A Funeral in my Pocket
She’s got hoodie pockets that are calling
for any hands other than the chewed up
hands I have. There are ashes waiting for
a grey-eyed partner to help me scatter
clouds in the winter. Should we get going?
Are you that person? Morbid enough for
fistfuls of love long gone and light still
for wind through sunroof-parted curls.
In between songs, you ask how he went-
in pieces or in parts back together again.
I answer: trampled by a Memorial Day float
as he waved an American flag. They threw
candy for the young ones and shined
Cadillacs and Lincolns for the car clubs …
and in the midst of it all, a blind veteran
died by accident. And she’s got hoodie
pockets where I’d like to take up a small,
semi-permanent residence …but I don’t
for the sake of embarrassment and sweat.
Her eyes water over a Maxwell House can
and his dust freezes to gravel and cement.
This is where every good citizen should
end their time, in the palms of an angel
with a runny nose and storm-cloud eyes.
Painting the Hubble Telescope
"Space Jam" is spray-painted on the train tracks
and a great man dies in an instant because years
can’t hold great men or Space Jam …they’re just
roses in someone’s nostalgic head. A pizza place
that melted cheese over Pasta Fagioli closes even
though it was arguably the best soup for miles.
A tired owner crawls away as a bank with no
clocks opens in its place. A grammar school is
bulldozed because we stopped reproducing at
the rate we used to. I take a desk from the curb,
unscrew the pieces, glue them to my wall…
watch all the admirers come and tell me they
want to take up residence in my skull. Isn’t
that an insane place to live, in a crevice, on a
lobe under my bone and my skin. They don’t take
any more finger foods after I tell them this.
I remember the school, the soup and the train…
the fires after a hurricane and the purging of
great men who never did a single bad thing …
The way the earth looked as it changed …
from my window on the Hubble Telescope
shot out there in space…that’s about a fair
distance away from the sparse hotel rooms
they cheaply built in my brain.
An ICP Christmas
www.twitter.com/nickorsini …check out my new background.
There’s a Juggalo putting up his Christmas lights
while I watch Jingle All the Way and fist Combos.
Pizzeria Pretzel is the only flavor I admit that I like.
An adopted dog is lost, unable to shake the streets
from it’s system. I try to draw it to my apartment
with Shake the Sheets on vinyl because that’s the
call I’d answer if I were hairy and distant and alone.
She has this old globe, with Germany as two pieces
…keeps it next to her TV with pins for the places
she’s been …and I can count were I’ve been on
two feet walking and somehow that doesn’t make
me sad in the least. We disagree on dinner because
I eat this steady diet of Top Chef Healthy Choice meals.
Sometimes I smash up Tostitos and throw those in …
you know… to keep things from getting boring.
A Juggalo girlfriend comes home to Christmas lights
…she is sure surprised. I am the Jimmy Stewart of
low-income housing: an observer distinctly alive.
hey! so I wrote this over at You Are Remarkable about things I’m thankful for and things I miss.
Wanted to send a Happy Thanksgiving to everyone, no matter where you are or what you’re going through. Some holidays are hard, but they get easier. Some families are hard, but eventually we all grow and learn and cope, and all of it gets easier …so if you’re having a hard day, remember little things that make you happy …no matter what they are. You’ll always have a place with the artists and the poets and everyone reaching out through words and pictures and songs.
Happy Thanksgiving, from me to all of you.
Hey! so I wrote about what I’m thankful for over at You Are Remarkable. Check out the piece right here:
A big thank you to every one of you here, for sticking with me and my work, for taking five minutes to read anything on this site, for following me on Twitter and partaking in my eccentricities and all the odd references I make …thanks for buying and reading the books, for making it possible to pursue the most insane dream of being a writer.
We got matching knee scrapes before I left-
Her hair was in a sock bun. I fell down the steps.
Stoned in a high school gym, watching traveling
independent professional wrestling where all the
most entertaining ones are villains and overweight.
My neck is stiff as I turn to the drive-thru speaker ….
tell the poor kid on the other end that I’m having
the best night of my life. No one on the M-train
wears a wedding ring because their fingers got
too thin …the Triscut-and-tears diet from Steinway
to Broadway-Lafayette. I am the heel and the boo’s
and the booth at the diner when I tried to talk
to you. Needed the bathroom so bad, you
never came back…maybe you were flushed
into the plumbing or maybe you had enough.
My palms sweat out the bacon on my plate,
a sure-sign that second dinner came too late
and now I’m cursed to watch Pocket Hose
infomercials until I can finally fall asleep.
This is a poem I wrote for a website called You Are Remarkable
It’s about a really crappy time in my life when I wasn’t feeling too great and the efforts to make myself feel better. Yes, my dog really eats my blu rays. Yes. I have a Corgi calendar …if neither of those things bother you, you can follow me on twitter.
Feeling Super Uncool
So, I wrote a poem for You Are Remarkable over at:
The poem is called This Uncool Coat I Used to Own and it’s about this super weird summer I spent when I first moved out of my parent’s house. I was living on my own, kind of lost, kind of rushed out of the house …and I spent all this time super sad ..sitting around in movie theaters, sitting alone in parks, just driving. Back then, I started thinking about weird things, like how many girls, over the years, told me I needed therapy or counseling or some intensive form of self-evaluation …because, they’d say, I was such a piece of shit. I guess I started to believe it, so I got wrapped up in this weird kind of attention where I wanted everyone to look up to me rather than level with me. I wanted to be the deepest person, the most intelligent person, the least emotional person on the planet. It was a shitty time to feel alone. I owe a ton to my best friends, to my family, to the girl who eventually pulled me way out of every rut I was in, to MusicFest, to all the shows at Maxwells in Hoboken, to every encouraging thing anyone said to me back then. You never know when someone needs to hear exactly what you’re telling them. Hope you like what I wrote :)
Under the bleachers,
I wrote myself into a comic strip …
The foreign interns at
my job got with every young thing.
But I found Halloween
…mint-condition tape, cheap on Etsy.
Who killed me long ago?
I am am binge-watched TV show…
likeable characters. no ending.
The girls around me read
to pain themselves with volumes …
and empty philosophy.
Under the bleachers,
we wrote our first miserable songs…
and a bunch of kids we hated
showed up at the American Legion Hall.
The episode guide says
everything hinges on the pilot
except I don’t belong in the cockpit.
A footnote on required reading:
Had all the makings…
none of the ingredients.
Punch Card Heart
A weekend wake costs twice as much
than a heart with valves in a bag zipped
shut. I am where I belong- in a city of
one million equations all ending up
needing extra help and extra time…
a conference with news that I’m not
quite caught to par…lagging in syrup
while the variable is solved. A girl
paints my face for a Renaissance Faire
where I can be anyone from everywhere
other than here. It is a scratch on a lens,
struggling for clarity right up to the end…
I wrote it in concrete and I wrote it in pen-
"Please save my generation, but mostly
my friends.” My glasses are greasy as
they fall down my bridge, the acne on
my nose is from cheap plastic on skin.
Maybe I’ll be a profile forever, with
interests listed, singular and questionable…
unless I am the ferry meant to move shore
to shore, without the usual lights to steer
me to port …I’ll keep on blind until I find
that dock where I can hang my boots,
my crooked way, my card to punch clocks.