Location: Pine Barrens National Reserve ( in NJ)
Poet:All my favorite poets are musicians, and my favorite musician is Blake Sennett.
Journalist: I don't do the media thing.
Book:Illusions by Richard Bach
Poem:How can anyone have a favorite poem? There's so many wonderful poems everywhere, having a favorite is a waste.
Topic of conversation: The uncomfortable moments of life.
War:Part of the human condition. Human beings have always had the urge to kill each other, they always will.
Sex:If it's not good, you're obviously not doing it right.
Drugs:I personally prefer not to kill my brain cells-- but if you want to, why should I care?
Music:Wonderful - makes life worth living.
---Yeah fucker...I feel lucky--- (I like that)
Tense Shifts (but baby, he's already gone)
Yesterday, I knew this girl
who wore 'tragically hip' as an accessory
to thrift store jeans
and manufactured angst
she drowned her happiness in bottles
then peeled the labels back
to make it all generic
became an anonymous drunken girl
on any Friday night.
So we're sitting in this nameless bar
when she speaks brightly
about her love
tells me in animated tones
how he likes his eggs
how he calls her baby
how he never really cries
dances a little as she sings the chorus
to his latest song
but her voice has become empty
as the bottle when she admits
"I still can't talk about him
in past-tense verbs"
Who really wants to be a millionaire, anyway?
Last night I had that damn dream again
the one where opportunity does his proverbial thing
but he's knocking with your slender hands
and he's got Regis Phlbin's face. If I understood what
my subconscious was trying to tel me, maybe I'd be doing
better than waiting for a right moment, for the opening
of non-existent doors, ears always half listening
for praise and that 'Congratuations!'
speech. Maybe then I'd stop clutching the sheets
when I dream, quit seeing your shadow
in every stranger's reflection.
A Real Boy Can Dream
Oh, see how he bends so easily to our will?
Moves only as we deem appropriate?
We all applaud the performance;
appreciate not the puppet
but the one who pulls his strings.
Pinocchio, backstage dreams
of finding scissors dropped
from pocket or purse,
taking their surgical edge
to remove himself from captivity.
Homicidal toy on the edge,
barefoot creaking across floorboards
unmindful of splinters
sharp steel gleaming in moonlight
having waited for the fullest phase
to find Gepetto asleep in bed
gray hair silvery in the shine
he’d leap onto the chest of his
pale-faced old man and scream
"I got no strings on me, Papa!
I'm not your bitch anymore."
Pinocchio smiles woodenly,
carved to be the perfect child
realizing he doesn't believe
in the blue fairy
and only real boys would have the balls
to cut themselves free.