauren grey wool suit I got last year
for your dance and how I lost all the pieces
except for this vest that doesn’t match

with anything.

Look at this right now

2010-11-11T23:14:00.001-05:00

under blue moon i saw you.
the sweep light push backs of the conference room.
the view of the financial district.
of pine street,
after 6pm,
when the subway entrance closes on maiden lane,
and you have to walk to nassau avenue,
through the j train platform,
the solemn reminders of fulton street,
the homeless newspaper and haunted headlines,
the quiet cell phone.

sad as hell. wontons.
paper napkins, toilet paper napkins.
soy sauce blisters.
slowly taking the garbage out.
one bag at a time.
the alarm clock at 5am.
blood on the toilet paper.
oral sex.

the financial district is haunted.
i tried to tell everyone that, sent out
email after email.
i saw the ghost of the cleaning lady
eating scraps out of the garbage,
she threw a corn dog at me.
told me to 'get lost'.

why aren't we as cool as we hoped?
the rent check didn't bounce
because i didn't mail it in.

He Felt Like A

2010-11-09T22:40:00.000-05:00

reptile, basking in the sun,

warming his pale winter skin.

Wood and knotted wood

and nails—all just scraps

really—placed here

by his own two hands to just sit

and enjoy a cigarette, a perch

to watch the clouds saunter along,

a nest built of two by fours

and dresser drawers, shipping crates

and red barn doors, overlooking

warm afternoons with water vapor

gliding towards the northwest

and the cars rumbling

back and forth

beneath him.

rats

2010-10-26T18:55:00.001-04:00

beneath the scummy sidewalks
and outside this stone's steamy center
a community steadily prevails,
their worm dieth not
rodents scurry about in the urban underground
whizzing around, colossal and chrome
splashing amongst roaches in the waste of the city
pregnant with passengers
they whine and moan coming to each stop
spilling their offspring out onto the streets above
only to beckon their babies back into the womb
conspicuous transactions take place between tattered cloth critters
with beady red eyes like leaches
rapidly preying on exposed skin
they lick their chops
each seed tucked tight within itself
in the spot for which they fought
battled off the old and weak
only concerned with blood, money or crumbs
to feed their growling gut
for living or dead, the movement never stops
zipping to and fro
stop to stop, belly to belly
and the innocent ones return to their little mouse house
but after enough time, whether they want to or not
ever mouse becomes a rat
an inhabitant, a parcel
of the creepy caverns
rumbling under pedestrian feet
and coughing misty breath through metal grates
on the cold cement surface

DIGITAL PILLARS OF CIVILIZATION

2010-09-05T20:54:00.003-04:00

solace in the mountains,

whispers on the wind.

the cold cocoon of winter,

raveling once again.

forage through the foothills,

evade the rising tide.

the sting of stark reality

dissolves our callused hide.

remove the flesh and sinew,

the morals and the sins,

barter for a phantom life

of binary bits and spin.

amass our fallen heroes,

their skeletons and skin.

drawn taught with expectations,

grim smiles invite us In.

and when the stage is set

the glowing boxes all in tune,

we trade our roaring jungle

for the quiet of the dunes.

tethered to the somber Stage

and paralyzed by pride,

the Spectre of the civilized man

implodes upon his lies.

and from this Broken Heap

of cheap debris we’ve left behind,

we join in song, a bastard chorus

MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE!

the voyager

2010-08-31T17:24:00.002-04:00

Left upon an untouched shore
He desecrates new land
The curious quest
and backward steps
of bilateral biped man

Not That There’s Anything

2010-08-29T20:56:00.001-04:00

The heavy clay pflopped off the pointed end.
Receiving puddle emigrates to boot’s interior,
taking up residence, building tenements
of thick cotton socks. Changes the look
of the whole neighborhood—
a realtor’s nightmare.

quiet hands

2010-08-27T12:39:00.001-04:00

gesturing to the trifles
glossing over the major themes
blood coursing from your heart
into your extremities
the mind leaping from
I think to
I know
and then stopping
a moment’s indecision
turned into a lifetime

things to do while waiting for the phone to ring.

2010-08-24T10:01:00.002-04:00

i looked through the telescope on the 29th floor,
down at the seaport.
i saw a mexican man, leaning over the railing,
staring out over to new jersey,
or brooklyn,
and i thought,
i know how he feels,
i wonder if he knew he was being watched?

i just found out the kardashians
are in town. i'll have to swing by their hotel,
and bring them a bottle of something good.
maybe invite them to the beach this weekend.

i didnt want another cup of coffee.
but i looked at the black liquid,
and didnt have much of a choice.

i knew it wouldnt help.

The Sea

2010-08-22T19:46:00.001-04:00

ten thousand fishes
swim a digital sea
made that many wishes
found nobody but me

a thousand chances
so easy to see
not many romances
just a few ardent pleas

In Came Monique

2010-08-19T01:24:00.001-04:00

Monday morning at suburban station
The week at the shore still resounding within
And without, at that, spoken by my absurd hairdo
Wasn’t even nine yet and the stuffy quiet car left sweat
On my back and lower than that, visible most likely
I stood side by side with several homeless men and one woman smoking a cigarette
She was selling drugs there in the bathroom
Water dripped from my face into the sink blackened with grime
You can’t go to work with your hair looking like that
They’ll think you’ve come to put holes in the place
Found a barber shop on the way out the 17th street exit and skirted in
“luck” popped in my head, a nice start
he didn’t speak English well but understood “all the same” when
I pointed to the shortest of the hair on my head
Then came all different types of scissors
Long, short, grooved, thick, thin
Combs wide-to-thin-toothed
Clippers of all different numbers in and out of their respective docks
The hot shaving cream and a straight blade
around the back and side perimeter like a real wop
grandpa’d say
it made me look like George Clooney
but hell, did it take a lifetime
into the heat, struggling down the fiery street
quarter of went I was three quarters late
Darleen buzzed me in while looking at her watch
“Has he been in long?”
“Not yet today, even,” she responded and I slowed down
again, “luck” bounced around
I sat and used tissues to wipe my soaked face and neck
while my messages played on speaker
undiscovered and thrilled
and in came Monique
porcelain
wrapped in cotton
dough filled thighs and calves
balanced on twigs beneath her heels
an auburn waterfall cascading into a crevasse
“Your hair, it’s short.”
I choked on the puddle that had collected on my tongue
“Yes.”
And I realized the many benefits of a good haircut

work and play

2010-08-06T11:45:00.001-04:00

Walked over because I knew there was some trouble there.
Couldn't have been a day over 15, I reckon'.

Chain popped, eh?
Two pretty little things shouldn't be getting your hands all greasy, yet'
Leave the dirty work to me, ladies.

You know riding on them handlebars ain't the safest.
Specially' with this chain all loose the way it is.
Sometimes just gotta take the whole thing off.
Start over.

Get the chain all situated yet, on the back part.
Tell you what, if they were older.
Put it on the top of the bigger one...
YEAP, got it. Just peddle it, gets right on there.

2010-08-01T19:37:00.001-04:00

a woman is not formed from clay but dough,
a sour bread. nor is her warm flesh spun,
but kneaded. she rises fragrant among the sheets
and her salty taste scalds my earnest tongue.

answers

2010-07-26T22:54:00.000-04:00

I walk through the house
opening refrigerator door
after toaster door before
waking up, floor covered
in stories half read, Libra,
“Othello,” James Joyce’s “The Dead”

I am a louse, something
that burrows in the fibers of
my basement couch, flipping
channels browsing annals of
Wikipedia information
searching for answers
station by station, page by page

I go letter by letter to see what
sites are searched and browsed,
my history,
like wine these things get better
with age: this search will deliver me,
I want to be sold, point me in
whatever direction is best,
packaged to look
like I want it, because I do want it.

I’m looking for answers, I started
everywhere I was told not to look:
finding nothing, I flipped tables, shoved
vendors, the lamb’s true wrath, water to wine
scorched to vinegar , every nook I can pour scolding
oil in to get out the bugs,
anything I might find causeless:
broken bread, multiplied trout
it’s the answers, the how and why
that push me after this

And if not I’ll burn the whole damn mattress.

For Quentin

2010-07-15T22:37:00.000-04:00

Silently scrutinized scenery
Through the car window
Saw my transparent reflection
Stretched over a northeastern landscape
A meadow and a mighty river
Tick, throb, thud
Through my jaw
Heard my heart tock
Wondered how the countryside would age
Who would outlast one another
She or I
Innocent invented incest
Nature’s not my mother, but my sister
A whore and
Our Father
Has warned me all my life
She had nothing to lose
Not innocence
Just another sawdust doll
Swept from the dirty floor
Long lost lust
God’s message it’s
Chiming in my head
When the river swallows me
Set time free and
Time is how you tick it
He warned me all my life
Long long long
Blood tock from knuckles
Drip like sweat pulled
Over staring at a slut shattered
Window glass and sand and
Hit my see-through self and
Honeysuckle rush
In and
I choked
and

still life

2010-07-11T21:52:00.001-04:00

midnight sky in tornado
green, full overcast with no break
in the clouds and all reflecting

light pollution illuminating
a quiet midnight walk. The quiet
breeze through the leaves,

tall maples and sycamores,
a chorus, call and response with
a deep thunder rumble sounding

in the distance. Garden lights reflected
off the side of a car look like one of them
ufo pictures—but even surrounded

by suburban trappings he felt
the calm of no cars
rolling by and no kids

and nothing unnatural, no cars
and no kids and nothing
unnatural.

Lifestyles

2010-06-14T22:50:00.000-04:00

i been doing my thing for a long time now,
making girls feel special and turning on that charm.
i was good at it, too
man, i got stories for my grandchildren
some of them though, you just can't please
there was this one, she wanted it all
"you smell like long island, but we're in bethlehem," she said
"i was at the bar," i said
"you could at least smell like manhattan," she said.

riversong

2010-06-11T00:32:00.001-04:00

by the river
a spot where the mud
is higher than the water,
lower than the bridge

laid back in the slime
watched the birds in the
wind struggle;
tuck the wings and free fall
then catch the wind and float
dive and float, plummet and pump
it looked so damn exciting

but they couldn’t fly away.
above the mighty river,
a tree tunnel , wind gusts
like an on-off switch, the
dimmers set to low: the wind
gusting, then not,

toying with the birds
as the water swirled
around me
on a mud bank.

we’re all glazed to the bowl
of the Wyoming Valley, damned
by kin or drawn in by some strange
force that intends to keep us all
trapped in a tuck and flutter

thats so fun at first but won’t
let go until we lose strength
and collapse, deadspin to the
muddy Susquehanna

10 & 2

2010-06-08T13:41:00.001-04:00

came dan ull uh way from Mayfair
cold in ere ain it
gloawin ornge like fire though
1-0
1-1
2-1
so on ‘n so on
ey got lager on draf
one too manyuh dem
hell, oavertime et hoame
good ol shodown
‘tween us ‘n chi town
ain’t often at comes round
got uh beard goan
jus like Ville
hoape it helpsum go ull uh way
if at cups arz
yous’ll hit duh bars
and ey’ll be ailt air flippin cars
ats far ahead though
anyways I gottuh get hoame
way up in uh northeas
10 en
2 en
cruise control
d’whole way hoame
good God I dunnit uhgen

2010-06-06T19:02:00.002-04:00

A new season of Whale Wars is here.
I figured I'd stop watching the oil flow.

"The Steve Irwin is a really bad ass boat".
I thought so, at least.

Maybe the Steve Irwin and the boats from Deadliest Catch could break the Israeli blockade.
Just a thought.
You know, the Time Bandit, Northwestern, Wizard, Kodiak, and the Cornelia Marie.
90 miles from Dutch Harbor could be 90 miles from Cyprus.

But, who would catch the Alaskan King Crab?
Also, the Steve Irwin and the crab boats might not get along.
Differing opinions, you know?

Uncle John

2010-05-17T15:50:00.001-04:00

I drove past Asshole Island today
A patch of marshy dune grass at my 4 o'clock
I thought about Uncle John.
I thought about him staring across the Barnegat Bay
A crisp Budweiser in hand and 11 more to go.
I wondered about that cone trap.
I wondered about where he sits during high tide
I wondered if he knew the ocean was just across the way, over that house.
That house that anchors their sailboat just off of their dock
I wondered if he thought about that house, with the sail boat.
I wonder about John.

Dallas

2010-05-11T15:00:00.000-04:00

settled cuz I had to:
ate the burnt toast,
downloaded the yahoo
toolbar, got married

sat there as the
wind carried our voices
to Wilkes-Barre,
down the Susquehanna
through the mud
and the coal-blooded
carp

cried for lost days
skinny dipping in
Harvey’s lake when
it felt so good to look
around; before we knew
about the high content
of shit in the water

101: how to play guitar

2010-05-01T10:55:00.001-04:00

The guitar case stood propped next to the front door when I descended the stairs. The owner was nowhere to be found until I arrived at the coffee shop, some hours later. The guitar had in that time been transferred to this new location, which was cluttered with gaudy paintings and handmade vases. We couldn’t be bothered to arrive early enough for a seat on the sofa, so we gathered around a table too small for our group.

The guitar’s owner was already bent over it in concentration, plucking at strings to produce familiar sounds. Situated around him was the usual line up: drums, bass, now a trumpet, some times a saxophone. They took their turns showcasing their talents, although the sign outside did say Mike Lorenz Jazz Quartet.
The crowd gathered to watch was the usual fare. Kids drinking their coffee black, sharing mugs for refills. One tea for Katie, a chai latte for Viv. We half listened while talking, occasionally being shushed because tonight Mike was trying to make a recording of this song or another.
And then the notes struck some nerve, rendering the small room silent minus the barista’s tools and machines. The guitar attracted everyone’s attention to it. Look at me, it said. Listen to what I have to say. The tune was new, something Mike had just wrote and was playing for the first time. It brought us all back to the glorious cacophony which had been his senior recital, when he had created new sounds entirely from his instrument. Now skillful fingers made each string sing something brilliant and wonderfully new.
When he finished, applause filled every inch of the space, the musician smiling sheepishly, inquiring for names for the piece. There were shout outs and praise, and then more familiar chords and progressions. It was another old favorite. We went back to our conversations, and Andrew began to grow fidgety, wondering when we would make it to the bar.