Left again, Without say or pay,
Only took my tools and sanity.
Like an iron rod in a bridge,
I yanked myself out.

Cement chapter, now weaker.

Set foot on the sidewalk after,
Felt strong despite the exhausting cost.
Sober in the whiskey-fog, I continue to burn out each rat hole I find,
With no veil of guilt over my mind, it’s quite cathartic.

Hoping to settle in a bird’s nest up ahead.
Have to find a place to hide.
Trying to remember why
I burrough in the first place I try.

Among the vultures,
Scoundrels and rats now.
Though they’ve been my hosts,
They’d gladly accept my death
Inside their homes.
Only to later munch on what flesh I have left.

So I keep my eyes on the ground,
Charge with light strides,
Looking for something I thought I lost.
All the while,
With some notion of hope.

Also known as the “Cut”,
I’d fast-walk to and fro from there,
Burying my chin into my collar
As I stepped into Cut’s cobble hallway.
There was a
Stoop or two
To tuck into.
A pale paned skybridge
And a garden rooftop
Billowing green overhead.
Here I’d forget my stress,
At a slower tempo,
Breathe less.

The Cut had a fewer
Passer-by,
In that occasion,
A smile and sigh usually sufficed.

My exchange with folks here would always
Include a short moment of eye contact,
A glance and back at the old, red-weathered brick.
We’d nod, pause,
Then they’d step on.
Over wrinkled,
Loose-toothed stones we go.

As if we understood
That we trample over
What came before us.

It’s not enough to know where it is,
You like to be in the cool,
Away from the flame.
Before dawn,
You rub your fat hands around a hot cup here.
Before dusk,
You clip a nice spliff.
As you breathe in spurts,
Weathered shins cross over these steps.

You can see
The Hudson rushing alongside traffic.
You can inhale
Solitude’s hot breathe.
So intimate, we don’t need to kiss.

What a friend,
He scared us when we were around,
He Left us when we were down.

What an enigma,
He let children cut him into pieces,
He never got close enough for a kiss.
He ate at his nails
And appeared as a smeared chalk line.
He was what we couldn’t find,
In any other failure.

He’ll be missed,
Just like
When he was alive.

Open air
Adjacent door,
The wind combs your hair.
Whiskey laughs carry the clock
Begrudgingly into the city.

We pass the time with eats & drink,
Drunk with hope.
“Taxi – anywhere but home!”

Sex prowls every leaf off our trees,
Fall drops our jaws,
All because we took the clock
Out for a restless jaunt.

Tryptic

Sharpie

This is a small work I recently got my hands into. A good friend sent me some materials to make this happen here in my new home. As many of you know, I just moved to New York. I am living on Manhattan helping train baristas and working with new and wonderful coffees everyday. I have been so busy lately trying to keep up financially, I was reminded of how much I love to work with color and lines. This piece is so different from my other work, I almost feel like that the time away from the drawing board was a refresher for me. As always, feedback is welcome!