Music was invented here

in this state of mind sitting

in a building’s existence,

or rather our means of listening.

Across the Delaware River

an 80 foot tall American flag

rests stuck on red brick

painted broken history.

The crumbling structures

on water’s both sides

associate anything;

warfare and European men.

A pale blue bridge still stands

and this amber beer still tastes

stale and my heart still palpitates.

I’m alive.


feet away from eternity

you, man holding cellular phone-computer,

man who smells like burnt tires thrown

into a swamp, you, man with fake African bracelets

made of wood around flaky pale skin, you, man soaked

in dirty rain, man with head down hand scratching red

neck bumps, man who stares into blank screen

with yellow knees bent and ruptured veins in arms,

you are the furthest you’ll ever be from life


Beyond Underground Words in February

with your head against a pillar

you forget where you are

or at least the experience

is mitigated by space

with your head against the rail

you breathe in dust

and all kinds of dirt smelling

your fate the iron taste

of future blood mixed with metal

and in the present language

becomes circumvented


blurred paper filled

I had a cut on my finger

in the subway with nothing better

to conceal a dirty wound

and viral madness

I wrapped a poem around

it naturally but as I lost ink

like blood spreading

through fabric and me

there was too much

in the words and the red

bits falling out

of myself made me think

“this feels like the old days

waiting for another poem to die”


Rittenhouse Square Senryu 10/24/14

the man with all

possessions on his back

is free


pedestrians cheer

for the marching band’s song

while it’s silent


a baby in its stroller –

more pensive

than parent


the veteran stands

on the corner –

an unseen precipice


the empty skyscraper

looks full

from the outside



between strangers

sitting in the sun


men on the street

play chess

with passion


the inbred dog

is overwhelmed

by the human world


every end

begins with

a song


it’s hard to dance

when your hands

are in your pockets